When I lived in the Twin Cities and summered in Grand Marais, people would ask me, “What do you miss most when you’re not on the North Shore?” My reply: The sky.
In the city, I was seldom aware of the stars, the phases of the moon, sunrise and sunset. Artificial light from streetlights, stores, cars—I knew the sky was there, but I felt distanced, almost unaware of it. Here in the north, I’m constantly aware of the sky.
But last November, December—my first year round up north—the sky felt oppressive. So black, so dark. Every afternoon the dark came earlier, the night falling like a lid on the world. Each morning, it seemed that the sun struggled harder to come up. Thedark felt heavy, thick, dark.
What a wimp! I scolded myself. For eons, people had little or no artificial light— a campfire, seal oil lamp, candle—these spluttered and smoked, giving flickers of light. When they were built, villages in Europe were tightly packed against the perils of night, of wilderness, of the unknown. For centuries there was so little artificial light and candles were so expensive that people slept longer hours (a human version of hibernation) during the darker months. One of the reasons, scholars argue, long books like novels became popular when they did was that candles were cheaper, so people could afford to read on those long winter evenings.
The abundance of artificial light (not to mention Netflix!) provides a barrier between – ourselves and the real darkness of winter. But literal, nighttime darkness is not the only kind, and I wonder how we shield ourselves, to avoid confronting other kinds of darkness. Facing the darkness of declining parents, failing health, sagging economy, lagging energy…it’s tempting to use artificial lighteners (alcohol, drugs, food, shopping, etc.) rather than face the darkness.
What are some gifts we might find in the darkness?
Darkness offers us time to ponder our lives, to face our own darkness within. In a few weeks we move into the season of Advent—a time in the church calendar for preparation. Just as Christ grew in the darkness of Mary’s womb, we prepare in the darkening world for new life and light. Long dark evenings offer an opportunity for us to consider what blocks our spiritual growth, as well as what we are bringing to birth.
Darkness shows light, literally and metaphorically. Just as a tiny candle can be seen for a long distance in the dark, many sufferers (having faced their own particular darkness) testify to the glimmers of light—that even in the blackest times they felt an inexplicable sense of being held and cared for by God. Christians affirm a God who, in Christ, wept and struggled in the darkness of a garden.
Sometimes in the dark, we pull together. Cook County folks know how to rally around when darkness hits someone’s life—a car accident, fire, or illness. The community comes together to support, becoming light in the darkness. Those who have received light from others, or given it, can testify to the light in darkness in this community.
But why wait ’til disaster strikes? Someone told me the other day of a study in which Cook County residents scored very high on divisiveness. It’s hard to imagine how this study was done: “How many people are not speaking to you? Who have you gossiped about lately? When did you last give someone the benefit of the doubt?” Maybe it’s just all these loners, these independent outdoorsy people. Maybe it’s small town stuff.
But I believe that “being light” to one another needn’t be reserved for disasters. Being light to each other can be cultivated, practiced, and even spread—as we stop ourselves before passing on the latest gossip, speaking to criticize
someone. We can choose words of encouragement, grace, and hope. grace, and hope.
The Book of Common Prayer (beloved to Episcopalians) includes many prayers for the darkness, written as it was in the mid sixteenth century when light was scarce. Here’s my favorite:
Be present, O merciful God,
And protect us through the silent hours of this night,
So that we who are wearied
By the changes and chances of this fleeting world,
May repose upon thy eternal changelessness;
Through Jesus Christ our Lord.
Amen.
The psalmist tells us that darkness and light are both light to God.
Each month a member of the Cook County Ministerium will offer Spiritual Reflections. For November, our contributor is Mary Ellen Ashcroft, mentor of Spirit of the Wilderness Episcopal Church and founder of WindCradle Retreat.
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