It’s dark here in Norway. The last time the sun rose above the mountains in Tromsø was on November 27, and it won’t return until January 15. This is what Norwegians call the “mørketid”- the dark time, or more poetically, “blåtid,” the blue time. And Norwegians have many, many suggestions as to how one makes it through the darkness, ranging from enjoyable to less so: skiing, time outside in the dusky blue of midday, gatherings with friends, cosy time inside with sweet foods, and (definitely not a sweet food and much less enjoyable) fish oil.
To a newcomer to Norwegian winter, there’s another key element to making it through the darkness, though, and that seems to be lys, or candles. Candles are everywhere right now, in stores, offices, windows, and churches. Many of these are advertised as adventlys, or Advent lights, although the term seems to be disconnected from the liturgical practice of Advent (candle holders marketed as advent lights hold between 3-9 candles). And it does seem to work– the candles flickering everywhere do indeed make the mørketid feel less dark.
Candles in the darkness, as a way to mark the waiting of Advent and the celebration of Christmastide, are certainly not a tradition unique to Norway. Most of us perhaps grew up with candles in an Advent wreath as central to our holiday celebrations, or with Christmas Eve candlelight services as one of our favorite holiday memories. (Part of Miller family lore is the Christmas Eve candlelight service where my beloved grandmother almost set several programs on fire!). In these candlelight services, we’re taking part in a tradition that marks almost the entirety of the church’s observation of the coming of Christ. Movingly, one of the earliest descriptions of a celebration of Christ’s birth likewise highlights candles, a description of a service in Jerusalem in the 380s. It was written by a woman named Egeria, in a letter back to a community of women in Spain:
Blessed is he that comes in the Name of the Lord, and the rest which follows. And since, for the sake of the monks who go on foot, it is necessary to walk slowly, the arrival in Jerusalem thus takes place at the hour when one man begins to be able to recognize another, that is, close upon but a little before daybreak. And on arriving there, the bishop and all with him immediately enter the Anastasis (the tomb where the resurrection took place), where an exceedingly great number of lights are already burning. There a psalm is said, prayer is made, first the catechumens and then the faithful are blessed by the bishop. . . . The monks remain there until daybreak and recite hymns (Feltoe, Charles Lett, and M. L. McClure. The Pilgrimage of Etheria (London: Society for promoting Christian knowledge, 1919), pp. 52-53)
Some parts of Egeria’s account feel strange and less comfortable to us. We usually don’t walk to our Christmas Eve services, most definitely not through the night. And like most believers in the early church, Egeria celebrated the birth of Christ not on December 25 but on Epiphany, which is January 6. But we can also learn from the differences that separate our traditions. Egeria’s account, for instance, points us directly to the theological beauty of God’s assumption of flesh, connecting the incarnation and the resurrection.
We all need candles like Egeria in the darkness of our lives, pointing us towards hope, towards the Light that will come, and towards Christ. For both Adam and me, those candles have often come through the writing of believers from the past, especially those from the early and medieval church. Writings from figures like Ephrem the Syriac, Dhuoda, Egeria, and Paula have given us reminders of just how big our God is– bigger than the cultural fixations of any one time or place, bigger than the suffering or pain we might face. And their writings have also reminded us that God is not distant, but present: they have pointed us towards the beautiful reality of the Incarnation, where God, all-powerful and all-sovereign, came in tiny frail human form down to the darkness of earth. The bright spark of Emmanuel, God with us, reminds us that someday, the darkness will disappear into brilliant light.
The writings of these past figures ultimately have been reminders of the frailty and power of hope and faith that point us to Christ. We’re excited to be able to share these candles, these voices, with you in our forthcoming devotional with IVP, Candles in the Darkness: Experiencing Advent with the Early and Medieval Church. We open the book with Egeria, walking from darkness into light: we hope you’ll walk along with us next Advent season. And until then, we hope you’ll find some candles of your own this season, people from the global church (past or present) to remind you that while things might feel dark, the Light is coming.
If you want to pre-order a copy of Candles in the Darkness, it’s available to order here, or wherever you buy your books: https://www.amazon.com/Candles-Darkness-Experiencing-Advent-Medieval/dp/151401422X/
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