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Last summer, my family drove down to Mt St Helens to hike the Ape Caves. The Ape Caves include one of the longest lava tubes in North America clocking in at 2.5 miles long. To hike through this cave, you have to bring several sources of light as well as layers to keep warm. Even though we were there in summer when it was quite warm outside, the cave is a steady 42 degrees, damp, and drippy.
We descended a metal staircase to get into the cave and from there it was rugged, dirt floor, and massive boulders. As the light from the mouth of the cave began to fade, we encountered obstacles as we moved from one room in the cave to the next. The boulders are large piles of rock and hiking through it means scrambling over boulders, sometimes on your hands and knees, and all in total darkness.
It was not crowded when we were there and our family of four moved through the cave deliberately and slowly. At first, we had our headlamps turned up to full brightness, nervous about twisting an ankle or stumbling on the rocks. But gradually, as we settled into the deep dark and stillness, and our eyes adjusted, we turned our headlamps to the dim setting.
We traveled in a line. I led the way, the kids in the middle, and Joel bringing up the rear (and making sure we didn’t lose anyone). It was exhilarating and a little scary. We aren’t used to moving about in total darkness and certainly not this kind of climbing.
At one point, we stopped and all turned out our headlamps. It was complete darkness and quiet. After maybe 15 seconds, someone started to talk. “Shhhh…..” Joel said. Let yourself experience the silence and the dark.
We continued our hike, senses heightened and enjoying the particular mix of thrill, awe, and fear that spelunking brings.
On these long nights, I’ve been thinking about the experience of being in a cave. As my family traveled through the cave, we started out feeling a little nervous or afraid. We kept our headlamps on bright in an effort to control the darkness. But eventually, we shifted from fear to faith, from control to trust.
Today is the winter solstice. It is a hinge point, the day when our northern hemisphere tips as far from the sun as it ever will. The dawn breaks late and dusk comes early. This is the longest night of the year.
For some, the season of the long dark brings sadness, lethargy, or even despair. We try and control the darkness with lights everywhere, on our homes, on our Christmas trees, with extra candlelight, or screens burning brightly. We might even feel fear as we continually remind ourselves to have faith, spring will come!
What if we were to stop fighting the darkness and embrace it? We know God builds hope into the fabric of creation. The planet knows how to wait. The creatures know what to do. Bears and groundhogs, bats and frogs, turtles and ladybugs, they all hibernate, turning inward and powering down through the long winter nights. Creation knows how to turn slowly toward light again and so do we.
In this sermon, I am talking about both literal darkness and spiritual darkness. We resist both experiences and I am inviting you to embrace them instead. We struggle with spiritual darkness just as much, if not more, than we do literal darkness. Have you ever had a time when you couldn’t pray or you felt abandoned by God?
Moving through spiritual darkness requires changing your perception. You are forced to trust God as that is the only way through it. And that’s how Advent faith works too. This season of longing for Jesus requires changing our perception and trusting God that hope is still alive, Christmas will indeed come again. In the darkness of winter, we practice these transitions from fear into faith, from control to trust.
The prophet Isaiah’s people knew long nights. Joseph, Mary, the shepherds, all of the people we hear about this week in the Christmas story, they knew long nights. And so do we.
In the story from Isaiah, King Ahaz stands on Jerusalem’s wall, terrified. His enemies are closing in. God offers him a sign, but fear keeps him from asking for it. He clings to control instead of faith.
Matthew’s gospel tells us about Joseph lying awake himself during a long night. He is heartbroken by Mary’s pregnancy, worried about what it might mean for her, for his own image, and possibly for the child. He plans to walk away quietly.
In both of these stories, in Isaiah and in Matthew, there is fear. Ahaz fears invasion and Joseph fears humiliation. Both are afraid to trust what they cannot see. I imagine we’ve all had those nights too, nights of uncertainty about our families, our planet, our future. Sometimes we refuse to ask for a sign because we’ve stopped expecting one.
On our caving expedition, about half a mile from the exit was an 8-foot lava fall, a steep climb requiring teamwork and the use of a rope. But once we got to the top, we saw a piercing glow of daylight up ahead. Since our eyes had adjusted to the darkness, this tiny arc of light was vivid and completely captured our attention. But it wasn’t the exit.
It was a skylight, a natural opening in the top of the cave offering a way in and out for the bats and other creatures who make their home there. Just as we were starting to wonder if we would ever make it out of the endless dark, the skylight gave us a jolt of hope and renewed energy. Rejuvenated by the glimpse of the warm sun, we finished up the hike and climbed out into the light.
That’s what Joseph’s dream feels like, a glimmer of divine light inside a sleepless night or long, dark cave. Joseph doesn’t necessarily gain clarity; he gains courage.
When Isaiah speaks of a child named Immanuel, he isn’t promising that God will erase the dark, he’s promising that God will enter it.
Think of all the ways in which we encounter God in the dark:
in the womb
In the bulbs buried beneath the ground waiting to bloom
In the night sky
In the quiet hush of a winter evening
God is with us in the turning of the earth, in the lengthening of days. God is with us in Mary’s womb. God is with us in Joseph’s dream and in his quiet obedience to the angel. God is with us in our sleepless hearts and weary hope.
Immanuel, God with us, doesn’t mean no darkness. It means we are never alone. God doesn’t switch on the light, rather God sits beside us in the dark, waiting for our eyes to adjust enough to see.
Scripture is brimming with examples of God’s presence in the dark. In Genesis, God tells Abram to look at the night sky and promises him descendants as numerous as the stars. The boy Samuel hears God calling him by name before dawn as he sleeps in the temple. He replies, “Here I am, Lord.” And in Psalm 63, the psalmist prays,
My soul is satisfied and my mouth praises you
when I think of you on my bed and meditate on you in the night watches.
God does not abandon us in literal darkness. And God does not abandon us in our spiritual darkness.
If you attended Advent Lessons & Carols last Sunday, (which was exquisite!) you experienced this dance from darkness, to warm candlelight, to the gradual brightness. While the world rushes towards brightness and noise, the Church keeps vigil. We hold still in the dark and trust the slow turning.
As you sit with God in the dark, let your eyes adjust. Turn down the brightness of your headlamp or screen and sit with God, resting in holy darkness. For you know the light is coming.
Give your fear over to faith. Surrender control to trust. Be the one who holds hope for others when they cannot do it themselves. We are the people who practice turning, again and again, toward the light that is already on its way.
Advent doesn’t end when light returns. It ends when we realize the light was never gone. It is carried in Mary’s womb, realized in Joseph’s dream, and glimmering in every act of courage.
Shhh….. Hold still. Can you see it? We’re at the skylight with a shaft of light breaking through. It is not the exit, rather the promise of one. This is what faith looks like: a glimpse of glory that carries us through the dark. The earth is turning. The light is rising. Immanuel — God with us — is here.