Text from the Phos Hilaron as prayed by the Sisters of the Order of Saint Helena:
"O gracious Light,
pure brightness of the everliving God in heaven,
O Jesus Christ, holy and blessed!
Now as we come to the setting of the sun,
and our eyes behold the vesper light,
we sing your praises, O God:
Holy and Undivided Trinity.
You are worthy at all times
to be praised by happy voices,
O Word of God, O Giver of Life,
and to be glorified through all the worlds."
I entered the darkened room with trepidation that first time. I like knowing exactly what I'm doing at all times. I'm afraid I'm a bit of a control freak in that way. It gives me a sense of security, knowing what is going on and how I fit into the puzzle that is social interaction. And yet, entering the sanctuary for that first time, with it's icon-adorned walls and dimmed lights, I felt a sense of peace. I didn't have the first clue about the liturgy that would follow, but I knew these were my people. I could sense from the very beginning that these were people who loved God, and by some strange extension of the Body of Christ through the partaking of that mystical body in Communion, they loved me too. I didn't know what was going on, but I knew that I belonged.
I sat down in the pew and quietness permeated the room. Not that uncomfortable silence where you wait on the edge of your seat waiting for it to be broken, but the kind of silence you sit in among close friends. The silence that you sit in expectantly, knowing that if and when someone speaks, it will be worth listening.
We rose from our seats as the piano rang out pure and strong. A half-step slower than everyone else, I turned to face the back door of the sanctuary. My eyes found two acolytes carrying their long candles, a Gospel book lifted high into the air, and the most beautifully painted crucifix I had yet seen. My eyes were swept along the aisle of the church as the processional made its way forward. I was captivated by the procession, and I knew I was in the presence of Christ among this body of believers.
It was then, as another acolyte came forward, that I heard the words of the Phos Hilaron for the first time. Phos Hilaron is Greek for the first line of the chant: "O Gracious Light." I didn't know that at the time. I just knew it was beautiful. I watched with rapt attention as the acolyte slowly and deliberately made his way around the sanctuary, lighting small candles in each window. The candles shone softly into the darkened room, and I could feel the growing sense that the Light of the World was indeed shining in the hearts of all those present.
Years would pass, and after that first encounter with the Phos Hilaron I would go on to memorize the words and melody. I no longer had to look at my bulletin to make my way awkwardly through the beautiful refrain. My voice, which started out tentative, grew strong and clear as time passed. The Phos Hilaron was there each Tuesday night, no matter how the liturgy changed.
It's been a couple of years since my presence has joined those beautiful souls in that darkened sanctuary. But I like to think, as I recite the words of the Phos Hilaron, that my voice has been raised along with theirs in praise to the Gracious Light of Christ. I like to think that the Light of Christ shines in their hearts as well as my heart, and in that we are one. We "commune" as it were; together though we are apart.
Praise be to the God that has shone into the darkness. Praise be to Christ, the Lord of Light, that shines even now into our hearts and minds. And praise be to the Spirit that unites us, bringing us all into the circle of warm, bright light. Amen.