By Michael Patrick O’Brien–
The Advent and Christmas seasons, unfolding in the Northern Hemisphere during the coldest and darkest days of the year, herald the hoped-for arrival of light. The light is most welcome, but I think we should embrace the darkness of the season too.
The seasonal focus on light, of course, is scripture-based. The Gospel of Matthew (2:9) uses the image of guiding light in the nativity narrative, “The star they had seen when it rose went ahead of them until it stopped over the place where the child was.” Matthew (4:16) tells how “The people dwelling in darkness have seen a great light.” Matthew (5:14) also describes us as “the light of the world” and reminds us to show that light to others.
Popular culture reinforces the point. In the Star Wars movies, the bad guys are on the dark side of the force. In the Harry Potter books, bad magic is black or dark, and its main purveyor is the “Dark Lord.” In The Lord of the Rings trilogy, evil’s power is embedded within one ring: “One ring to rule them all, one ring to find them, One ring to bring them all, and in the darkness bind them.”
Don’t misunderstand me—I also love the light. I look forward to the many wonderful lights of the season. This includes flickering yellow candlelight in church, multi-colored lights on trees or homes, and crystal glasses of Baileys Irish Cream glimmering with reflected firelight.
But, for several reasons, I love the darkness too.
My dear mother was born on December 21…the winter solstice…the shortest day (and longest night) of the year. We used to joke that Mom did not have much time to get here. When she did arrive, it was a good, happy, and blessed day. And most of it was dark.
In Monastery Mornings (Paraclete Press 2021), my memoir about growing up at the old Trappist abbey near Huntsville in Northern Utah, I describe my boyhood search for heat while visiting the monks on a cold winter night. In the dark abbey church, I discovered both an air vent I had not noticed before and the joy of darkness.
The book describes what happened next: “I sat there, eagerly anticipating. All at once, almost miraculously, hot air began to flow out of the vent slats. I was warm, deliriously and deliciously warm. I sat there for several minutes, under the stairs, in the dark, staring at a solo candle burning on a nearby altar. My head grew heavy and my body light. My soul seemed to levitate, and I experienced what may have been a deep mystical feeling. Or perhaps I just dozed off for a few minutes. Either way, it was divine.”
On a recent trip to two other Cistercian monasteries, I remembered yet another reason I love the dark. Hundreds of times—as a boy and young man—I heard my friends, the Utah Trappist monks, sing the chant called “Compline” (based on the Latin word for “complete”) saying goodnight to God, Jesus and Mary before going to bed.
In the late autumn and winter, the monks chanted Compline in near total darkness. It was incredibly soothing and comforting then, allaying my fears of the night. I felt the same way when I heard the same chants again just a few weeks ago.
When my wife and I had school-aged kids, often the only peaceful part of the day was late at night, after everyone else went to bed. I’d sit up—alone in the quiet and mostly-dark house—reading and writing until the need for sleep overpowered me.
Even today, it seems like I turn more lights off than on. It makes sense. Our first human home—the womb—is dark. With no darkness, the stars become invisible. And without darkness, light has no meaning.
Darkness inspired Kentucky Trappist monk/writer Thomas Merton’s famous essay Fire Watch. For a short time, Merton worked as the monastery night watchman, checking the many wooden nooks and crannies of Gethsemani Abbey to ensure there were no fires there while the other monks slept. Merton called the darkness “a time of freedom,” musing how the “night has values that day has never dreamed of.”
It’s not just monks who value darkness. Helen Keller said, “Walking with a friend in the dark is better than walking alone in the light.” T.S. Eliot wrote, “The darkness declares the glory of light.” Van Gogh explained, “I often think that the night is more alive and more richly colored than the day.” I agree with all of them.
This Advent and Christmas, wait for the light, but remember the gift of the night too. Cherish the graces and blessings of darkness.
*Mike O’Brien (author website here: https://michaelpobrien.com/) is a writer and attorney living in Salt Lake City, Utah. His book Monastery Mornings (https://www.amazon.com/Monastery-Mornings-Unusual-Boyhood-Saints/dp/1640606491), about growing up with the monks at the old Trappist monastery in Huntsville, Utah, was published by Paraclete Press in August 2021 and chosen by the League of Utah Writers as the best non-fiction book of 2022.
Love these right-on reflections. Jung, I think it was said that the brighter the light the deeper the shadow. We need both light and darkness. Most normal folks sleep in the dark. As children, one of our first conscious fears is darkness. Most people like a nightlight of some kind as a source of comfort. All periods of history have their dark side. Many claim such a period of darkness is the one in which we live. But as the author points out we need both light and darkness. And how often after a long string of sunny days we long for a storm. Such is our complex human consciousness. A few days ago somebody put up a small Christmas tree in the hallway outside my apartment. Its bright twinkling white lights invite pause and a second look. Darkness, yes of course, but let there be light as well.