Many of the contemporary names for our months go back to ancient Latin. That’s the reason September (“seventh”), October (“eighth”), November (“ninth”) and December (“tenth”) do not align with the ninth, tenth, eleventh and twelfth months of the current calendar. Though not numerical, April, too, has such a history, referring to the ancient word for “opening,” which many suggest refers to the buds of Spring starting to grow. It connects also to the current word for Lent, with the idea of the days “lengthening.”
As these days provide us with more light and the reopening of life after the slumbering shade of winter – in the Global North, at least – it’s an opportune time to ponder the significance of light in the Christian tradition.
In his wonderful little collection of spiritual essays titled “Christmas at the Nativity,” Pope Francis has numerous allusions to the unique “light” provided to the human race through the Incarnation. He begins by referencing the prediction in the ninth chapter of Isaiah: “The People who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who dwelt in a land of deep darkness, on them has light shined.” The pope claims, “We have passed through the darkness which envelops the earth, guided by the flame of faith which illuminates our steps, and enlivened by the hope of finding the ‘great light.’ By opening our hearts, we also can contemplate the miracle of that child-sun who, arising from on high, illuminates the horizon.”
He goes on elsewhere to connect this arrival of a new light with an emphasis on God’s grace poured forth on creation: “But what is this grace? It is divine love, the love that changes lives, renews history, liberates from evil, fills hearts with peace and joy. … Certainly, darkness is present and threatening in everyone’s life and in the history of humanity, but God’s light is more powerful. It is a matter of welcoming it, so that it might shine on everyone.” Like the Magi, we ought not let our hearts “retreat into the caves of gloom and apathy; they longed to see the light. They were not content to plod through life, but yearned for new and greater horizons.” So should we.
In the writings ascribed to Saint John in Scripture, both the Gospel and his letters, we see this duality at play frequently. “This is the judgment, that the Light – Jesus – has come into the world, and men loved darkness rather than the light because their deeds were evil. For everyone who does evil hates the light, and does not come to the light, lest his deeds be exposed.” Yet, each one of us is composed of both light and shadows, of parts of us that exult in the daybreak and parts of us that prefer to remain hidden in the night. Like the parable of the weeds and the wheat growing together until the Last Day, such statements are less about groups of people than about our inner lives: the co-mingling of dawn and dusk exist in every human heart.
Beneath the contemporary Basilica of St. Peter’s in Rome, one of the quite early images of Jesus is not the familiar crucifix or even the Good Shepherd as he appears elsewhere in the catacombs. Instead, the ceiling mosaic in one of the mausoleums of the Julii is referred to as “Christus Helios.” In it, the triumphant Christ is depicted as “Sol Invictus” – the Invincible Sun. He drives a chariot held aloft by horses with radiant rays beaming forth from his head. It’s not a coincidence that the earlier pagan sun cult’s feast fell on Dec. 25. As Christianity “baptized” the Roman empire both figuratively and literally, there were all kinds of pre-existent titles, buildings, practices, traditions and ceremonies that were integrated into the burgeoning Christian worldview and perspective on reality. (Basilicas themselves are a familiar example, as they originally referred to a secular gathering space for courts and public functions, before being “converted” to Christian sites of worship.) An association between the Light of the World and the indispensable role that the sun played in human existence was merely one of them. We know this well in the familiar “Sun of Righteousness” language that long predates Christianity (cf. Malachi 4:2), but which we now associate with the Savior’s healing mission.
Thus, as we move toward the longest day of the year in June (which is marked liturgically with John the Baptist’s claim that he must decrease so Christ can increase), each day’s extending moments of brightness can provide an opportunity to reflect on the God whose words are a lamp for our feet and radiance for our path.
An alumnus of Camden Catholic High School, Cherry Hill, Michael M. Canaris, Ph.D., teaches at Loyola University, Chicago.
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