Why Modern Man Can’t Resist Tenebrae
To the uninitiated, Tenebrae looks like some ancient cultish ritual.
Surpliced clergy and choristers line up on opposing sides of a dimly lit sanctuary and engage in a solemn battle consisting of some 15 psalms and antiphons, nine responsories, and as many readings taken from Holy Scripture and the sermons of the Church Fathers. The recitation of the psalms is punctuated by the gradual extinction of candles, prominently displayed on a triangular frame morbidly referred to as a “hearse.” The two-hour liturgy ends with the removal of the final candle, the violent ruckus of the strepitus, the return of light, and a silence made more peaceful by the lengthy journey we take to get there.
The liturgy is the sum total of the two morning offices of the Church, Matins and Lauds, and is only sung during Holy Week. In recent years, it’s been possible to find a large assortment of (understandably) abbreviated versions or even, among some Protestant traditions, loosely based constructions barely resembling the original thing.
Despite its ponderous length, the liturgy has become increasingly popular in recent years. As far as this writer is aware, there are no official statistics, but a decade ago, you’d have been hard-pressed to find a Tenebrae service within driving distance. This year, some nine parishes in the Columbus Diocese alone advertise at least one. What, you might ask, could possibly persuade a modern individual with an attention span of 8.25 seconds to attend such a lengthy liturgy?
A simple answer presents itself: this ancient rite is striking in a way few things are in our modern world. It is dramatic in the way that the midnight séances of the druids, or the secret pagan rituals performed in the Pantheon, or, more to the point, the way that the sacrifices of the ancient prophets and Levites were dramatic.
Throughout history, man has had a tendency to treat the supernatural truths animating the natural world with reverence, wherever he finds them. His instinct tells him such things ought to remain veiled in tabernacles and shrouded in incense. Such mystic secrets must be kept by means of the drama and symbolism of fantastic liturgy.
And yet, we find ourselves relishing the drama and mystery of liturgies like Tenebrae.
Of course, in the modern age, liturgies have been stripped of their veils: tabernacles are bare golden houses, stained-glass windows are turned into fractured light forming no image (or the simplest of images), and liturgical music is turned to simple hymns, lest its text be obscured. Why, modern man asks, couldn’t the truth be proclaimed simply? It seems like a noble quest. We live in an enlightened age. Surely, we can bear clearly stated truths?
And yet, we find ourselves relishing the drama and mystery of liturgies like Tenebrae.
There is something about the complexity of the symbolism that draws us. Because it never attempts to spell things out bluntly, it manages to say many things “in part.” We find ourselves constantly engaged in attempting to perceive the truth “through a glass, darkly.”
On one hand, the liturgy places us at the foot of a tree on which the God-man is suspended, engaged in the lonely business of drawing “all things unto” Himself. “Christ became obedient for us unto death,” St. Paul gravely informs us before the chaotic strepitus occurs. “Even to death on a cross. Therefore, God also has exalted him and given him the name that is above ev’ry name.”
When the lights go out, the last remaining candle disappears behind the altar, and we engage in making a solemn ruckus, we’re reminded of the earthquakes and ghostly visitations that shook Jerusalem on that dreadful day of deicide. Then we might consider that sin — the estrangement of the soul from its God — creates chaos. Simultaneously, the stripitus represents the primordial chaos that existed before God called the world into being.
Then the light returns, and peace ensues. It is the Resurrection; the return of the Light of the World into the soul; the Word of God creating everything out of nothing.
Symbolic richness in the liturgy is not limited to Tenebrae — Holy Week is filled with ancient rites designed to instruct us in the grand drama of salvation. Most of them present us with a kaleidoscope of meanings and meditations — and for good reason. For weeks, the Breviary has been pleading with us, “Today, if you hear his voice, harden not your hearts,” and here are liturgies uniquely designed to transmit the voice of God.
Let us listen.
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