The Longest Night
2020 has been more than an eventful year, but tonight a group gathered to share in a Zoom longest night service for reflections, prayers, and holy conversation. So much of what we have done this year has been altered, but it’s nice to know community can still be formed, and prayers can still be said, that help us make meaning of this crazy year and busy season. Below is the reflection offered during the service:
“Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our lives rest in you.”
These lines come from a service I would lead on the beach called Sunset Church. It was an experiment, much like what we are doing this evening. A small group of us would gather on the beach about 45 minutes before sunset, share in prayers and communion, and then share in conversation as the day came to a close, as light turned to hues of orange, and pink, and magenta, and deep purple and blue and then dark. The way 2020 turned out, we only got to do that service once this year. But, it’s those evenings on the beach, between the moment when it’s still day and when it becomes night, that sometimes seemed to last an eternity and be over with in a second all at the same time. That moment is a liminal space for me where I am reminded of the complexities of where light and dark meet, where joy and grief, heartbreak and hope, fear and courage, intersect with one another.
Darkness is scary. I was afraid of the dark as a kid, and to be honest, I’m still a little afraid of the dark, especially in unfamiliar places. I’m not sure if it’s comforting or not, but there’s only a few places in the world where we can achieve total darkness—caves being one of them. There’s an underground sea up just north of Chattanooga, and when they take you on the tour they actual turn all the lights out to let you experience the total darkness—it’s what friends of mine would call pitch black dark—can’t see your hand in front of your face kind of dark.
I think one reason darkness can be scary is because it is also disorienting. We people, in general, like to have some element of control in our lives—darkness—whether the physical darkness or metaphorical darkness can disorient us, leaving us confused, lost, feeling abandoned, isolated, and filled with fear. Sometimes it can be the loss of a loved one or an opportunity, a trauma, a heartbreak, instability in various parts of our lives, that accompany us in darkness.
“Look and see if there is any sorrow like my sorrow, For these things I weep; my eyes flow with tears, for a comforter is far from me, one to revive my courage.”
For me, those lines from Lamentations capture the depth of what darkness can feel like, and I also hold them with the lines from Sunset Church—”Let our fears of the darkness of the world and of our lives rest in you.”
Typically at this time of year, for all the joy and celebration that people partake in, it can also be challenging. This longest night, the Winter Solstice comes at a great time, that kind of reminds me of that liminal space between the day’s end and the night’s beginning. While we might feel stuck in the dark right now, tomorrow the nights will begin to become increasingly shorter, bit by bit—kind of like the stars or the moon are reminders of the light that is to come. Darkness isn’t permanent. The darkness we might know in our lives, the darkness we might see in the world—none of it last forever.
When we celebrate God coming into the world on Christmas, might we look to that light to guide us—in the places of darkness, and in the places where darkness and light, grief and joy, heartbreak and hope, fear and courage come together.
The following comes from one of my favorite prayers for the close of the day, “Lord Jesus, stay with us, for evening is at hand and the day is past; be our companion in the way, kindle our hearts, and awaken hope, that we may know you as you are revealed in Scripture and the breaking of bread. Grant this for the sake of your love. Amen.”
