The Shortest Day - First Parish in Brookline

The Shortest Day

December 22, 2013 Sarah J. Napoline First Parish in Brookline

Yesterday and today we celebrate the Shortest Day of the year, the time when the sun is farthest away from us. For an observer in the northern hemisphere, the December solstice marks the day of the year with the least hours of daylight. The northern winter solstice occurs when the "top" half of Earth is tilted away from the sun at its most extreme angle of the year.

Most cultures had winter solstice celebrations and some adapted it to other events. In Persia, what is now the country of Iran, the solstice marked the birthday of Mithra, the Sun King. In ancient times, late December was the lavish Roman festival of Saturnalia, a sort of bacchanalian thanksgiving. In Poland the ancient December solstice observance involved people showing forgiveness and sharing food. In the northwestern corner of Pakistan, a festival called Chaomos, takes place among the Kalash Kafir people. It lasts for at least seven days, including the day of the December solstice. It involves ritual baths as part of a purification process, as well as singing and chanting, a torchlight procession, dancing, bonfires and festive eating. Our ancestors were not the first or the only ones to honor and celebrate this shortest day.

During the winter solstice the sun hugs closer to the horizon than at any other time during the year, yielding the least amount of daylight annually. After today, the days begin to grow longer and the nights shorter, and it marks the beginning of lengthening days leading up to the summer solstice.

When the ancients saw the sun stop and slowly climb to a higher midday location, people rejoiced; it became a promise that spring would return.

*** Are you afraid of the dark?

Are you nervous if you can't see a foot in front of your face, if the darkness surrounds you? Do you hear the quiet rustlings of under-the-bed monsters, behind-the-busstop wrongdoers, or just-down-that-alley unknown nightmares?

I do.

As a young woman living in the city, there have been moments when my imagination has gotten the better of me, and the darkness holds nothing but terror. Sometimes, in the darkness, I hold the straps of my backpack or purse a little tighter, or I stride a little more confidently, trying to prove that I'm braver than I feel.

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If I'm honest, it's not the dark that scares me; it's what the dark hides. The darkness hides strangers and unknown intentions. The darkness hides despair and desperation. The darkness hides depression and the dark night of the soul.

Earlier this month we had a Blue Christmas service to honor the dark time of year and sit with feelings of depression and unhappiness. This season of tradition and ritual seems to bring out deep emotions in people; if we are happy, we become joyous; if we are lonely, we feel isolated; if we are sad, we feel miserable.

This amplification of emotions can go both ways. I am happy to be celebrating this season with my family, during my third year of seminary and the second year of this wonderful internship. On the other hand, I have lost many people this year, and two dear friends in particular who I continue to grieve. Our emotions come cresting like a wave, ebbing and flowing, sometimes consuming us entirely. The darkness comes and goes, minute by minute, and hour by hour.

*** This weekend we are honoring the longest night, and the shortest day. The poem from our opening words said that people came singing, dancing... to drive the dark away.

The darkness holds things we are scared of. But it can also hold such great potential.

Listen, now, to the words of Robert Frost.

Whose woods these are I think I know. His house is in the village though; He will not see me stopping here To watch his woods fill up with snow.

My little horse must think it queer To stop without a farmhouse near Between the woods and frozen lake The darkest evening of the year.

He gives his harness bells a shake To ask if there is some mistake. The only other sound's the sweep Of easy wind and downy flake.

The woods are lovely, dark, and deep. But I have promises to keep, And miles to go before I sleep, And miles to go before I sleep.

This incredibly well-known poem, Stopping By Woods on a Snowy Evening, was written by Frost after staying up all night writing another poem. He said he went out to see the sunrise and

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this came to him in a flash, and he wrote it down, as if from a stupor. I can see him, standing at the window with a mug of tea, the snow outside coating the world with white, the early morning sunshine glinting and glaring off the ice crystals.

In a world filled with the fresh sunshine of a newly risen sun, Frost is transported back into the darkness of the winter solstice. The wandering person in the poem pauses for no other reason but to watch the snow. There is no real purpose behind it, but he just takes a moment to be at peace in the darkness of the woods. There is nothing haunting him there, nothing hiding in the darkness that he doesn't already know about. He says that the woods are lovely, dark, and deep... as if he'd like to linger in that darkness. But, he says, he has promises to keep, and miles to go before he sleeps... and miles to go before I sleep.

Is that what we fear in the darkness? The sleep that never ends, the silence and darkness of death?

We have miles to go before we sleep, before we can rest, even for tonight, let alone for eternity. We have so much to do, and so little time to do it in, and we fill our days with the chaos of life. And yet, we are still haunted by the spectre of the truth: the knowledge that that one day, we, too, will find our way to never-ending darkness.

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But I have good news for all of us. The darkness is not eternal. The solstice is the time of year when we celebrate the darkness, but we also rejoice in the return of the sun.

This weekend we are celebrating and supporting our vibrant, energetic, loving church community. The words of the opening poem echo in these halls after a night of revelry and joy: "They carol, feast, give thanks, and dearly love their friends, and hope for peace."

This morning we celebrated the dedication of a baby girl; a new life amongst us. The children affirmed and welcomed her into their midst, and this congregation promised to support her and her family as she begins to explore the world. She represents our hope for the future, and our joy as a religious movement. We are a hopeful, joyous people.

Whatever terrors hide in the darkness, there is no need to be afraid. I will remind myself over and over and over again, whenever the darkness comes crowding in. Even with the shadow of death or the dark night of the soul, the light shines around the edges and crawls in sideways. We are afraid of the stranger, the nightmares, the chaos that slips out of our control.

We are, most of all, afraid of the unknown. We stare into the abyss of darkness, whispering to ourselves. What if? What if it hurts? What if I am afraid? What if it is not everything I had expected? What if I am mocked? What if I am hated? What if I am adored? What if it changes my life? What if the sun doesn't return? What if the darkness stays forever?

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What if? What if? What if? We are afraid of the darkness because of what it hides, and that unknown tortures us. The solstice reminds us that the light returns. The shortest day came, and the year died. But we danced and sang. We lighted candles in the winter trees; We hung our homes with evergreen; We burned beseeching fires all night long, to keep the year alive. With the rebirth of the sun and the new year, we invite our own rebirth. As promise wakens in the sleeping land, so does the promise within each of our hearts. As hope returns for green leaves still wrapped tightly around a bulb, so shall it return for our dreams and desires. If we see the darkness as holding opportunity instead of trepidation, the unknown gets a little less scary. The words from Patrick Overton remind us that, "When we walk to the edge of all light we have And take a step into the unknown, We must believe that one of two things will happen There will be something solid for us to stand on, OR we will be taught to fly."

*** Dear ones, Be strong. If you are afraid of the dark, wait and watch the sun go down just a little later tonight. Stop a moment to watch the woods fill up with snow, to see your breath in the cold, and be grateful for the peaceful quiet. The shortest day came, the year died--and now the new year's sunshine will blaze the world awake. Remember that the darkness is not quite as scary as our imagination claims it will be... And within that darkness, the unknown becomes the space of miracles and wonder and new beginnings. Take that step into the unknown, and remember: we will be taught to fly.

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***** Referenced Material Reading: the Shortest Day by Susan Cooper And so the Shortest Day came and the year died And everywhere down the centuries of the snow-white world Came people singing, dancing, To drive the dark away. They lighted candles in the winter trees; They hung their homes with evergreen; They burned beseeching fires all night long To keep the year alive. And when the new year's sunshine blazed awake They shouted, revelling. Through all the frosty ages you can hear them Echoing behind us - listen! All the long echoes, sing the same delight, This Shortest Day, As promise wakens in the sleeping land: They carol, feast, give thanks, And dearly love their friends, And hope for peace. And now so do we, here, now, This year and every year. Welcome Yule!

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