Light and Dark
“I have come to appreciate Advent so much more without the light/dark binary. Rather, I see darkness as the generative space in which light is conceived and from which it is born. Both holy, both life-giving.”
This morning, these words by Episcopal priest and biblical scholar, Wil Gafney, were shared on social media. It immediately made me consider the truth that darkness is not always scary and best avoided. Without darkness, we could not see the beauty of stars and moon in the night sky. Without darkness, we would not need candles. Without darkness, we could not sleep—at least not so soundly.
But even more, I think of the spring bulbs planted in the fall that will rest in the dark earth before bringing the beauty of blossoms to our summer gardens. I think of dough rising beneath a warm towel to leaven the bread and bakery goods that we share with delight. I think of worries or puzzlements that we take to bed with us that simmer through the night and become clear with the morning sun. And, of course, I think of the darkness of the womb that feeds and protects the infant until it is ready to be born. All of these things are nurtured in darkness—and in their own time.
That, to me, is the gift of Advent. In the weeks that lead up to and through the darkest and longest night of the year, we wait, sometimes with anticipation, sometimes with impatience for that waiting to be over and the Christmas celebrations to begin. But sometimes, we may also find peace and rest in that waiting. I recall the winter days when I was a child, coming home from school or junior choir practice when it was already growing dark. I remember going into our warm house that sometimes smelled of simmering soup or freshly baked cookies. It was a cozy feeling, one of comfort and safety.
Some of us may find Advent a time to ponder, as Mary did, God’s presence and acting in our lives.
Where God is in both our joys and blessings and in our sorrows and disappointments. I look forward to our Longest Night service on the 20th where we can do this together. Yes, it is a time and place for those who have experienced loss and do not feel ready for the celebrations. It is also a time and place for those who wish for some quiet reflection in the company of others. It will be peaceful time—one of beauty, darkness and candlelighting, prayers, soft music, and blessing.
This morning, these words by Episcopal priest and biblical scholar, Wil Gafney, were shared on social media. It immediately made me consider the truth that darkness is not always scary and best avoided. Without darkness, we could not see the beauty of stars and moon in the night sky. Without darkness, we would not need candles. Without darkness, we could not sleep—at least not so soundly.
But even more, I think of the spring bulbs planted in the fall that will rest in the dark earth before bringing the beauty of blossoms to our summer gardens. I think of dough rising beneath a warm towel to leaven the bread and bakery goods that we share with delight. I think of worries or puzzlements that we take to bed with us that simmer through the night and become clear with the morning sun. And, of course, I think of the darkness of the womb that feeds and protects the infant until it is ready to be born. All of these things are nurtured in darkness—and in their own time.
That, to me, is the gift of Advent. In the weeks that lead up to and through the darkest and longest night of the year, we wait, sometimes with anticipation, sometimes with impatience for that waiting to be over and the Christmas celebrations to begin. But sometimes, we may also find peace and rest in that waiting. I recall the winter days when I was a child, coming home from school or junior choir practice when it was already growing dark. I remember going into our warm house that sometimes smelled of simmering soup or freshly baked cookies. It was a cozy feeling, one of comfort and safety.
Some of us may find Advent a time to ponder, as Mary did, God’s presence and acting in our lives.
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