Lucia

Midweek Advent 2 Vespers

Propers: Sankta Lucia, A.D. 2017 B

Homily:

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

It’s the ballad of light and dark, really.

Lucia means “light,” and all the legends of Sankta Lucia—St Lucy of Syracuse—revolve around the theme of vision, of light, of a radiance that dispels all darkness.

We don’t know much about her historically. She was a martyr in the third century, the daughter of a pious Christian mother, who had visions of the saints. She refused marriage, wishing to dedicate her life to the service of the poor, and for this she was turned over to the local magistrate for punishment.

It seems that she had been bringing food to the local Christians who were hiding in the catacombs beneath the city. Faith in Christ was a capital offense in her day, tantamount to treason; Caesar would brook no rival gods. And here we have perhaps the most enduring image of Lucia’s legend, for it is said that she would arrange candles or oil lamps upon her head so that she could have both hands free, to carry bread for the hungry, as she descended into the tombs.

They say that when she was sentenced to death, neither would fire burn her nor could guards bring themselves to ravish her. In frustration, the civil authority did away with her by the sword—an honorable end reserved for Roman citizens. Later stories spoke of how her eyes had been plucked out, only to be miraculously restored. Some old churches still have somewhat grotesque silver platters upon which sit a pair of porcelain eyes staring up in memory of Sankta Lucia.

But all this happened long ago in the Mediterranean. How came she to be so beloved in the arctic north, amongst Lutheran Swedes and Norsemen? Well, in Sweden they tell a medieval story of famine that struck in the province of Varmland. On December 13, the Feast of St Lucy, a ship suddenly appeared on the horizon, laden with foodstuffs, and with a dazzlingly bright woman arrayed in white standing at the prow. She vanished as the ship came into port and starvation was averted.

Maybe. But I think something deeper, something more visceral and universal, is at work in the Nordic love of Sankta Lucia. Her name means “light.” And her feast day, December 13, was once the longest and darkest night of the year, before the Gregorian reform of the calendar. Here she comes, in song and story, bearing the Light of Christ to the frozen North in the bleakest and blackest of seasons. She heralds the coming of Christ—less than a fortnight to Christmas—just when we need her the most.

After all, winter without Christmas is a time of terror and despair. We need to see the Light amidst the darkness. We need Lucia to reveal the Christ amidst the winter snows. “The people who dwelt in darkness have seen a great light.” For indeed, no one appreciates the light so well as those who dwell in the shadows.

This is what Lucia is for us, brothers and sisters. She heralds the coming of Christ, shining not with a light of her own but with the reflected brilliance of God’s own Son blazing out through her life of selflessness and service. The eldest daughter in a Swedish household typically rises early on Sankta Lucia Day, bedecking her head with lights and her body with pure white linen. And she brings sweet rolls to those still abed, lighting our darkness, feeding our hunger, dispelling all the doubts and fears that lurk about before dawn.

This, too, is our calling: to shine with Christ’s own light in our world; to dispel the darkness of lies and despair; to feed the hungry and give sight to the blind and sing to comfort those who dwell in the shadow of death. Lucia means “light”—Christ’s own Light, who dwells now within us in the deathless flame of Jesus’ own Holy Spirit. Let us go and bear this Light to all the world. Let us go and be Lucia for those who yet dwell in darkness, that all may see and know God’s Christ.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.