hallowing the darkness

I may be the only person in the world who has added more lights to a Christmas tree in the middle of January (and I may have gotten some flack about it on social media), but one of the strings of lights had suddenly blown out entirely, and while most probably would have taken it as a sign that it was time to take the tree down, I’m just not ready to part with it yet. So I found some more lights to wrap around the tree, and it made me oddly happy.

Advent has always been my absolute favorite time of year. The year begins to wind down, the days become darker and quieter, and my soul tends to get a little quieter, too. I sort of missed Advent this past year – it’s been a tough few months – and I think in some small way, keeping my tree up just a little longer this year is my way of getting a little bit of that season back. The dark days of Advent do something in us – something we need, whether we know it or not.

As I continue to learn how to “speak God from scratch,” I think “darkness” is a word that we (or at least I) need to reframe. We tend to think of it as something negative – the opposite of light, which is good. But what we often forget is that darkness is the birthplace of creation.

“In the beginning God created the heavens and the earth. Now the earth was formless and empty, darkness was over the surface of the deep, and the Spirit of God was hovering over the waters. And God said, ‘Let there be light,’ and there was light. God saw that the light was good, and he separated the light from the darkness. God called the light ‘day’, and the darkness he called ‘night’. And there was evening, and there was morning – the first day.” – Genesis 1: 1-5

Light and darkness are separate, but integrated; they live in harmony – not opposition – and night comes first. (This why the Sabbath begins and ends at sundown.)

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome/understood it.” – John 1:5

Yes. But neither is the darkness banished.

In Rob Bell’s brilliant interview with Alexander Shaia from last December, Shaia talks about darkness as a gift that we are given daily throughout the season of Advent. He explains that in an old Celtic tradition, decorating a barren oak tree the night before the winter solstice (which used to be December 25th) was done as a celebration of the miracle of birth. The days after the winter solstice will become progressively longer; light comes back. (The parallels to the creation and salvation narratives of Christianity aren’t easy to miss.)

And so, as Shaia so eloquently stated, “we come back to this dark time to sit in a hallowed darkness, knowing that it’s always the face of a new beginning.”

Darkness isn’t something to be afraid of. It’s something to be embraced, lived into, noticed. “Can you see what Spirit is doing in you?” Shaia asks. Much like the way a seed sprouts underground before reaching through the darkness towards the light, embracing the darkness (whether it comes in the form of Advent or a dark night of the soul) allows new things, new dreams to grow.

“We light candles in the dark to decorate the darkness, not to banish it,” Shaia says. We “decorate the barrenness” in celebration of coming life.

Grief carries with it its own strange brand of darkness. As I’ve been sitting here writing, in the quiet glow of my Christmas tree and candlelight, I’ve noticed tears I wasn’t even aware of shedding. But because I’ve slowed down enough to be quiet, and to ask what Spirit is doing in me, I am free to lean into it, to trust that these tears represent a work that is going on deep within me that will give birth to something new.

Light will come back.

And in the meantime, I’m allowed to embrace the darkness, and to decorate it.

So are you.

image credit: © Depositphotos.com / fajnokg