On a cold Epiphany winter night at Holy Family, we joined in the Episcopal tradition of the Burning of the Greens. The Christian holy day Epiphany, on Jan. 6, is also known as the “Feast of Lights,” and some Episcopal congregations celebrate this feast quite literally, by burning Christmas trees and greens in recognition of Jesus as a light to the world.
The light from a Christmas tree fire invokes symbolism rooted in the origins of Epiphany as an alternative to pagan festivals that were held on the winter solstice – the darkest day of the year. Also known as Three Kings Day, Epiphany traditionally commemorates the day the Magi were introduced to the infant Jesus. Light also is a familiar motif in contemporary lectionary readings for Epiphany, such as Isaiah 60:1-6: “Arise, shine; for your light has come.”
Another tradition, closely associated with the winter solstice, is the burning of a Yule log in a bonfire, symbolizing the return of the sun during the darkest time of year, particularly prevalent in ancient Scandinavian cultures; people would often save a small part of the log to light the next year’s fire, signifying continuity and the cycle of life. The Germanic, Scandinavian, Norse, and Celtic peoples celebrated Yule on the winter solstice. Anciently, Yule was a celebration that, in some cases, lasted for 2 months! Norse people would celebrate Yule with evergreens, holly, wreaths, a Yule log, and bells.
In ancient customs, burning the Yule log was believed to signal the return of the sun and usher in the beginning of spring. When adopted as a Christian custom, a Yule log became symbolic of the infant Christ Child at Christmas. People would leave the Yule log burning for the 12 days of Christmas. A small portion of the log is saved to light next year’s fire, and the ashes are scattered over a garden when it is time to plant seeds.
For many years, on the night of or near the winter solstice, my running buddies and I ventured once into the darkness of the trail with our headlamps lighting the way until, we reached a place we affectionately call “Beech Cove.” Deep in the woods, alongside a lovely brook, we turned off our headlamps and let the darkness settle in around us. The water could be heard in a new way, and Orion and the Pleiades became visible in a new way above us. Wendell Berry, our American treasure, wrote this about the dark: “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light. To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight, and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, and is traveled by dark feet, and dark wings.” Anyone who has spent time in the wood at night will know the truth of this poem, and its paradoxical lesson that we know the light, in part, because we are willing to become familiar with the dark. And sometimes we know the dark simply because we are human, and vulnerable, and in spite of this, even amid our darkest moments, we see glimpses of light.
This is where the Gospels of John and Luke speak to one another, in dialectic fashion perhaps. The incarnation we observe and celebrate in this season means nothing less than that God is no longer a God of the sky, relegated to Orion’s realm, but rather walks in the rhythm of humanity. Now, in Christ, we can gaze upon God, both human and divine, just as light—the Word—is both particle and wave, and in seeing Him we see who we were meant to be.
So, there is more to the cry of the infant in that cold, dark stable than meets the eye, and sometimes, even if through a glass darkly, we glimpse that something more. John, in his paradoxical insistence that the world cannot see the light which supposedly enlightens it, would not deny that even our unknowing, at times uncaring world sees glimpses of the light. Despite the sometimes-self-indulgent nature of the season, there are times when we can see glimpses of our own best selves reflected in the glimpses of light. We are reminded of W.H. Auden’s similarly paradoxical Christmas Oratorio in which he wrote: “To those who have seen the child, however dimly, however incredulously, The Time Being is, in a sense, the most trying time of all…we look round for something, no matter what, to inhibit our self-reflection.” This being human can be so very hard, until we remember that we are held in the hands of a God who chose not to leave us alone. Indeed, the lovely performance of Amahl and the Night Visitors, a one-act opera by Menotti, was a wonderful celebration of this same Epiphany message. We are transformed by these mysterious, Holy encounters with light, and with compassion shared and given away. I am so very grateful for our choir, led by John King Carter, and the musicians and actor/singers, and especially young Amahl, played by the remarkable Darwin Marie Dudgeon
Thanks, as well, to Bruce Elliott and the faithful Grounds Crew for, well, shepherding our own bonfire! A deep bow of gratitude to Jacques for creating the set design for the stage, and to the hospitality team for contributing the chili and hard work for the dinner, and to all who brought food for our bountiful feast. You kept us warm and fed on a cold winter’s night!
Epiphany blessings to each of you, and I’ll catch you later down the trail. I hope to see you in church! Bill+