Advent 11: IN THE DARK

The monastic hour of Vigils is the womb of silence.

It is the pre-dawn time of quiet--also known as Matins--which is the night watch hour of prayer.  A time for contemplation and for learning to trust the darkness.

Looking at the night sky, we are beckoned into awareness of the immense mystery in which we live and move and have our being. (Acts 17:28)   

The poet Rilke, in his Book of Hours, declares that

My God is dark.  

He sees a thousand theologians plunging like divers into the night of God's name, an image as unexpected as it is lush.

Darkness holds everything, embraces everything, including you and me, as Brother David Steindl-Rast writes in his little jewel of a book, The Music of Silence.  He goes on to say:

Vigils is an invitation to learn to 'trust in night'; 

to trust the darkness despite the immense fear it triggers.

 

I rose very early yesterday in order to drive a friend to the hospital for surgery.  My normal time of waking is usually around 7, but despite the unusually early hour (4:30) I realized I was looking forward to the experience. 

Time was I dreaded having to get up in the dark; it somehow frightened me.  I know exactly what Brother David means by "the immense fear (the darkness) triggers". 

But the gift of leading early morning church services for a number of years taught me something about those rich depths of night that Rilke evokes so well.

The daylight hours are beautiful; cleanly defined and crisp and filled with activity.  But rising before dawn ushers a whole new dimension into the day. 

When the garage door went up yesterday and that square of bright light pierced the darkness outside, I cringed.  I felt blundering and crude, an alien presence impinging on the quiet of the natural world.  I was glad to get into my quiet car and glide away, twin pools of headlight illuminating my way, while the darkness fell, untroubled, behind me.

And even now as I sit, hours later, in the stark light of the cafe at Yale New Haven Hospital--waiting for the beeper to sound the call that will pronounce all is well and all is complete--I can still feel that extra dimension that was the gift of the night.

The hour of Vigils invites us to carry the depths of the dark into the light of the day; to carry it with peace and with wonder, like a harmony we never forget.  

Fra Angelico is famous for his paintings of angels of all kinds, including angels intended to represent the monastic hours of the day.  His Angel for Vigils is garbed in darkest red, and holds his horn as if he were ready to blow, but is awaiting some celestial signal.  His eyes lift upward and in reverent silence, in the darkness of the night, he looks for the dawning of the light.

After reading about the Angel of Vigils in Brother David's book, I realized that our family owns a copy of that very painting, an inexpensive but lovely little plaque that has hung in our home for years (along with three other similar ones) as a Christmas decoration.  A Christmas decoration, an Advent gift.

This year I will smile and remember the sacred hour of Vigils whenever I see it.

And I will offer a prayer of thanksgiving for the healing of my dear friend.