Thoughts on St Lucy's Day
St Lucy was not on the Episcopal Church’s calendar when I was ordained fifteen years ago today, but I’ve adopted her retroactively. So I pulled out the red vestments for today’s noon Eucharist and preached about Lucy, about light (lux) shining in the darkness, about how we can be lights in what sometimes seems like an increasingly dark world.
It was at best a serviceable sermon — Duns Scotus got a killer sermon last month, but I was less inspired today — but I think the point about how the charm and beauty and comfort of lights in this season (lights on trees, lights on houses, “Silent night” sung by candlelight) depends on the fact that it’s dark. We notice the light, we respond to the light, when it breaks through the darkness.
Until the reform of the calendar toward the end of the sixteenth century, the winter solstice fell on December 13, so the feast of St Lucy marked the longest night, when the light had receded as far as it would go and would begin slowly to creep back in. Especially in Scandinavia, where the nights are very long indeed, it was an important celebration. The photo shows a St Lucy’s Day celebration in a Church of Sweden congregation; the headdress with lighted candles is a noteworthy feature. (James Kiefer comments, “In Sweden and elsewhere, the day is observed by having one of the daughters of the house dress in a white robe with a crown of lighted candles and go singing from room to room (presumably followed by an adult with a fire extinguisher) early in the morning when it is still dark to awaken the other family members and to offer them St. Lucy's Cakes and hot coffee.”)
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.