Was The Moon Full Last Night?

The Tenebrae church service last night was really moving. In the program they handed out at the door, it asked the audience to be silent throughout and to leave in silence. It was a lovely spring night here in Boston and the moon was bright and round.

As we each read our part of the Last Supper story, a candle would go out. Those who had rallied around the man, had abandoned him in his greatest hour of need, left him to be battered, to be spat on, to be mocked, to be friendless in death. Forsaken.

The church grew darker and darker. You couldn't help thinking of people at school who you'd turned your back on, when vicious cliques had made their days a misery. You couldn't help thinking of people at work who'd been layed off and were no longer spoken of, never called anymore. Sometimes you were asked to empty their desks, shred their business cards. Your mind wandered to dark places, recalling times when you could have shown compassion to some stranger, but neglected to. Car accidents you drove away from, instead of running towards.

Finally, all the candles went out. A black cloth was draped on the large cross above the organ in the center of the sanctuary, faintly illuminated.

The moonlight poured through the windows in silvery slants. It meant something good. It gave you hope. Was the moon full? I couldn't turn to anyone to ask. I wasn't allowed to speak. We were together but we were each alone. Finally we rose. We left in silence. You could hear the scuffing sounds of our soles as we left.

Outside, it was quiet but the moon was louder still. You could hear the sudden growl of cars starting — such loud animals in the woods tonight — and then they would roll away slowly, putting the silence back in place, like heavy black furniture.

In my car, I wondered, must I leave this silent country so soon? What street must I take back to my noisy noisy life, or could I just turn down a side road, slow down and spend the night with the moon?