The Place of Faith, the Place of Real

I went spelunking for an eighth grade field trip. For those who might not be aware, spelunking is cave-exploration. The place we went wasn't one of those state park caves with the strategically placed lighting and tour guides and slow descents down roped off trails into tourist-crowded caverns. We were given helmets, told to dress for mud, and to bring flashlights. And then we crawled into a black hole beneath a rock.

We found ourselves in a fairly sizeable entry chamber with several tunnels leading in different directions. We had a leader who (mostly) kept us with him, and we trooped back through the tunnels. The farther we went, the more difficult the passages became. In many places we had to crawl-climb, or crawl-fall. Some places we had to really suck it in to squeeze through a narrow spot. All of us were caked with a uniform shade of gray mud, and my eternal struggle with claustrophobia really ramped up that day.

At last, we stopped on a rock shelf beneath a low ceiling. We couldn't stand, so we all crouched. An underground stream ran by the rock where we rested; we could hear the moving water. Our guide gathered us around and instructed us: "On the count of three, we're all going to turn off our flashlights. Ready? One... two... three."

And the lights went out. Up to that point in my life, I had never been in such pervasive darkness. I blinked, and my eyes kept the memory of light in front of them for a minute as I watched the impression it had left. And then that, too, disappeared. I could still hear the water and the whispers of my classmates, but holding my fingers in front of my face, only an inch or so away... I could see nothing. The darkness was absolute.

The bodily response to lack of light is phenomenal. Even while the brain issues comforting reminders like: You're fine. Stop being a chicken, the goose bumps rise up in revolt. 

I was terrified. I knew exactly where my place was on that rocky shelf. I knew where my best friend was -- just to my right. I knew my classmates were conducting their own "blind" experiments by their nervous laughter. And I knew our flashlights were in our laps, ready to turn on again as soon as we were given permission.

But I was still afraid. The shock to my senses hadn't equilibrated in my body yet, and I had irrational thoughts like: Is this forever? What if I get lost in here? What if I never get out again?

Obviously, my fears were unfounded, my flashlight responded to my touch, my guide knew the way back out of the tunnels, and here I am almost thirty years later not the subject of a 5:00 p.m. news broadcast.

My mom often told me: "The darkest hour is before the dawn." The cool thing was, as we made our way toward the entrance, even when we were a long ways away, the guide told us we could switch off our flashlights if we wanted. The smallest measure of light from the entrance permeated the tunnels far back, and total darkness could not overcome even that small amount of filtered light.

Today, Jesus dies in John 19:28-37. I left Him hanging on the cross yesterday in the middle of two thieves. The exact length of time it took from nailed limbs to time of death is uncertain, though Mark says: "At the sixth hour darkness came over the whole land until the ninth hour (from 12:00 p.m. to 3:00 p.m.). And at the ninth hour, Jesus cried out in a loud voice, 'Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani?' -- which means, 'My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?" (Mark 15:33-34). 

Eloi, Eloi, lama sabachthani -- admittedly the only Aramaic I have ever learned -- is an echo of Psalm 22:1: "My God, my God, why have You forsaken me? Why are You so far from saving me, so far from the words of my groaning?"

Physical darkness has covered the land. Perhaps it's not so pervasive as what I experienced in the cave, but the sun is blotted out. Jesus lifts his gaze to the black sky, seeking the help of His Father, but His Father has turned His back, unable to watch. "My God, my God, why have You forsaken Me?"

Jesus hasn't lost sight of what He came to do. He hasn't forgotten why He's on that cross in the first place. His head knowledge is firmly in place, but His physical fears rise up to darken His vision. He deeply, deeply feels the utter blackness of abandonment and despair. This is the darkest hour before the dawn. This is the place where He can strain His eyes all He wants, but the Light has seemingly forsaken Him.

Darkness is the place of faith. It's the place of real. It's the place where everything is stripped away and nothing is left but what counts.

It's true. I used to think that my faith was strong only when things were going pretty well, but I've since learned that, no -- faith with light can be pretty shaky. I look back over my pilgrimage. When I was twenty, I was in a desert, both physically and spiritually. In that desert, though, I found a stream (Isaiah 43:19). I spent hours each evening on my knees, crying out the song by the music group Delirious: "Find Me in the River."

This last year has been a dark time for many of us, and a time of decision. Some have released faith and walked away, dropping what they cannot see with their eyes. Others have found reserves of strength and tenacity that they never knew they had, to cling to what they cannot see.

Jesus walked through the darkest valley, His own eyes unable to see, either. He experienced the blackness of despair, and his heartbroken cry of utter abandonment pierces my heart.

But the Light is coming. It filters far back into murky tunnels, and your eyes blink against its strength, even though it is still far distant. Its name is Hope. "For in this hope, we were saved. But hope that is seen is no hope at all. Who hopes for what he already has? But if we hope for what we do not yet have... we wait for it patiently" (Romans 8:24-25).

Jesus' disciples, watching from the foot of the cross, likely some distance away for fear of association and/or arrest, have lost hope. This is the blackest moment for them. They see their Messiah cry out with a loud voice, drop His head... and die. They don't know that Sunday's coming. They can't see the empty tomb. All they know... is that all light has been swallowed up.

And even though they can't see it, feel it, or know it... this is the place where faith begins. It's the place of real. It's where the rubber hits the road, where all excuses fall to the wayside. They must choose to believe, even when everything goes against it.

I have watched some of the people dearest to me struggle to believe. I've watched the blackness of despair settle over them as the place of real surrounds them. I've been there myself. All I can do is walk with them through that valley. Heartbreakingly, some choose not to continue on that road. Others find their faith strengthened in the harsh environment.

I have to hold on to the hope that Sunday's coming. That's the light that keeps me going. 

Horatio Spafford wrote a song in 1873 that we still sing today. He'd sent his wife and four daughters ahead of him to England for a vacation while he finished up some business details in Chicago, and then he planned to join them. Before he could, though, he received the news that his four daughters had drowned in a tragic shipwreck. His wife made it out alive, and she sent him a telegram with two simple words: "Saved alone." Spafford sailed to meet his wife, and his route took him near the place where his four daughters had died. There he penned the words: "When sorrows like sea billows roll..." 

The end of that song is his place of faith, and the place of faith for many of us. "And Lord... haste the day when my faith shall be sight, the clouds be rolled back as a scroll! The trump shall resound, and the Lord shall descend! Even so... it is well with my soul."