On Wednesday evening of Holy Week, the church went dark. Not gradually, not symbolically. Darkness spilled from the back, candle by candle, psalm by psalm, until the only light in the cavernous space came from a single triangular stand: fifteen unbleached candles, the same wax used for Requiem Masses.
The same wax used for the dead. One by one, psalm by psalm, the candles were extinguished. When the final psalm ended, the last flame was carried behind the altar and hidden. The church dissolved into absolute blackness.
Then came the strepitus: the great noise. Books slammed onto pews. Feet stamped on stone floors. The sound rolled through the nave like the tremor of an earthquake, the chaos of the disciples, the signal to leave a lightless sanctuary.
This was Tenebrae. Three nights in a row: Wednesday, Thursday, Friday: culminating in the same silenc…
