“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” 

John 1:5

I remember the silence most of all.

It was a Maundy Thursday service, a Tenebrae — Latin for “darkness.” Sixteen candles lit the sanctuary at first, their small flames dancing in the stillness as we sang and read the story of Jesus’ final hours from the Gospel of John.

After each reading — each scene of betrayal, suffering, loneliness — a candle was extinguished.

One by one, the light faded.

As we sang, I felt the weight of each word. The sorrow of the garden. The sting of Peter’s denial. The agony of the cross. Until only one candle remained.

Then that, too, was snuffed out.

The sanctuary was completely dark. And then — a loud, jarring sound pierced the silence. It echoed like a door slamming shut. Like heaven itself had gone quiet.

We left in total silence. No conversation. No closure. Just the weight of it all. The sorrow. The sense of God’s absence. It was crushing.

That night, I felt what it means to live without the presence of Jesus. The light had gone out, and the darkness was not just around me — it was in me.

But the story didn’t end there.

On Easter morning, we entered the sanctuary again. It was still dark and still silent, like the tomb.

And then — suddenly — the lights burst on. Music erupted. Voices lifted.

Hope was not gone.

Hope rose from the dead.

That contrast — between the darkness of Friday and the light of Sunday — has changed the way I see everything.

Because even now, when life feels dim… when sorrow hangs heavy and it seems like God has gone quiet… I remember: the silence is not the end. The darkness does not win.

The light will return.

And it will burst forth brighter than before — because Jesus didn’t just bring hope.

He IS hope. Living. Breathing. Risen.