When did we learn to be afraid of the dark?
Was it in our nascent days, as newborn eyes
slowly opened to a world full of light
that illuminated so many things we could not name
as we learned what faces were, and found one or two
we could trust, only to have those faces suddenly
disappear in darkness as the light, suddenly taken,
plunged us into distress that could only be assuaged
when the faces reappeared in a resurgence of light?
The faces tried to help of course, and out of love
gave us small lights that burned through the night
or else little glowworms that eradicated darkness
at our touch. Or else rushed at the sound of our cries,
turned on the big lights, and held us as they whispered,
‘There, there, everything will be alright.’
And so, we learned that light was safe, and darkness –
something to be feared, cast off, avoided at all costs.
All of this is understandable, of course.
For the dark can be filled with terror, something
we learn more fully as we grow to discover
the existence of wild creatures, criminals, and worse.
As stories of evil found in darkness become more
than just stories, and teach us that we were right
to be afraid of the things we could not name
which are now all the more terrible for the naming.
But the dark is more than this, is it not?
It is beauty. Grace. Stillness. Silence.
‘Large and full of wonders,’ Dunsany said.
It is the place where moon gardens bloom,
where stars find space and power to shine.
It is where the Aye-Aye creeps to life
and nature shows a side we seldom see.
It is where lovers so often meet,
and life itself is blessedly conceived.
Was it not out of darkness that earth came to be?
Did not God create the darkness and the light?
And were we not, before we learned to fear,
safe and secure in the dark of the womb,
where we were ‘fearfully and wonderfully made?’
Jesus knew darkness. Indeed, he ran toward it.
Both the darkness of the skies and the darkness
of the hearts of men. The darkness of his slowing
breath. The darkness of his coming death.
A darkness embraced of his own free will.
‘Into your hands, Father, I enter the darkness.’
His body would lay in darkness for three days, he said.
Yet even at this he did not shirk. Knowing, unlike us,
that there was no reason to be afraid of the dark.
Under Christ’s Mercy,
Brent
