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He has delivered us from the dominion of darkness
and transferred us to the kingdom of his beloved Son.
Colossians 1:13

            During this season of the year the contrast between light and darkness--the candles shining brightly during our Christmas Eve service and the surrounding darkness of night—this contrast has power to connect us with that inner light “which lighteneth every man that cometh into the world” (John 1:9). 
            For this is the time of year when the sun is at its southernmost point in the sky, the time of the winter solstice, the shortest day of the year.  It is no accident that we celebrate Christmas at this time.  No one knows the day of Christ’s birth.  In the Armenian Church Christmas is observed on January 6. 
            The day of December 25 was probably chosen in opposition to the pagan feast of the unconquered sun (Natalis Solis Invicti).  In tandem with the sun’s rebirth, following the near-death experience of the winter solstice, we celebrate the birth of the “Sun of righteousness, risen with healing in his wings.” 
            It is Christ, the light of the world, into whose kingdom we have been transferred from the dominion of darkness and death.  Two days ago I attended the funeral of the Rev. Stephen Oliver, who, until the onset of his long illness, used to conduct services here at the Good Shepherd, when I was away. 
            Despite the sadness of the occasion, I sensed a note of joy, especially when Stephen’s widow, Valerie, conducted the choir in a concluding anthem.  I was reminded of what Carl Jung wrote about his state of soul following news of the death of his mother:

I had a feeling of great grief, but in my heart of hearts I could not be
mournful, and this for a strange reason: during the entire journey that
I was on I continually heard dance music, laughter, and jollity, as
though a wedding were being celebrated. In the light of eternity,
the soul attains its missing half, it achieves wholeness. When Simon
ben Jochai came to die, his friends said that he was celebrating his
wedding.

            This paradoxical union of darkness and light at the moment of death can also be experienced during life. St. Gregory of Nyssa, in his homily on the Song of Songs writes as follows:

The soul is encompassed by a divine night, during which her spouse approaches, but does not reveal himself. But how can that which is invisible reveal itself in the night? By the fact the he gives the soul some sense of his presence even while he eludes her clear apprehension, concealed as he is by the invisibility of his nature.

            When my own father passed away suddenly in 1953, a card was found in his pocket with the prayer of St. Richard of Chichester:

                        Dear Lord, of Thee three things I pray:
                        to see Thee more clearly,
                        to love Thee more dearly,
                        to follow Thee more nearly,
                       day by day.                               

December 30, 2007

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