In Silence

When I was nine, I decided God was out there and I wanted to meet him. I had a vague notion I couldn't put into words at the time, that I wanted to meet him because he was out there and wanted to meet me too. It made sense (and it still does) that if he didn't exist I wouldn't feel the need to go looking for him. Since I started looking, I've found traces of him all over the place.

I went to my first Tenebrae service on Good Friday. I'm no stranger to the church and its various associated gatherings, but somehow missed this aspect of Easter. Much of the Tenebrae was spent in relative silence, surrounded by cool brick walls and shifting bodies of attendees, seated in stiff black folding chairs. The long rectangular room was chilled by wind that crept in around the windows along one wall, but I'm usually more aware of cold than most. A few hymns were sung as candles were extinguished, representing the death of Christ and the thieves crucified with him. Most were new to me, which was not bothersome. It's nice to hear and see something foreign once in a while.
There was nothing foreign about the children who could be heard banging about in a back room. We all pretended not to hear it; children have been banging about since the beginning of time, and I'm convinced will happily keep it up for all of eternity (God seems to have planned on this, and that's why children eventually grow up and quiet down. It's for the sake of sanity).
Between hymns and long bouts of relative silence, various people read aloud from the gospels, recounting the crucifixion and death of Christ. More silence, while a slideshow flickered constantly on small flat-screen TVs: Various depictions of Christ's final hour. Another candle extinguished.
The whole experience was aptly uncomfortable.
I do appreciate and respect that people have for so long, so ardently marked this event by gathering together. There's value to be had in gatherings. However, simply attending a service isn't enough for me. Application of virtue is too much talked about and too little practiced, as everyone knows.
So I won't go on about it.
In my life I've only begun to comprehend the sacrifice made on my behalf. I'm still coming to grips with it. No one likes to admit that all their efforts at decency don't cut it. I certainly don't. That sacrifice makes reconciliation possible. I have no hope without it.
Therefore I can't stand to cheapen it.
Sometimes a service just isn't enough.
Tears don't cut it.
An hour on Sunday doesn't do it justice.
In every relationship there comes a moment when words end. Life and fear and guilt and love sit down with you; they crack the world open in the other person's eyes. At that moment, you become bigger on the inside than you can stand. All ability to move or do abandons you, and you can do nothing but breathe.
There are places in my soul that are silent, in perpetual awe, since I first began to understand who Christ really is. What love means. How heavy it grows. At age twenty-six, I'm realizing how much I still don't know.