To Know the Dark
December 20, 2025 • Blue Christmas • The Feast of St. Thomas
Habakkuk 2:1-4 | Psalm 126 | Hebrews 10:35-11:1 | John 20:24-29
A beautiful thing about poetry is its remarkable ability to look so closely at something, with such delicate yet explicit examen, that something greater can be revealed, a truth about the thing itself and, most likely, a great reality of this life. This may be why Irish writer and poet John O’Donohue called poetry “the language of the soul,” and it is certainly why I chose an Advent program that linked the poetry of Wendell Berry and scripture for a seasonal offering. In the first week of that program, we were introduced to and invited to memorize the poem “To Know the Dark.”
The poem begins, “To go in the dark with a light is to know the light.”
With the readiness of modern convenience, we have instant light pretty much wherever we are. We can “go in the dark with a light” because we do, in fact, know and trust the light to be there when we need it, leaning heavily on the light when the days are short. Quickly, however, I find myself shifting from a focus on physically perceived darkness and light to a spiritual sense of darkness and light.
Most often we link the absence of light to those times of sorrow, doubt, and fear–to when what is joyful and triumphant is distant, to when more is uncertain than known. Yet as physical darkness comes as naturally as the sun sets, the seasons change, and life gives way to death, so, too, does my sense of a natural balance in what is joyful and sorrowful. We know that Jesus shared countless meals among his friends and brought health and salvation to all who turned to him and believed. What joy for the man to take up his mat and walk! What relief of the woman who bled no more! We know also that Jesus wept near the grave of Lazarus and endured all suffering in his torture and crucifixion and death upon the cross. Anchored in the firm foundation of our faith, we have every reason to be buoyed in the natural rhythm and flow of the darkness and the light even in difficult times because God is with us: the way, the truth, and the life of Jesus Christ illuminates our path.
However firm and enduring our faith may be, the joy of the moment and of things hoped for . . . or even sheer perseverance and determination to ride the tides of life . . . can be suddenly extinguished by circumstances beyond our control. The very ground beneath us shifts, our tether to the firm foundation gone loose. All becomes destabilized, uncertain, and our coping mechanisms take hold.
The second line in the poem reads, “To know the dark, go dark. Go without sight.”
In her book Learning to Walk in the Dark, Barbara Brown Taylor wrote about her experience of going into a cave where you could sit in absolute darkness for a while. The darkness is so absolute that you cannot see your hand in front of your face. It is soul-searching physically to be in absolute darkness; it can be terrifying. Our mind races, all the unknowns beg to be answered, and we are left with our complete vulnerability, wishing for a spark of light, a beam of moonlight, a twinkle of something to cling to as the darkness feels as if it will consume us.
Thomas hints at the depths of his time of darkness, his grief. It’s fitting that we hold the Feast of Thomas on the longest night. Thomas had walked in the presence of Jesus, whose face must have shone upon all who looked to him for affirmation that their suffering in this world was not the end of the story: there was hope abundant for all. Even if Thomas saw it coming, he was not ready for Jesus to die. Thomas was not ready for Jesus to leave them alone, just as he was not quite ready to see Jesus again. I imagine Thomas’s response to his friends’ claims of the impossible to be fueled by an anger itself triggered by trauma. Thomas’s grief was all-consuming, allowing little room for any vision of light that could overcome his present darkness. He was in the dark, without sight. The doors were closed.
The doors were shut when Jesus appeared to the disciples both times, according to the Gospel of John. Any conventional way of Jesus appearing to them was blocked. Yet Jesus stood among them, said to them, “Peace be with you,” because Jesus knows that when we are in the deepest, darkest nights of the soul, we are so afraid. When we don’t know what to expect, when the unexpected happens and leaves us bereft, when we can’t see our way forward, when we are in the dark and know the dark, Jesus still comes among us, finding a way to reach us to say, “Peace be with you.”
And that may be what Berry knows in the next lines of the poem where he writes and concludes, “and find that the dark, too, blooms and sings, / and is traveled by dark feet and dark wings.” The darkness flowers and calls out, giving forth life and hope and beauty that we do not have to see to perceive. The peace that passes all understanding does not come from a place we can buy or demand. That which we cannot see is at work all around us in mysterious ways. Wendell Berry, a man of the earth, knows better than many the intricacies of nature, weaving the connections of life and death among the seeds and compost in the dark of night. A man of faith, Berry knows the frailty of humankind and our utter dependence upon God. That kind of dependency can be found among those who hold a “firm and certain faith,” but chances are that first they have been tried.
Before Thomas called out, “My Lord and My God!” he challenged his friends and tested Jesus Christ himself. Not until Thomas saw and touched the risen Christ did he fully believe. For those of us who are not likely to have such a physical encounter, the words of Christ rest upon our ears, hearts, and minds: “Blessed are those who have not seen and yet have come to believe.”
We gather in the darkness because it is our present moment. The burden we bear is never more true than now when we gather at our table to feast where there is an empty chair or a space in our pew. A weight we carry may be the oppressive forces beyond our control eroding what we hold dear, and in the shadow of night, we can’t see a hopeful way forward. But the love and peace of Christ does not abandon us. Even if we have abandoned, doubted, questioned, yelled in defiance at Jesus Christ, closed all doors to him that we could see, Jesus still comes among us to say, “Peace be with you.”
“To go in the dark with a light is to know the light,” and thanks be to God we have the Light of Christ always, especially when we can’t see it ourselves in the hours of our suffering. Through faith we come to understand that to know the dark most fully is to know that darkness and light to God are both alike, full of the love of God and the fullness of the presence of Christ. Blessed are we who have not seen and yet have come to believe, who walk as yet by faith and without sight, especially in the darkness. God is near. God is here. Peace be with you.
~The Rev. Sara Milford