“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” These words come from the opening of John’s Gospel, spoken of the eternal Son of God, the Word who became flesh and dwelt among us.
On that first Good Friday, it certainly looked like darkness overcame the light.
It was our Lord’s darkest hour. He said to his disciples in the garden: “My soul is sorrowful to death.” And as he prayed in the garden, he sweat drops of blood from the agony he felt. When the Jewish leaders along with soldiers came to the garden to arrest him, he said, “This is your hour, when the power of darkness reigns.” And then abandonment, brutality, shame, and ultimately death.
“The light shines in the darkness,” and it looked for a time like the darkness had triumphed.
Have you been there? Have you sat in darkness and felt like the darkness had swallowed up any trace of light?
For those closest to Jesus, it was a dark hour—confusing, disorienting, terrifying, as their hearts were crushed and their hopes were dashed.
Think of Mary, Jesus’ mother. Shortly after Jesus’ birth, a prophet had spoken to her, “Your child is destined for the fall and rising of many in Israel.” And then these words: “And a sword will pierce your own soul too.” Mary had probably wondered what this word meant, but I don’t think she ever could have imagined this. This is the day when the blade went in deep to her soul, as she stands by, helplessly watching her son’s labored breathing, waiting for death to take him, feeling the full weight of a mother’s sorrow over her child.
Think of Jesus’ disciples, who had left everything to follow this teacher. His words captivated them. His miracles astounded them. For three years they had been with him, and he brought things alive inside them. The men on the road to Emmaus spoke for them all: “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel.” But now it was over. Or maybe not? Words about an empty tomb spreading…who knows what to think anymore?
And then there’s Peter. So proud, so confident: “Never will I abandon you.” But now three times denying his Lord, and the way Jesus’ looked at him in that moment, knowingly, not condemning, just sad, and love in his eyes. And Peter is overcome by grief. Gut-wrenching failure. Deep sobs. His last act toward the one he loved and really would have done anything for. An act of betrayal, and Peter is left with the pain of seeing who he is rather than who he wanted to be.
The sun went dark as Jesus hung on the cross. It was a fitting portrait of what was going on. “Now is your hour, and the power of darkness.” And it was a fitting description of what it must have been like for those who loved Jesus. Sally Lloyd Jones, in The Jesus Storybook Bible, captures the moment: “They didn’t know anything anymore, except they did know their hearts were breaking.”
Have you been there? Have you experienced all the lights going out in your life, darkness enveloping you, pain, sadness, loss, fear, confusion? Have you ever felt utterly disoriented, like you don’t know which way is up anymore? You don’t know what is true, what to believe, or if you’ll ever see light again? Like sadness might be all you know forever? Maybe you’re there now. Or have been. Or will be in days to come.
John records Jesus’ final words to his disciples on that night he would be betrayed and arrested. His farewell discourse, some have called it. And Jesus closing words to this final discourse, just before his high priestly prayer, the thing he left them with, above all else remember this:
I have said these things to you, that in me you may have peace. In the world you will have tribulation. But take heart; I have overcome the world.” – John 16:33
“In me you may have peace” alongside “In this world you will have tribulation.”
There will be darkness, pain that feels unbearable, sorrow that is overwhelming. Jesus’ words are full of realism, the kind of realism that comes from one who knows us completely, who knows the world we live in, who understands darkness, and light, and who entered into our darkness to undo it.
Good Friday is an invitation to honesty. Things are not the way they are supposed to be. We don’t have to cover over our pain, or put on a tough face, downplay how shattering the pain can be. Jesus entered into darkness and felt its full effects, and part of our experience in this life is what the Apostle Paul called “sharing in his sufferings.” We feel the darkness. We experience loss, and grief, and abandonment, and evil—at the hands of others, sometimes at our own hands. And it is painful. It is disorienting. It is devastating, confusing.
“In this world you will have tribulation.”
Don’t move too quickly past your pain. Sometimes it is good to sit in darkness, to acknowledge our grief before the Lord, to feel the pain and the sorrow. Good Friday is an invitation to acknowledge darkness and pain, to linger at the cross and feel the horror and the sorrow and the dashed hopes and the despair.
But Good Friday is also an invitation to faith and hope. Good Friday always leans toward Easter Sunday, always directs our gaze ahead, like a gentle hand lifting our chin, saying, “I know. In this world you have tribulation. Sit here. Feel what is here. Look at the cross, look at the brokenness and weep.” But then Good Friday gently turns our face, redirects our gaze to Easter morning. “Take heart, I have overcome the world.”
Sorrow doesn’t win. We don’t experience this in its fullness yet. Sorrow and hope remain mingled in the present. Friday still falls before Sunday. “In this world you will have tribulation. But the promise stands: “In me you may have peace…take heart, I have overcome the world.”
“Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
On the cross, Jesus entered into our darkness. As the prophet Isaiah spoke, “Surely he bore our griefs and carried our sorrows . . . was bruised for our transgressions, crushed for our iniquities.” He took the full force of darkness, and emerged triumphant.
Out of darkness, light!
And so it is for all who belong to Jesus. We live in hope of resurrection. Darkness will give way to light. Sometimes the light breaks forth in the present. We watch new life emerge out of darkness and death, and our sorrows cause us to see and know more of his grace, more of his light in our lives now. And sometimes the darkness persists, and we wait—a lifetime even—for the promised light that is sure to dawn.
It’s not wishful thinking, though I don’t understand fully how it works. But it’s the certain promise of the one who entered the depths of darkness and overcame it. The one who was raised in glorious light.
At Christ’s return, He will raise the dead to life and bury sorrow forever. No more pain or sickness or death. He will wipe away every tear from our eyes. And in that day there will be no more need of the sun or moon, John tells us in the Revelation, for the glory of the Lord will give light to his new world, and the Lamb will be its lamp!
Darkness will have a place no more. And the light we will know will be all the brighter for the darkness we endured. Even the darkness will become a servant to the light, causing it to appear brighter and more sweet. Until then, Good Friday whispers, “Wait for it. Dare to hope. Trust the promise.”
“Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it”
Today, on Good Friday, in the midst of a global pandemic that has unsettled us all, we pause and experience the darkness, the despair, the pain and the agony, but we do so in hope. Resurrection is coming.
Out of darkness, light will shine!
Donnie Berry is the College and Young Adult Pastor at Christian Fellowship Church in Columbia, MO. He holds a PhD in New Testament from the Amridge University. He is a member of the Fifth Fellowship of the Center for Pastor Theologians.
