Reflections of a Reluctant Vigiller
I wasn't sure I would want to do it – spending a long evening sitting alone in a dark room – not getting done any of the things I needed to get done, not visiting any of the people I wanted to visit, not having any of the adventures I wanted to have on a Friday night.
7 pm to midnight prayer vigil.
But the invitation had been made, the commitment given. It was a tough one, as in the meantime I'd received a couple of other invitations, but I stuck with it. I'm stubborn.
The Akathist Hymn at 7:00 was easy, always beautiful, a Lenten treat. As it ended and people streamed out, there were still nearly 4 hours to go. Four hours of nothing.
Whose bucket list includes a five-hour vigil on the first Friday night of spring, all alone, while outside the evening light and city activities beckon?
The first surprise was that, though most of those assembled for the Akathist soon left, a substantial handful stayed. And stayed. And stayed. The icon candles were softly flickering. The scent of flowers, mixed with a little leftover incense, was faint but sweet. The seats were hard and bare. The people were silent, present. God might or might not show up, but I felt less alone.
The second surprising was not so surprising. Often, when I take the risk to enter it, the first thing the silence reveals is not so pleasant. That the nasty condemning voice ringing in my head is, well, my own. It must be: nobody here is talking.
The Mother of God, under her dark-red veil, seemed to smirk a little as I noticed this obvious truth. I felt a little better, as she evidently shared with me in the joke. My mind continued to go round and round its little track, fear, anger, worry, need, fear, anger, ... but that was all right, she and I were sitting together watching it go, smiling.
After awhile some words of the psalms started to separate themselves out from the gentle sound of chanting and singing that had begun in the meantime. Perhaps we were up to the ninth Psalm by now: “Have mercy on me, O Lord: consider the trouble that I suffer.” Or the tenth: “the fool hath said in his heart, God has forgotten.” Or the twelfth: “Help, Lord!” I felt even less alone. Some other heart has sounded just like mine. All through the evening, an unbroken chain of voices continued to sing the psalms. I don't think we got to the 150th by midnight. The words poured themselves out as the sunshine had poured itself out on the snow-bound city all afternoon. Sometimes I think the Psalms are at the heart of humanity, the ever-present dialogue between humanity and God.
I'm sure it took two hours, or perhaps fifty psalms, for my stored-up emotions, thoughts, worries, concerns, ideas, to wear themselves out a little and go to sleep, like a child after a tantrum. As they did, some other inner compartment opened up. I'm not sure the word for it – the one that fits best is “hope.” That unthinking, unquestioned, unexamined hope children seem to know best.
From time to time I wondered whether I was praying, or should be praying, or praying differently or better, and if so, how? As the evening flowed on, I worried less and less about that.
Just before coming, I'd read in the news that the top health official of the UN said the Central African Republic is in near-anarchy and gave a description of some of the unthinkable horror there. By the third hour, other voices had stilled enough that I could really pray for them and for other people, from the heart, for a few moments.
Some of the handful of chapel people went out and came back in, or went out and didn't come back in. Some people came in who hadn't been there before, and stayed on. The chain-link of voices reading the psalms continued; now and then we stood and bowed for the alleluia's, and the body gave thanks for the movement. Out in the refectory, these chanting voices were shadowed by inaudible voices as confessions were being heard. Three hours of repentance and forgiveness going on all through the prayer vigil. A little table offered cold and hot beverages to sustain the weary.
In all the city, here we were in this tiny space, these few hundred square feet, this little universe. And all was well. Not that the problems had ceased to be, the mortgage suddenly got paid or violence ended, but that all – all – is well. We are not forgotten.
Peace accompanied me home under the night sky.
Other important things may have happened in Toronto that Friday evening. Babies were born. Hands were held. Final breaths were drawn, the passage to eternal life begun. And at St John's Mission and St Silouan parish, in the midst of it all, a place was kept for God and humanity to meet and love each other.
(Mary Marrocco, Lent 2014)
I wasn't sure I would want to do it – spending a long evening sitting alone in a dark room – not getting done any of the things I needed to get done, not visiting any of the people I wanted to visit, not having any of the adventures I wanted to have on a Friday night.
7 pm to midnight prayer vigil.
But the invitation had been made, the commitment given. It was a tough one, as in the meantime I'd received a couple of other invitations, but I stuck with it. I'm stubborn.
The Akathist Hymn at 7:00 was easy, always beautiful, a Lenten treat. As it ended and people streamed out, there were still nearly 4 hours to go. Four hours of nothing.
Whose bucket list includes a five-hour vigil on the first Friday night of spring, all alone, while outside the evening light and city activities beckon?
The first surprise was that, though most of those assembled for the Akathist soon left, a substantial handful stayed. And stayed. And stayed. The icon candles were softly flickering. The scent of flowers, mixed with a little leftover incense, was faint but sweet. The seats were hard and bare. The people were silent, present. God might or might not show up, but I felt less alone.
The second surprising was not so surprising. Often, when I take the risk to enter it, the first thing the silence reveals is not so pleasant. That the nasty condemning voice ringing in my head is, well, my own. It must be: nobody here is talking.
The Mother of God, under her dark-red veil, seemed to smirk a little as I noticed this obvious truth. I felt a little better, as she evidently shared with me in the joke. My mind continued to go round and round its little track, fear, anger, worry, need, fear, anger, ... but that was all right, she and I were sitting together watching it go, smiling.
After awhile some words of the psalms started to separate themselves out from the gentle sound of chanting and singing that had begun in the meantime. Perhaps we were up to the ninth Psalm by now: “Have mercy on me, O Lord: consider the trouble that I suffer.” Or the tenth: “the fool hath said in his heart, God has forgotten.” Or the twelfth: “Help, Lord!” I felt even less alone. Some other heart has sounded just like mine. All through the evening, an unbroken chain of voices continued to sing the psalms. I don't think we got to the 150th by midnight. The words poured themselves out as the sunshine had poured itself out on the snow-bound city all afternoon. Sometimes I think the Psalms are at the heart of humanity, the ever-present dialogue between humanity and God.
I'm sure it took two hours, or perhaps fifty psalms, for my stored-up emotions, thoughts, worries, concerns, ideas, to wear themselves out a little and go to sleep, like a child after a tantrum. As they did, some other inner compartment opened up. I'm not sure the word for it – the one that fits best is “hope.” That unthinking, unquestioned, unexamined hope children seem to know best.
From time to time I wondered whether I was praying, or should be praying, or praying differently or better, and if so, how? As the evening flowed on, I worried less and less about that.
Just before coming, I'd read in the news that the top health official of the UN said the Central African Republic is in near-anarchy and gave a description of some of the unthinkable horror there. By the third hour, other voices had stilled enough that I could really pray for them and for other people, from the heart, for a few moments.
Some of the handful of chapel people went out and came back in, or went out and didn't come back in. Some people came in who hadn't been there before, and stayed on. The chain-link of voices reading the psalms continued; now and then we stood and bowed for the alleluia's, and the body gave thanks for the movement. Out in the refectory, these chanting voices were shadowed by inaudible voices as confessions were being heard. Three hours of repentance and forgiveness going on all through the prayer vigil. A little table offered cold and hot beverages to sustain the weary.
In all the city, here we were in this tiny space, these few hundred square feet, this little universe. And all was well. Not that the problems had ceased to be, the mortgage suddenly got paid or violence ended, but that all – all – is well. We are not forgotten.
Peace accompanied me home under the night sky.
Other important things may have happened in Toronto that Friday evening. Babies were born. Hands were held. Final breaths were drawn, the passage to eternal life begun. And at St John's Mission and St Silouan parish, in the midst of it all, a place was kept for God and humanity to meet and love each other.
(Mary Marrocco, Lent 2014)
