A Meditation for the Service for the Longest Night
Thursday, December 21, 2023
There’s a verse from one of the psalms that I want to share with you tonight. It’s one that I come back to often in my role as a parish priest, especially in those moments when people that I care for are going through a difficult time in their lives and they feel like all hope is lost.
It’s a short verse, but I’ve found that it has a lasting impact. It comes from the thirtieth psalm, and it goes like this: “Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning.”
Let me say it again, and really listen to the words this time and take them to heart. “Weeping may spend the night, but joy comes in the morning.”
These words were written by a human author centuries ago, but they convey a divine promise. There will be moments in our lives when we experience heartbreak and pain like we’ve never felt before, and those feelings may lead to anger, fear, and resentment. There will be moments in our lives when we feel like we have no idea where we’re going or how to carry on.
And in those moments, God’s promise to us is this. There’s no where we can go—no distance too great—where God isn’t already there, waiting to hold us and to fill our hearts with that peace which only he can provide. There’s no pain too great—no amount of suffering—that God can’t heal. God has the power to take our wounds, to collect the broken pieces of our lives and to bring us healing and wholeness.
Now, that doesn’t mean that God promises to magically fix everything that’s wrong or to take away our pain, but it does mean that God will never leave us to carry our burdens alone. God is always near, and when we suffer, God suffers right along with us.
If you’re here tonight, maybe you’re going through a difficult time yourself right now or know someone else who is. Or, maybe this time of the year stirs up painful memories of lost loved ones or strained relationships. Or, maybe you’re simply burned out from all the stress that often comes with the holiday season.
No matter the reason, I’m glad you’re here. It’s good for us to be here tonight, to worship and pray together, and to take time to offer the burdens we’re carrying to the God who loves us.
On this winter solstice—on this shortest day and longest night of the year—rest in the knowledge that joy comes in the morning. Tomorrow, the days will begin to lengthen once again—a sign for us that the light always overcomes the darkness. As people of faith we know this is true because of God’s love for us in sending Jesus—the light of the world—to come among us and to lead us out of darkness and into the light.
I want to leave you with a blessing that was written a few years ago by an author and pastor named Jan Richardson, entitled “A Blessing for the Longest Night.”
All throughout these months
as the shadows
have lengthened,
this blessing has been
gathering itself,
making ready,
preparing for
this night.
It has practiced
walking in the dark,
traveling with
its eyes closed,
feeling its way
by memory
by touch
by the pull of the moon
even as it wanes.
So believe me
when I tell you
this blessing will
reach you
even if you
have not light enough
to read it;
it will find you
even though you cannot
see it coming.
You will know
the moment of its
arriving
by your release
of the breath
you have held
so long;
a loosening
of the clenching
in your hands,
of the clutch
around your heart;
a thinning
of the darkness
that had drawn itself
around you.
This blessing
does not mean
to take the night away
but it knows
its hidden roads,
knows the resting spots
along the path,
knows what it means
to travel
in the company
of a friend.
So when
this blessing comes,
take its hand.
Get up.
Set out on the road
you cannot see.
This is the night
when you can trust
that any direction
you go,
you will be walking
toward the dawn.
The Rev. Eric Mancil 