making friends with the darkness

Have you ever been somewhere really, really dark?
I don’t mean emotionally — 
I mean real pitch-black darkness,
No artificial light, 
Perhaps not even moonlight,
But that real, inky-black darkness
That you only really get at the edges of things,
Far from towns or cities or even villages.
Proper darkness.

The last time I was in proper, deep darkness,
I wasn’t in the countryside somewhere wild and remote —
I was at a theme park, on a dark ride.
If you like theme parks, you can probably imagine the kind of thing:
Dark rides aren’t rollercoasters,
They’re quite gentle rides that rely on pitch darkness
To transport you into another world.
Perhaps a fairytale forest, or a magical kingdom, or into space.
They work, because apart from whatever you’re supposed to be paying attention to,
The castle, or the forest, or whatever scene you’re plunged into,
The rest of your surroundings are completely dark.
I love these rides,
As for a moment, the darkness detaches you from the outside world,
Fully immersing you in something completely different.

This week is the first week of Advent, in the Christian calendar,
A season marked by darkness.
Often, in Christianity, darkness is a metaphor for negative things:
For ignorance, or evil, or suffering.
But in Advent, I feel like darkness takes on a different meaning.
We welcome the darkness, not as foe, but as friend.
Next week, we will gather in this chapel in darkness for our carol service,
Choosing the small, gentle light of candles over fluorescent bulbs,
Not just because we want to save energy,
But because the darkness transports us, immerses, just for a moment,
To somewhere completely different.
It focusses our attention on the things that matter.
On community; on hope; on love; on joy;
On those gifts that God gives us
As small, gentle, but powerful pinpricks of light
In a world so often overshadowed by loneliness; despair; hatred; fear.
Without the darkness, the light would lose its meaning.
Without the darkness, we wouldn’t be able to see those things which really matter.

Psalm 139 talks about the presence of God in everything:
God in the heights and the depths,
God in the known and the unknown,
God in the brightest of light and the inkiest, blackest, deepest darkness.
To me, in this Psalm, it is the presence of God 
in and through the darkness that is most striking.
God is at home with the darkness: with the depths: with the unformed things.
Darkness and light to God are both alike.

Perhaps, then, we might spend this Advent — 
This time of waiting for the brightness and the brilliance of Christmas —
Making friends with the darkness, and with the God who dwells there.
To let those things which are deep, or unformed, or not-yet-ready to emerge
Lie low.
To let them wait.
To not be in a rush for the clarity of the light.
To find that God dwells in the darkness with us,
And loves us enough to be patient with us,
As we wait to see what might be born in the dark.

God of the holy dark, this Advent, 
as the days grow shorter and the dark of night stretches, 
may we remember that Christ was formed in the holy darkness of a womb—
that our origin is not the garden but the dark. 
May this be a season of deeper encounter with the night. 
May the darkness guide us into deep rest, resisting exhaustion and overexposure. 
May it be a darkness that opens us to the unknown, 
that we would make peace with uncertainty and marvel at mystery. 
And may it be a darkness that forms us into people 
capable of holding the lament of others, 
that we would never be too quick to turn on the light 
while someone else is grieving. 
Hold us in the dark womb of Advent.
Let us remember what glory grows in the dark. 
Amen.

Prayer by Cole Arthur Riley, from ‘Black Liturgies’