For the darkness of waiting
of not knowing what is to come
of staying ready and quiet and attentive,
we praise you, O God:
for the darkness and the light
are both alike to you.
For the darkness of choosing
when you give us the moment
to speak, and act, and change,
and we cannot know what we have
set in motion,
but we still have to take the risk,
we praise you, O God:
for the darkness and the light
are both alike to you.
Janet Morley, from All Desires
Known (SPCK, 1992)
IN THESE days of email and mobile phones, waiting might seem
like a dying art. No longer do we stand at the ticket barrier and
wonder why the person we arranged to meet is not on the train. No
longer do friends abroad write letters that take weeks to
arrive.
Despite instant communication, however, there is no escaping
waiting altogether: it is an inevitable part of human life. The
most obvious example is pregnancy: there are no instant babies.
Mary, like other mothers, had to wait nine months for the new life
inside her to develop into a fully fledged human being.
We might also think of crops ripening, or of wounds taking time
to heal. And there is no instant answer to the question: "What am I
to do with my life?" It is a matter of trying things out, taking
risks, pushing at doors, and seeing which ones open.,
I wrote last week about the desperation expressed in a sonnet by
Gerard Manley Hopkins (Faith, 13 December). In this week's prayer,
with its refrain inspired by Psalm 139.12 - "for the darkness and
the light are both alike to you" - Janet Morley captures a
different kind of waiting: the quiet confidence that this present
time of darkness and confusion will be fruitful; that new life will
emerge from the uncer- tainty.
This is waiting as surrender, when there is nothing left to do
or say. It is the calm before the storm; the moment of quiet before
the party, when everything is ready, but the guests are yet to
arrive. The prayer was written in 1985, and used in the Liturgy of
Hope celebrated in Canterbury Cathedral on 18 April 1986, in the
run-up to women's being ordained as deacons.
The Deacons (Ordination of Women) Measure gained the Royal
Assent in November 1986, and the first ordinations took place in
1987. So the prayer grew out of the long years of campaigning for
women's vocations to be recognised, and the joyful expectation that
change was finally on the horizon. But its rich imagery is relevant
to all sorts of situations.
Two verses are printed here. The other three talk of "the
darkness of staying silent", "the darkness of hoping", and "the
darkness of loving in which it is safe . . . to let go of our
self-protection and to stop holding back our desire".
The common theme is that lack of certainty and control opens up
a space for new possibilities. Just as too much light can dazzle,
so too much information can overwhelm insight. Darkness forces us
to feel our way slowly, to attend to the immediate, to take one
step at a time.
It is often in the humility of not knowing that God's presence
is felt, or God's call is heard. We might recall Elijah's hearing
the still small voice, or Moses's ascending into the darkness of
Mount Sinai; and, above all, Mary's leap into the unknown: saying
yes to the angel with little idea of the consequences.
So take a little time between baking mince pies, putting up the
decorations, and wrapping presents to say this prayer, and to give
thanks for the fertility of waiting.
Dr Ann Conway-Jones is a freelance writer, and an Honorary
Research Fellow at the University of Birmingham.