“Glory be to you, O God of the night,
for the whiteness of the moon
and the infinite stretches of dark space.
Let me be learning to love the night
as I know and love the day.
Let me be learning to trust its darkness
and to seek its subtle blessings.
Let me be learning the night’s way of seeing
that in all things I may trace the mystery
of your presence.”
~J. Philip Newell

The coldness of winter has, opened the door, walked in and taken up residence in Minnesota. This has made for incredibly clear nights, a vast expanse of dark blue sky which holds a brilliant moon longing for fullness. Last night as I drove home, the darkness having descended hours before, I felt the pull of that moon. Over the weekend, it will become a glistening, white orb shining its wholeness on us. If we are about the work of staying awake in these Advent days, we would do well to take notice. To stop what is driving us.To pay attention to what fullness might look like. To listen to our own longing for wholeness. Even in the midst of deep darkness.

I still held that image of last night’s sky when I read these words of John Philip Newell this morning. I thought of how the moon seemed so beautiful last night, not because of the light, but because of the dark sky which surrounded it. The contrast made both the night sky and the evolving moon more than either could be alone. It is something to be reminded of, I think, something to ponder not only in these days before the full moon but also in this season when we speak of ‘waiting for the light’. Or as we in the Christian household often say:”Waiting for the Light.”

As I read this prayer as a part of my morning practice, what captured my attention was the phrase ‘let me be learning’. Perhaps it does not sound so unusual with Newell’s Scottish accent. But I can say definitively that I may never have spoken the words ‘let me be learning.’ That doesn’t mean I shouldn’t have said it or that I certainly shouldn’t have done all it implies.

When I think of my experiences of Advent, there are so many times I would have been well served by saying aloud to myself or others such things as ‘let me be learning’ to listen more deeply and speak less often. Let me be learning to open myself to the movement of the Holy, not only in the lights and tinsel, but in the dirt and grime along the sidewalks. Let me be learning to let go of the need to create the perfect Christmas for my family or others. Let me be learning to notice the looks on the faces of children and breathe in their wonder and anticipation. Let me be learning to look for one small way the unfolding story of the Christ Child’s birth still holds hope for me. Let me be learning to take more moments to be restful and fewer to be in motion. Let me be learning how this season urges me to allow the presence of God to be born in my life, in my living.

All of these learnings hold the gifts of both darkness and light. They are illuminated and shadowed to create a fullness that, in the end, can only be experienced in the presence of these contrasts. I cannot work hard enough, plan adequately or force the wholeness by trying to shine more light or by hiding in the darkness. This is pure mystery.

Let me be learning to understand this.