Hovering in Darkness

Recently I finished the book of Psalms and was forced to decide where to go next. Before Abigail left us, I would often hover in the New Testament, but lately I find myself continually drawn back to the Old. There's such solidarity, hope, suffering, lament, and promise found in those pages. Thus, I found myself starting Genesis again, and in the first five verses of the first chapter my heart was encouraged. 

Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. (2)

When looking up the Hebrew words and additional meanings for "formless" and "darkness" I found "waste, empty, useless, gloom." I needed reminding that even in the depths and darkness His Spirit hovers there. Emptiness and desolation? He is there. He sees these places and their need for something more: for light. 

In verse three His voice penetrated the dark depths, the empty places with light. 

And God said, "Let there be light," and there was light. (3)

 A blanket of light was created in contrast to the dark, and he separated them. The Hebrew word badal means to separate, sever, or distinguish between. Thus, the light he called "good", but I was encouraged in that he never called the darkness good. The dark night and the light day were each named, separately. He named the dark night, called the darkness and desolation what it was, but he never called it good. 

If he saw fit to distinguish between light and dark, to separate and sever the two, I am encouraged I may as well. I can agree the darkness accentuates the light, but the light also accentuates the darkness. Perhaps this is where I struggle with some modern assumptions that the hope we have in Jesus somehow makes grief and pain less, or that we must make everything sound good. It's just not true. If anything, the pain of Abigail's death, the dark night of the loss of her presence and laughter in our lives accentuates the hope, the light we have in Jesus. But the hope I have in Jesus also vividly reminds me death is not the way things were supposed to be. The hope and light accentuate the dark depths of the night. The dark would not seem quite so dark had I not known the light. I will also concede the Light appears all the brighter from the deep pit of darkness. 

I cannot call the darkness "good" or "pure joy" which it seems some want to demand. I struggle when James has been quoted in the face of the dark suffering. On more than one occasion I have sat with a group of believers and been told "consider it pure joy" in regard to suffering. I would not put it past myself to have once inaptly quoted this scripture out of context without thinking what it says to the person who has buried a child or suffered some great atrocity at the hand of darkness. I cringe to think of my naivete and arrogance even. 

I cannot call the death of Abigail "good". I cannot call the darkness "good". I will call it night or desolate, and I will be comforted that his Spirit hovers here. I will be comforted that he sees even in the thick darkness; he sees the need for light. He speaks light. He is the Light. 

I am the light of the world.  John 8:12

The light of Jesus shown even in the vast emptiness prior to earth's creation, and the light of Jesus is still available to all who will look to Him. I can agree that what he calls forth from the darkness is "good". I can see "good" he is bringing from our darkest night. But the night is still night. The dark is still dark. Some things are not meant to be called "good", but these same things make me so grateful for that which can. 

One day

There will be no more night. They will not need the light of a lamp or the light of the sun, for the Lord God will give them light. Rev. 22:5

I eagerly await that day. That good day.