The Darkness Will Not Overcome Him
By Christina O’Brien
“A light shines in the darkness and the darkness will not overcome it.” John 1:5
I’m afraid of the dark. And at night when I’m alone, I’m afraid of quiet too, being attuned to unknown sounds of the house and the outside world. I can’t even sleep with lights on or with sound playing, so I put my bed time off until I can barely keep my eyes open, then I stuff ear plugs in and clutch my rosary before turning off the light. When my anxiety is at its worst, I find myself in nervous apprehension of the next sound, afraid of opening my eyes for fear of some sinister shadow deepening the already thick darkness. I love welcoming the light, but I resist darkness. Yet the Church gives us Advent partially so that we can experience God in the darkness, letting him be powerfully present where we feel he is absent (a nation oppressed by a corrupt king, an unmarried pregnant girl, a couple giving birth beside animals in a barn).
Because of this, I am inspired to befriend my fear of the dark and try to understand it. I realize that in the absence of sound and light, a space is full of the unknown. In that darkness and silence, my senses have nothing to indulge in, which alerts me to spiritual realities from which I can no longer hide. There is awareness of the spiritual battle that rages around me day and night, but if I let it, this always points me to the more important spiritual reality: that of the omnipresent God who loves me. I realize that God has used my fear of the dark to draw me closer to his heart.
To respond to this distrust of the dark, I ask Holy Spirit to overwhelm me when there is no light, the way I have often felt the darkness itself overwhelms me. If he inhabits the room, then the darkness can be caught up in him. Perhaps the darkness can act as a vessel through which the Spirit can flow. This invitation brings about a heightened awareness of the overwhelming presence of a God who is all-powerful Love itself, permeating between every atom, electron, and empty space. The space is not lacking, it is full of Him. The Holy Spirit uses the darkness to come to me as my comforter, without the distractions of the senses. The silence, which according to Scripture and countless saints carries great spiritual power, is also inhabited by Him along with the creaks of the house and the activity outside. As I reflect on it, I am reminded of a Thomas Merton quote: “I listen to the clock tick. Downstairs the thermostat has started humming. God is in the room.”
The darkness has always been a critical means by which God invites me to trust. In the darkness, I am invited nightly to consider what I really believe about God. Is he almighty or not? Is he omnipresent or not? Will he abandon me or not? These are statements of faith I have to make nightly in order to sleep. What a great mercy that the Lord has turned the brokenness of anxiety into cracks where the brilliant light of faith and hope shine in.
This experience takes on even greater power when it is applied to spiritual darkness, the times when I don’t sense God’s presence or feel the same zeal that I do in times of consolation. Just as I am tempted to believe that God does not dwell in the physical darkness of the night, I feel a tendency to despair when I don’t sense his presence in prayer. I always pulled back from the Lord in times of dryness until recently when I learned that St. Teresa of Avila identifies times of darkness as critical moments in the spiritual life, just as nighttime has been for most of my life. Just as the darkness of the physical night is not dark to him, neither is the darkness in my soul.
Instead of recoiling from spiritual darkness, I’ve realized I can enter into it the way I enter into the physical absence of light when I have to go to sleep, asking him to come alive in the darkness, recognizing he is powerful enough to be present in it, even if my emotions and senses still experience little. He never abandons, he asks if we can still believe in Him, not just in his miracles and consolations. Darkness is always an invitation to hope in the light.
As we reflect on God’s entry into darkness this Advent, we have to be willing to actually enter into every type of darkness, inviting him into every fear, frustration, and disappointment. Fearlessly, let’s invoke the name of the Lord in the perceived absence of light so that he fills the space, whispering to us in darkness what we will boldly proclaim in the light (Matthew 10:27).
Tonight, when it is silent, try praying in the dark. See how the Lord will whisper.
