Sermon: "Dark Night of the Soul"

The Rev. Maureen R. Frescott

Congregational Church of Amherst, UCC

April 18, 2019 - Maundy Thursday

John 13:1-17, 31b-35

“Dark Night of the Soul”

If you’re here with us tonight – on this Maundy Thursday evening –

it’s likely because you find meaning in the Jesus story.

The story of a baby who arrived in the darkness of a winter’s night.

Born in a stable because there was no room at the inn.

Sung into the world by a chorus of angels and warmly welcomed by star gazing shepherds and wandering kings.

The story of a carpenter’s son who grows up to be a messiah…a prophet…

a radical revolutionary.

Turning water into wine, bringing sight to the blind,

And calling out acts of inequity and injustice

by flipping over tables, pulling the marginalized out of the margins,

and taking the stones out of the hands of those who stand in judgment.

This is also a story about God becoming human.

So God would know what it is to be one of us.

And we might come to better know God.

So we would have a face like our own to picture in our minds

And call upon in our hour of need.

A God who knows what it feels like to laugh, to cry,

to stand in awe before a sunset,

to fall down upon a pair of trembling knees in utter despair.

The Jesus story is one that draws us in

and carries us through the seasons of our lives.

In the hope of spring when new life pushes up from the ground

and old life is resurrected right before our eyes.

In the heat of summer when the days are long and the work to be done seems daunting, yet there are bursts of play and joy that make it all worthwhile.

In the waning days of fall, when the trees go bare and the smell of decay and death fills the air.

In the dark nights of winter, when we’re so desperate to see the coming of the light.

Then a baby is born and the story begins all over again.

The thing about the Jesus story is that in order for it to be truly meaningful –

in order for it to truly reflect what it means for a God to become human –

it can’t all be about miracles, and resurrections, and babies born under a radiant star and a chorus of hallelujahs.

In order for it to be a human story and it has to include the dark nights of the soul.

The nights that never seem to end.

Where we find ourselves trembling in fear over what is to come.

Where betrayers and deserters and deniers seem to be our only friends.

Where we plead with God to take this cup from us, and if that can’t be done,

we beg God not to forsake us in our hour of need.

Easter Sunday would hold little meaning if it wasn’t preceded by a Good Friday, and a Maundy Thursday.

There are Maundy Thursday moments that warm our hearts.

Jesus sharing a final meal with his beloved friends.

Passing them the loaf and cup and a tradition that would carry the faithful through for thousands of years.

Kneeling to wash their feet and teaching them to serve one another in the most intimate of ways.

Giving them a new commandment – a new mandate – to love one another as he has loved them.

And there are Maundy Thursday moments that tear at our hearts.

Judas running from the room to do what he was destined to do.

Friends falling off to sleep because they don’t realize the danger that is lurking in the dark.

Blood soaked tears falling upon the rocks.

Clanging swords, flailing whips, rattling chains.

Thorns and barbs pricking and cutting into tender skin…

and wails of grief from those who dared to stay throughout it all. 

This is a dark night of the soul experience that few of us enter into willingly.

It’s the part of the Jesus story that many would prefer to avoid.

Because it’s too painful.

Too despairing.

Too real and too reminiscent of our own dark night experiences to be helpful or healing for the wounds we still carry.

But if we’re strong enough to go there.

Or desperate enough….or hopeful enough,

There is healing to be found in this vital and very human part of the Jesus story.

Because we enter into this darkness knowing that Easter is on the horizon.

Knowing that the deserters and the deniers won’t fill those roles for very long.

Knowing that the pain and the tears will pass, as all things do.

Knowing that the women wailing at the foot of the cross will soon find the tomb empty – and life will spring up where death once stood.

But what makes the dark nights bearable is not just the understanding that they are impermanent  -

because in the midst of those 3 a.m. experiences,

in our ‘kneeling in the garden waiting for the soldiers to come’ moments,

there is no certainty that we will make it out alive.

What makes the dark nights bearable is knowing that God is kneeling there beside us.

A God who lived and breathed as we do.

A God who laughed and cried as we do.

A God who was born, helpless and vulnerable,

and reliant on the care and mercy of those around him,

and who died in much the same way, just as we do.

My hope for us all, on this Maundy Thursday,

on this dark night of the soul,

is that we not rush through this night,

and the Good Friday to come,

on our way to Easter morning.

That we spend some time in the darkness.

That we sit with the sorrowful reminders of our own grief and suffering.

And mourn the passing of this gentle and caring soul, named Jesus.

Who in his living showed us how to move in the world in a more loving and merciful way,

and in his dying, showed us the face and hands of the God

that we can call upon and lean into in the dark.

Easter is coming.

And this dark night will help us get there.

Thanks be to God, and Amen.