Advent has always been my favorite holiday season, and when I think of it, two memories float to the surface. One is dark and cold and the other warm and light. Because Advent is nothing if not dialectical…

When I was little, my elementary school celebrated the first of Advent on a Friday morning. This was back in the mid-80s when the Lutheran Church was still the state church of Sweden, and secular Christian traditions were a part of the school year’s celebrations. At any rate, early on Friday morning all the students and teachers at Skinteboskolan Elementary would gather outside and walk from our school to a nearby church through a park. What I remember was that it was pitch dark. Through the tall evergreens, we could see the stars in the December sky. The park was covered in snow, which lit up the darkness somewhat. So did the torches that some of the teachers and parents were carrying, lighting the way. We were bundled to a point of unrecognition—Randy from A Christmas Story comes to mind… And then we plodded along for a half hour or so, giggling and shoving and sliding around, eventually making it to the church where we sang the songs we had rehearsed and lit the first of the four candles. There was a little verse that went with the candle-lighting, and I can sort of recall it. But the honor of lighting the single candle while reciting the verse did not fall to me in my entire tenure at the school. I’m not saying it’s a sore subject, but still…

It is impossible to conceive of telling this story for our Advent Begins in the Dark series without imagining Jason’s snide commentary. No doubt he will have some quips about a torch-lit march and forced Lutheranism. And maybe a dose of skepticism is warranted. I realize that memory tends to sanctify itself, to make itself shimmerier. And I am absolutely certain that living in a place of such deep darkness during the season of Advent shapes your experience of its symbolism.

What remains meaningful to me as I call up the internal image of the dark and snowy park and the walk to celebrate Advent in a warm church, is that hope is always coming. It matters how we gather with our communities and refuse despair. For a few minutes, the squeaky snowboots and wet mittens are not all that we are. The space inside the sanctuary is reserved for rituals that promise even little children – You are not alone. The kid in the pew next to you isn’t just your classmate but Your Person. The language in here is different from the language out there. It’s old and poetic. The songs we sing transport the thoughts of our hearts, reminding us that the Night Divine is so very close. And, if you want the more eschatological tint, that Christ’s holy and redeeming return is imminent. Elbowing each other and squirming the way children do is perfectly alright. The joy that warms them is something to be admired.

I cried when I wrote this. I hope it isn’t too sentimental for you. If so, that’s ok. I wish you the light of a single candle now and in the four weeks to come.