Here in the Northern Hemisphere we're winding down to Sunday, the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year. Here in the DC area, the sun will rise that day at 7:23 a.m. and set at 4:50 p.m., giving us just 9 1/2 hours of light. I know a good number of people who are having a tough time this year. There are family dramas and medical setbacks and stresses at work, not to mention the chronic struggles and annoyances that will always be with us. Those don’t take a break simply because Andy Williams calls it the most wonderful time of the year.
There's the torture report, and the painfully raw conversations around #BlackLivesMatter. There's a bungled Rolling Stone story that threatens to distract us from the disgraceful stats about sexual assault on college campuses.
There's the two year anniversary of Newtown, which came and went with so little notice, and certainly no new laws regarding gun regulation, nor much of anything else, for that matter. (Where are all those people who claimed the guns weren't to blame but rather the state of mental health services in this country? Have they been out there crusading without my knowledge for increased support for people with mental illnesses? Or is the death of 26 people and a school shooting every week the price we are willing to pay for "freedom"?)
Where is the light? This week, it is seeping away, a few minutes at a time on the margins of the day.
Many churches, Tiny Church included, have special gatherings for people who aren't feeling the holly-jolliness. We have ours on a Sunday evening in December, and we've always called it "Blue Christmas." This year, the solstice is on a Sunday, so we'll be able to call it what it is: A Service of the Longest Night. It's one of my favorite services of the year.
I must admit, though, as the darkness grows:
The light is absolutely beautiful this time of year.
Yes, there's less of it than in the summer, with all its full blazes and its squat, sharp noon shadows. But what's here right now is dynamic and textured. It's brilliant and full and filtered through bare branches rather than blocked by leafy trees. Then it's smudgy and silver when the clouds roll in.
And then it's full of color. The sunrises and sunsets can be stunning. It feels strange liturgically to be preparing for a Service of the Longest Night when we are gifted with this:
Many Decembers ago, I was awake before dawn with a teething Margaret. I was wishing I were back in my warm bed in my dark room instead of trying to entertain a cranky toddler when something caught my eye outside the east-facing window. At first I didn't understand what I was seeing. There in the otherwise dark sky was a vertical streak of light, jagged like a bolt of lightning, but it hung there for the longest time, frozen like a still photo.
Finally something in the scene shifted enough so I could realize: there was a massive cloud taking up half the sky. The cloud was invisible in the pre-dawn sky, until the sun rose behind it. What I was seeing was the side of the cloud, tinged with light.
The winter light is surely less abundant. But it's startling and strange and exquisitely beautiful. We dare not blink or we will miss it. And we need it; we crave it.
It feels sometimes like our world is in a season of diminishing light. It's felt that way for too long a while. Part of the invitation is to see gifts in the darkness, as Barbara Brown Taylor argues in her book. But we also have to keep alert and awake to see the fleeting brilliance when it comes.
Choose your own confounding streaks of light. Here are some of mine: a lone senator still banging away at gun reform after Sandy Hook. The Richmond chief of police who marches with protestors affirming that #BlackLivesMatter. The wave of people in Australia offering to ride public transportation with frightened Muslims as the hostage situation inflames anti-Islamic sentiment. And---it must be said---the police officers who put their bodies on the line to end that terrible standoff not long ago.
And if people let you down, consider the creation---this world we are privileged to inhabit and make a tiny bit better.
Where is the light?
Where is the light? Here is an answer I like, courtesy of Peter Mayer (who wrote the song) and LEA (who performs it).
Thanks to my friend David Ensign for giving me permission to use his photos.