Sitting in the Unknown
Holding space in the dark
I have learned things in the dark that I could never have learned in the light, things that have saved my life over and over again, so that there is really only one logical conclusion. I need darkness as much as I need light. - Brenda Brown Taylor
We generally live life at a pace that is fast and unaware. Sometimes, it’s a choice we make to live that way. Other times, we’re just trying to survive and we do what we need to. More often than not, it’s just the way we live day in and day out—not thinking anything of it.
We move from one think to the next without much pause, thought, or intention of what’s next. Before Christmas is over we’re making our New Year’s resolutions, and before Good Friday has come, we’re already celebrating the empty tomb.
It’s uncomfortable to slow down, and be aware of the dark, unknown spaces of our lives.
It’s uncomfortable to not just be aware of those spaces, but sit with the presence of Jesus in them.
It’s uncomfortable to sit and just be in the here and now—not blaming our past, or trying to control the future.
I wonder what uncomfortable, unknown space you might be looking past today?
In Holy Week we so often look past the discomfort, fear, betrayal, and death that happened. We move towards the hope we have of new life on Easter morning, without asking ourselves why the liminal space in between feels uncomfortable.
We skip past the awkward space of waiting.
We skip past deep betrayal.
We skip past the abandoning of friends.
We skip past desperate prayers that bring blood.
We skip past the physical torture.
We skip past the profound silence of Jesus with screaming accusers.
We skip past a gruesome death.
We skip past the laying of dead bodies in tombs.
It all seems dark and hopeless.
I can resonate with the pain and discomfort of holding space in the darkness that may illuminate our own pain all the more. I don’t want to be reminded of my own prayers that feel like they draw blood. I don’t want to be reminded of betrayals that have shattered my heart. I don’t want to look at what has felt so dead in my life, that I’d lost hope of there ever being life. So here I am, holding my own personal juxtaposition:
I don’t like the darkness.
I also know darkness holds new life.
As we sit with our friend Jesus in His darkest week, may we be reminded that He stayed in the dark because He knew how much light the darkness could hold.
Where does darkness find you this week?
Maybe just taking a few moments this week to sit in our own suffering, pain, confusion, and hurt, will invite us into a space to look straight into the suffering of Jesus. To not turn away or gloss over it. To look at it square on and say, “I am present with You as You are present with me.”
Perhaps our invitation this week is to truly look into the eyes of Jesus and cry tears for Him, as He cries tears for us.
What is stirred in us at the thought of pausing and noticing what’s going on in the dark?
What are we afraid of encountering?
What are we afraid of if we don’t always look to hope of Easter morning?
How is Jesus present with me in the darkness?
How am I present with Him?
May we be invited to hold space in the unknown darkness today for ourselves and others.
May we remember that our friend Jesus bore His darkest night, and He won’t leave us in ours.
May we be brought into awe of His love for us.
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