By Andrea Lingle

"To learn again, you really have to listen." Robin Wall Kimmerer, Braiding Sweetgrass, p 53

“Perhaps, then, opacity might be an attendant term, one that hastens us to be humble in the pursuits of knowledge, to keep relation and reading open and to infuse our imaginaries with the unknown—not to domesticate or know, but to keep learning.”

— Christina León, "Curious Entanglements"

“And Peter answered, ‘The Christ of God.’” Luke 9:20b

Hush! The darkness beckons. Those of us living in the northern hemisphere hang in a moment of stillness. The night of the year is upon us. We enter this darkness with reverence and hope. Gentle evening, restore us. Quiet twilight, bring rest. Silent night, knit us back together. We pause, trembling on the edge of the celebration of the Christ’s birth. The question still reverberates through the night: Who do you say that I am? We hear the intake of breath. Peter’s answer is but a moment away. In just another heartbeat it we will know, but we hesitate, we moan into the inky velvet of the night, not quite yet. Let me rest a moment more. Let me wonder and wander through the starry expanse of unknowing. Let us hang onto what could be, for it is wakening something in us. 

Is it possible that here, in the chill of winter, newly arrived, that we can revel in possibility? 

Can you feel it? The energy of what could be filling your guts, way down deep. Like spicy food or jumping off the high dive. It builds in moments like these—the eves, the day-befores, the not yets. There is one who is coming whose mother has not yet murmured his brand new name into his ear. What does it mean? Don’t tell me. Let it build. Let the mystery build and boil and break through the frost. Let it rise like the oncoming night. Like an enigma. Like a parable. Don’t rush to the end, to clarity, to answering; enfold yourself in the opacity of the night. Let it push you to newness. 

Here in the stripped-downness of winter, the weeds have tucked themselves away; the trees stand bare, structure revealed; and the mornings are jeweled with frost. By mid afternoon, the light lies golden and striped with shadow, and we eat dinner after sunset. Perhaps tonight, once the dishes are put away and the table is wiped, sit down in the deep stillness of these long nights, and whisper into the night: thank you. Thank you for this respite from doing. Thank you for this relief from knowing. Thank you for the mystery of not-quite-yet.

In closing, I offer you a blessing from Luke Lingle:

“I hope you might find some space this week to enjoy the darkness, to look up at the stars, to turn off the phone a little earlier than normal, and, in that darkness, I hope you experience the restorative love of Christ who comes into both the dark and the light.”