Talk for Unitarian Congregation of Guelph December 12, 2010

Our days are getting shorter and shorter as we move towards the winter solstice. The sun comes to us later in the morning, and leaves us earlier in the afternoon. Many of us leave home in the dark and return home in the dark. It’s the time of the year that we feel enveloped in the darkness of night. We complain about the seemingly constant night, and we long for the return of the light.

Last year when I spoke to you on this topic, "Waiting in the dark ... for the light," I was all about getting through the darkness in order to reach the light. Beginning with our discussion after that presentation, I’ve been mellowing. I’ve been thinking about the beauty and the value and the gift of the dark. About the necessity to sometimes dwell in darkness, to accept it as a vital part of life.

As Joyce Rupp wrote:

Something in my human psyche/ keeps wanting to light up the darkness,/ to stay away from the silent shadows/ and steer clear from thick, black nights.

Perhaps I have not spent enough time/ holding hands with long winter evenings./ Not all darkness demands a shining candle/ held before its coal black eyes.

A few years ago my family and I moved from the south end of Guelph to a home on a gravel road out in Erin Township. In Guelph there was a streetlight in front of our house. On our new gravel road there are no streetlights! So it’s very dark at our place and, while it makes driving challenging, we treasure it. We treasure the experience of being in the dark, of resting without the intrusion of light into the night. And who knew that moonlight really can light up the night and make moon shadows on the snow? I didn’t until I moved to the country and truly experienced the dark.

We may experience the dark as an absence of physical light, as I do at night on the First Line of Erin. And we may experience many other kinds of darkness in our lives: emotional, intellectual, relational, spiritual, bodily... This morning I invite you to come with me into places of darkness.

It would have been good if we could have held today’s service in the dark—either before sunup or after sunset—but changing the service time didn’t seem too practical. So we’ll have to improvise. We can create a feeling of darkness by closing our eyes. Or you might want to borrow one of the scarves in the middle of the room and make yourself a blindfold. (As always, if this activity is uncomfortable for you, opt out. Do what’s right for you.)

Now take yourself into the dark. Just be in that dark place....pay attention to your breath... breathing in... breathing out... Now I’d like you to think about where you find darkness in your own life... physical darkness or any other kind of darkness... continuing to breath in... and breathe out... And now come back to the light and to the rest of us here.

What are some of the darknesses we experience in our lives? [Pause for audience input.]

There is a story about St. Francis of Assisi and his experience in the darkness of a cave. Francis used to go to a little cave in a hill near his home. Resting there, he tried to think through his problems and find a direction for his future. He went to the cave every day until it became a kind of home for him, the only place in which he felt comfortable.

Speaking into the dark cave’s ear, Francis experienced the joy of release. The protective shield of darkness made it easier to whisper hushed secrets into the emptiness, or to scream his pain at the cold damp walls. It was in the cave that Francis met God, and met his own self for the first time. Until then his voices and dreams always seemed to come from without, from a great distance. But during the agonizing hours in the cave, he began to hear a voice inside himself, a deeper, clearer voice that was like discovering a part of himself he didn’t know was there. The more he prayed and turned to God for inspiration, the deeper he moved toward some inner force that gave him strength and peace.

At first, Francis’ inner search was a painful and terrifying look at himself, at his weakness and sinfulness; and the journey was a downward dive that made him feel like he was drowning in a vast, bottomless lake. But as he persevered, he came at last to something like a great, silent waterproof cavern in which the sound of his own voice seemed mellow and deep; and there, at that depth within, God spoke softly to him and made his heart burn with love, for himself and for others—both humans and animals.

For a whole year Francis went to the cave and plumbed his own depths trying to hold onto that inner cave-peace when he was in the world of light. In the end, he sensed that the search for the dark place would be his daily journey for the rest of his life; that if he was to be at peace, he would have to delve deeply into himself every day.

We learn much about ourselves in our darkness, in our depths. As most of you know I am a person who lives with depression. (With my new attitude and mellowness I’m deliberately avoiding the expression "suffers from depression.") I live with depression and sometimes that depression takes me into a place of darkness. Now, when I find myself in that place, I try to ask myself, "What is this place of darkness like," and "What can I learn or experience here?" Some days are better than others, but I am learning not to try to flee from that darkness, desperately searching for light. In those dark times I have learned more about who I am. I have learned that I am accepted for who I am, not for what I do. I have found a pace of life that works for me – a pace that is much, much slower than before I hit the wall. I have learned to be grateful for the little things that happen each day, and not to hunger for big, important things that might happen to me someday, if only I work hard enough.

Karl Jung, the great Swiss psychiatrist, encouraged us to learn from the dark. He was a strongadvocate of paying attention to and interpreting our dreams. When do we dream? In the dark. He also introduced us to the concept of the shadow. Our shadow side is made up of parts of ourselves that are present in our psyche; parts of ourselves that we either aren’t aware of or refuse to acknowledge. Those hidden parts of us, those characteristics or memories or personality traits, are powerful determinants of what we do and how we do it. But because they are hidden, even to us, we are sometimes not aware of why we do the things we do. Jung said, "It is not by looking into the light that we become luminous, but by plunging into the darkness. However, this is often unpleasant work, and therefore is not very popular."

Jim Cotter offers a prayer which helps with this kind of soul work.

We can learn so much from being in darkness. I am thinking of the Greek myth about Demeter and Persephone. Demeter and her beloved daughter Persephone were out in the fields and woods one day, enjoying the sunshine and the breeze and the plants and flowers. Suddenly, out of the ground, came the fearful chariot of the God of the Underworld, Haides. He kidnapped Persephone and took her back to the dark place under the earth to become his wife. Demeter was consumed by grief and wandered the earth, searching for Persephone. Now Demeter was the Goddess of Grain and of all plants that were used for food by humans. Because of her inconsolable grief, all those plants died and there was nothing to eat. There was no bread for the people or for the Gods. After a few months of this, the King of the Gods, Zeus, commanded Haides to return Persephone to her mother. But before she returned, Persephone ate a seed of the pomegranate, the food of the underword. Eating that seed guaranteed her return to the underworld for part of each year.

In this story we hear about Demeter’s terrible grief and its consequences for the world. We don’t usually hear about Persephone’s experiences in the dark and what she learned there. It was a catalytic time for her, a time of deep internal change and maturing. She lived independent of her mother. She learned to be in relationship with another. Perhaps she met and got to know some of the souls of the dead. She returned a woman, rather than a girl. And what about Demeter during that dark time in her life? She found a power she didn’t know she had. Power to keep the green from growing. Power to force Zeus and Haides to do something about injustice.

I invite you now to try a small experiment to see what you can learn in darkness. Pick up the object you selected on your way into the room today. Now return to your dark place, either by closing your eyes or putting on your blindfold. Be aware of your breathing... slowly... in... and out. Examine your object... How does it feel? How does it smell? How does it sound? How does it taste? What can you learn about your object in the dark? ... ... Now return to the light and to the rest of us.

What did you learn about your object in the dark that you didn’t know in the light? [Pause for audience input.]

This winter, more than any other time in my life, I am learning about the dark. Learning to be aware of dark, to explore it and to trust it. Learning to accept myself in the dark. Instead of being a cold and fearful place, the dark is beginning to make me think of the feel of black velvet, of smooth red wine, and of rich double fudge cake.

I am beginning to resonate with another of Joyce Rupp’s poems. It’s called Winter’s Cloak.

May you all be blessed by darkness this wintertide.