Third Sunday of Advent
Scripture Reading for Today:
I’m Learning to Love the Dark of Advent
by Cameron Fraser
I live in Regina, SK, on Treaty 4 Territory, where it is pretty dark this time of year.
I love it.
I savour it.
When it starts to dissipate, I find myself thinking fondly about when it will return the following year.
According to the app on my phone, the sun will rise at 8:53 am today and will set at 4:54 pm.
Each day, the amount of darkness grows...until, Saturday, when the longest night of the year will take place.
Over the past few years, the Season of Advent has borne in me a love of the dark.
In our communities, could darkness be a comfort and refuge – a mystery to explore?
Over the past several years within my community, the United Church of Canada, a gentle, but powerful invitation and insistence from black folks that we become more aware of certain words we use in this season. Does the way we play with imagery of darkness and light, particularly present at this time of year, reinforce white supremacy and the denigration of blackness?
We have been urged to recognize how prevalent imagery of light overcoming darkness sits on the lips of white-skinned worship leaders, how that lands for black and brown listeners, and how it reinforces to white ears, the centrality of bodies with our particular pigmentation.
If you’re in a Christian worshipping space this season, you’ll likely hear these classics…
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who lived in a land of deep darkness—
on them light has shined
Available to us on the surface of these words is a simple binary.
Light is good.
Dark is bad.
We long to move from dark into light.
Dark is to be understood as an ever-present threat to light.
We have been challenged to be more creative in our public worship and private reflection.
Of course, our sacred words are not alone in reinforcing this binary, but given our tradition’s lamentable role in perpetuating white supremacy should we not also see what tools our faith offers to create more spaces in which ongoing harm is lessened? In which the beauty and wisdom of people of colour are affirmed? And in which white people are invited to recognize our own unconsciously held frameworks and work to detangle ourselves?
When serving in a congregation, this challenge invited me to consider the words of the prayers I wrote and spoke, and it transformed my personal reflection, as well. This has been far from a stale legalistic practice (oh gosh, one more thing we’re not allowed to say) but in fact has been personally transformative, comforting, and enriching.
Could darkness be framed as comfort and refuge, a mystery to explore, full of insight? What gifts could be possible if we do allow darkness, actual darkness, not a metaphor for evil, overcome us? What insights might we glean, what healing might we experience if we learn to walk into the shadows and become people who are made new through dwelling in literal darkness?
The challenge has been for me, not about stressing about what I say or don’t say but an intriguing and exciting invitation to explore new language.
Given that we in the Northern Hemisphere practice Advent at a time of intensifying physical darkness, I suggest that we have the chance to really embrace this possibility within our physical world in such a way that it can open our imagination to engaging the words of these texts differently.
Over the past several years, especially at this time of year, I have sought refuge in the dark of the early morning. I have longed for insight while in the quiet and gentleness of these times.
At these times letting go feels so welcome.
Here is some of what I am learning.
In the dark, the intense volume of the daytime is lessened and I can better hear my own self.
In the dark, dreams of what could be possible arise.
In the dark, my exhaustion seeps away.
In the dark, I feel held.
In the dark, it feels like slow work is happening within me that offers promise of change.
My experience of faith as a 20-something, deeply embedded in charismatic evangelicalism was defined by images of “being on fire” or “shining bright and brilliant,” and honestly, as I look back I see burnout and a light that feels more glaring and painful to look straight into.
Now 40-something me longs for something slower, more gentle, something that sustains throughout the long haul rather than a sudden flash.
So, during these Advent mornings, I get up early to spend more time in the predawn dark.
I flick on a lamp because its soft yellow light feels more like a compliment to the dark than a competitor.
I light a candle (or three) as an act of opening up to the work of the nurturing dark in my life.
These mornings have become a time to collect the gifts of the night,
of sleep,
of dream,
of rest.
To become aware of a presence in my life that works where I am unaware.
As old readings of the story of this season continue to unravel, the dark is there to hold things that need not fit together seamlessly, need not offer the whole story or have the last word.
As the literal darkness becomes deeper and more abundant, I am learning that so too do her gifts.
The darkness offers gifts of deep rich renewal
and the glaring light of day will not overcome her.
Thank you for reading the New Leaf Advent Reader, a collection of reflections from writers across Canada. If you are enjoying the reader, sign up to receive the readings in your inbox each day here: SIGN UP
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