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“Have you ever been to a tenebrae service?”
“Like around Good Friday? Yeah, I went to one at my church last year.”
“Tenebrae is Latin for ‘shadows’ or ‘darkness.’ What was your service like?”
“Well, seven votives were lit on the stage, and after each one of the seven last statements of Christ on the cross was read, one light was extinguished until we all stood in the dark there in the sanctuary and sang a hymn.”
“Imagine the darkness of that original Good Friday,” she said. “Think about it. Imagine being a Christ-follower standing there beneath the cross on the very day He died. This Man who had made such mighty promises is nailed to a tree and is dead. If I were there, I think I would weep at the base of that cross until my tears dried up and I simply sat in shock, staring at a dead body, hanging limp. Should I go home? Should I stay? What is the use of anything now? How will I readjust to life without purpose?”
“You’d feel like you lived a day too long, and now there is nothing for you,” I said.
“Exactly,” said Judy. “I bet those early Christians—in the interim darkness between the cross and the resurrection—could understand your misery.”
I waited. I was missing the point.
“On Sunday morning, Christ rose from the dead and conquered death!” she said. “Victory was just around the corner.”
“Oh.”
“The cross—that looked like the end of all hope that Good Friday—is now the symbol of hope for Christians today. We rejoice over the cross.”