The sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each short December day. A few brown leaves still cling to branches on barren trees. Storms threaten. Snow falls. Lakes and ponds, rivers and streams begin freezing. Cold becomes freezing cold. Rain becomes freezing rain. Wind becomes freezing wind, biting wind, chilling wind, gusting wind. Wind rattles old windows in dry, dusty New England homes; heaters rattle and bump as hot air and water flow through old pipes, making eerie yet comforting sounds through long dark nights.
The sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each short December day. Freezing wind, biting wind, chilling wind blows loose brown leaves across dry brown lawns until thick, cold snow covers everything—covers trees and turnpikes, covers bushes and busses, covers ponds and parkways, woods and Wal-Marts, marshes and malls, lawns and libraries, streams and statues, dens and driveways; until thick, cold snow covers everything and some tree limbs snap under the weight. Some power lines snap under the weight. Some cars refuse to start. Some backs are sore from shoveling. Some wet coats, boots, mittens and hats lie drying in front of furnaces and fireplaces. Some chocolate is hot and liquid and steaming. And the lights are beautiful, though at times overdone: lights on houses and apartments; lights around doorways and windows; lights on trees and shrubs; lights around lampposts and mailboxes; lights over main streets and churches—green, red, blue, yellow, purple and white lights to brighten spirits in the dark season; lights to instill hope in a hurting world; lights to guide our way through long, dark nights.
The lights anticipate the returning sun. Yes, the winter solstice is not far off now—one more week. On that night New England will look long and deep into the dark of space, as long and deep as it possibly can through the cycle of a year. On that night the earth will slowly begin tilting its northern latitudes back toward the sun. And just as the ancients saw fit to celebrate the returning light, so shall we, each in our own way, find ways to celebrate within the great mixing and blending of midwinter traditions: Saturnalia, Yule, Hanukah—which began yesterday—and Christmas. We will hear what is for many the familiar story of an ancient near-eastern family, traveling and in search of warm, clean shelter in which the woman can give birth; the story of an angel’s night-time proclamation to huddling shepherds, a message of peace and good will to all; the story of the journey of three wise men, reading the heavens, consulting the old king, seeking a new king, bearing gifts and following a star, searching, longing, yearning, seeking through the long, dark night.
But in this moment, this blessed moment—this late autumn afternoon—this advent afternoon—the solstice is still yet to come. Christmas is still yet to come. Yule logs are still yet to burn. Presents are still yet to open. Good tidings and wishes for a happy new year are still yet to be heralded. The celebration is still yet to come. It is dark now, the darkest time of the year. Though the lights and our preparations for the holidays and the excitement of children fix our gaze forward to the returning sun, let us not pass through this advent time without availing ourselves of the blessings of darkness. Let us be mindful: not the arriving but the journeying is a blessing of the dark. Not the finding but the seeking is a blessing of the dark. Not the knowing but the unknowing is a blessing of the dark. Not the opened present, but the present still wrapped is a blessing of the dark. Not the clarity but the mystery is a blessing of the dark. The mystery of these dark days quiets us, stills us, moves us, stirs us, inspires us to look inward, brings us to that gut place, to that moment before words can be formed; to that place where words cannot go; to that place where heart, feeling, intuition and spirit lead us if we let them. Not festivity, not celebration but quiet and stillness are blessings of the dark. Not the stable and the manger, but the road to Bethlehem is a blessing of the dark. Not the birth, but the womb holds the blessings of darkness.
The advent words of the poet-minister Francis Anderson ring in our ears: “It is a lonely road to Bethlehem that must be walked slowly and untalked / Where no bright light or angel song intrudes ahead of cue to wrongly claim arrival of the dawn before the night is walked by each of us one through.”1
Where hope is a blessing of the light, there are times when we feel hopeless. These are dark times. Our search for hope, our struggle to be hopeful, our wrestling with those forces that conspire against hope—all these take place in darkness. Where faith is a blessing of the light, there are times when we have no faith, when we feel there is nothing reliable or trustworthy. These are dark times. Our search for faith and our struggle with those forces that conspire against faith take place in darkness. Where peace may be a blessing of the light, there are times when we feel no peace, when our pain and anxiety and anger are so deep that nothing seems to bring us comfort, nothing seems to brings us solace, nothing seems to brings us healing. These are dark times. Our search for peace, and our protest against those forces that conspire against peace all take place in darkness. Where clarity, control and strength may be blessings of the light, our search for clarity, our ability to accept that we don’t control everything we wish we could, and our ability to recognize we aren’t as powerful as we wish we could be—these are insights that come to us in darkness. Our ability to confess we have fallen short of our own best standards, our ability to admit we are afraid, our ability to be vulnerable, our ability to forgive and be forgiven, our ability to be held, cared for and loved—all these happen through our struggles in darkness. Where love is a blessing of the light, there are times when we don’t feel love, when we don’t experience love in our lives, when we don’t see love operative in the world. These are dark times. Our search for love, our longing for love, our yearning for love, and our struggle with those forces that seek to deny and destroy love—all these take place in darkness.
Are we not like the wise men in the gospel story, reading the heavens, consulting the king, bearing gifts and following that ancient star in the eastern sky, searching, longing, yearning, seeking through the long, dark night for some visceral, viable, graspable, believable, trustworthy testament to love?
The sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each, short December day. The warmth and glow of the hearth invite us in from the cold, in from the snow, in from the freezing, biting, chilling, gusting wind, in from the long, dark night. So many lights beckon Christmas to come before its proper time. So many lights brighten the night, stripping it of its power to hold, to heal, to breathe, stripping it of its expansiveness, its magic, its mystery. So many lights urge us to fly first class to Bethlehem rather than traverse the lonely road. So many lights offer us a false sense of security and comfort when what we really need are opportunities to contend with and overcome insecurity and discomfort; opportunities to contend with and overcome dis-ease, vulnerability, and weakness; opportunities to heal, to rehabilitate, to grow; opportunities to question, to desire, to yearn, to seek, to breathe.
I love the cat in Elizabeth Coatsworth’s poem, “On a Night of Snow.” The cat knows the blessings of darkness. “Stay by the fire, Cat,” says the mistress. “Lie still, do not go / See how the flames are leaping and hissing low.” She tries to bribe the cat with a saucer of sweet milk and warns: “Outside the wild winds blow.” But the cat says essentially, “no thank you.” “Outside the wild winds blow, Mistress, and dark is the night / strange voices cry in the trees, intoning strange lore / and more than cats move, lit by our eyes’ green light, on silent feet where the meadow grasses hang hoar—Mistress, there are portents abroad of magic and might, and things that are yet to be done. Open the door.”2
I can certainly identify with the mistress. I like my chair next to the fire. I like the flames leaping and hissing low. Sweet milk is not my drink of choice, but I will put something sweet or salty in my mouth as I sit there by the fire. I know fire means warmth, safety, survival, community. But I also wonder sometimes if we yearn for the closeness of light and all it symbolizes in this dark season because for so many countless generations in so many countless cultures and religions, so many myths find God in the light. So many myths find God in the returning sun. So many myths surround God in light, describe God with light, name God as light. So many myths consign God’s enemies to darkness, to the night, to the cold, dark, brown earth.
The myths don’t speak the whole truth!
What of this dark time when the sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each, short December day? What of this dark time when a few brown leaves still cling to branches on barren trees? What of this dark time when the ground freezes, when the wind blows, when snow blankets everything. In my own spiritual journey I am coming to love more and more deeply the God Nancy Shaffer describes in her meditation, “A Theology Adequate for the Night.” This is not the God whom, in the glare of the light, so-called believers name with confidence, follow faithfully, praise joyously, fear privately, and question rarely. This is not the God of human doctrine and dogma. This is not the God whom, in the sureness and clarity of the light, all too often becomes “a god of exactings, as if love could be earned and subtracted.”3 This is not the God whom, in the glare of the light, all too often becomes warlike, vengeful, punishing, distant, patriarchal, damning, exclusive and arrogant. No, this God whom I am coming to love more and more deeply lingers in the shadows when the sun hangs low in the southern sky. This God clings to branches with brown leaves in the freezing, biting, chilling wind. This God freezes with the ground and blankets with the snow. This God rattles like a heater in December in an old New England home. This God lies drying by the furnace with wet coats and mittens. This God wakes with us long before the dawn, and has the power to soothe our anxious spirits, to quiet our racing minds. This God lingers with us in the shadows of our lives, fears with us the things we fear, struggles with us when we are struggling, and journeys with us through our long, dark nights. This God is the resolve forming in our gut, our decision to start moving, our recognition that it is time to seek hope anew, time to seek faith anew, time to seek peace anew, time to seek love anew.
Nancy Shaffer says: “This may work in the night: something that breathes with us, as others sleep; something that breathes also those sleeping, so no one is alone. Something that is the beginning of love, and also each part of how love is completed. Something so large, wherever we are, we are not separate; which teaches again the way to start over.
Night is the test: when grief lies uncovered, and longing shows clear; when nothing we do can hasten earth’s turning or delay it.
This may be adequate for the night: this holding: something that steadfastly breathes us, which we are also learning to breathe.”4
The sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each, short December day. Night falls fast and offers its lessons to those who, like the cat, are willing to brave the blowing wild winds. Under the Milky Way, a clear winter night sky reveals an important truth. On such nights our hearts leap as we bear witness to a thousand billion tiny pin-pricks of light, stars upon stars upon stars. But the truth is this: like a baby floating in the womb, every star lies in the bosom of a greater, surrounding, embracing darkness. From our vantage point, the light of every star is limited; it only goes so far so fast. But the dark is unlimited, unbounded, endless, forever. The poet, Ranier Maria Rilke, writes “You, darkness, of whom I am born—I love you more than the flame that limits the world to the circle it illumines and excludes all the rest. But the dark embraces everything: shapes and shadows, creatures and me, people, nations—just as they are.”5 Even the most powerful, brilliant, blazing stars reside in the embrace of darkness. Supernovas and red giants and whole galaxies reside in the embrace of darkness. In the womb we reside in the embrace of darkness. And upon our bodily return to dust and ashes at life’s end, we reside in the embrace of darkness.
The sun hangs low in New England’s southern sky, arching quickly along the horizon through the course of each, short December day. May the final days of this dark season be a blessing to you. May the final days of this dark season offer you opportunities to search, opportunities to heal, opportunities to confront honestly the demons of your lives, opportunities to breathe and, as Nancy Shaffer might say, to be breathed. May you welcome the wild blowing winds in this dark season. Like the few remaining leaves on the branches of barren trees in this dark season may you cling tenaciously to the things that matter most. May you linger in the shadows long enough to recognize that which embraces you just as you are in this dark season. May you find life and joy in this dark season. Amen and Blessed be.
1 Anderson, Francis C., “Christmas Has No Right” in Seaburg, ed., Celebrating Christmas: An Anthology (Boston: Unitarian Universalist Ministers Association, 1983) p. 58
2 Coatsworth, Elizabeth, “On a Night of Snow,” in Keillor, Garrison, ed., Good Poems (New York: Penguin Books, 2005) p 267.
3 Shaffer, Nancy, “A Theology Adequate for the Night,” Instructions in Joy (Boston: Skinner House Books, 2002) p. 14.
4 Ibid., p. 14.
5 Rilke, Maria Rainer, “De Dunkelheit, aus der ich stamme” in Barrows, Anita and Macy, Joanna, tr., Rilke’s Book of Hours: Love Poems to God (New York: Riverhead Books, 1996) p. 57.
