Around twenty five years ago my family took a trip to explore Mammoth Cave National Park in Kentucky. Spurred on by my older brothers fascination with caves, our parents packed us in the van to make an educational pilgrimage. I did not share my brothers level of scientific intrigue, but as a collector of experiences I was eager to participate. The mouth of the cave was deceptive, modestly hiding hundreds of miles of tunnels beneath the surface. We began descending down flights of stairs, each step damp from water runoff and a chronic lack of sunlight. I looked over the railing, unsettled by the slippery metal tread beneath my shoes: this was no place to lose my footing. Down, down, down we went until the stairs landed on the uneven cavern floor.
Cautiously we followed our guide through the weirdly illuminated subterranean path. Wide-eyed, we trekked along until we arrived at an open space deep within. Stalactites dripped from the ceiling and the sound of water could be heard rushing nearby, though the source remained hidden. Our guide gathered the parents and children in her charge, preparing us all for a brief moment of darkness. She explained that when she turned the lights off we would see what the cave was really like.
The switch flipped. Instantly everything was saturated in a dense and disorienting shroud, the definition of pitch black. Children screamed; parents groped blindly for little hands that suddenly seemed so distant. I waved my hand in front of my eyes— nothing. Am I asleep? Are my eyes really open? Which way is up? Even when warned by the guide we all found ourselves lost to one degree or another, siloed in the brief blackout before the switch flipped back on. Starless and oppressive, that darkness made an impression on me. And yet, underneath that brief burst of adrenaline, I still trusted the guide, never doubting the certainty of the way out.
Years later, I followed the headlines regarding a mining accident in Chile, where thirty-three miners were trapped underground for sixty-nine days. After an eternity without the sun, all sixty-nine were extracted alive. Though I was safely planted above ground a whole hemisphere away, I felt viscerally afraid for those people. I prayed for their rescue, longing for the people who walked in darkness to see a great light.1 My own abbreviated experience in the cave resurfaced as I thought about the Chilean miners. Even the dimmest flashlight would be bright down there. Even the light of a single flame would be a beacon.
I have accidentally found myself in the book of Job during Advent this year. I really don’t remember the last time I read it, and quite frankly, I know I’ve avoided it. It stumped me when I was a teenager, and I guess I assumed it would stump me again.2 But I’m older now, and have slightly better literary comprehension. I’ve also turned pages in my own journey with lament, and I’ve weathered my own winters of personalized pain. Like Job, I have reasons to contend with the Almighty, and I’m grateful for his raw example. He seems quite relatable now. His words are honest, even disturbingly so. And yet in the midst of his coarse complaints, I’ve been seen passages that foreshadow the incarnation, that look dead ahead. Even before the birth of the patriarchs Job appears to challenge God to put on skin, daring him to descend, to enter the hellhole of human experience. “Do you have eyes of flesh, or do you see as a human sees? Are your days like those of a human, or your years like those of a man?”3
Midway through the book, Job’s tone takes an unexpected upturn in chapter 28. Situated snuggly between complaints, the brief shift caught me off guard. Before his final defense, Job delivers a poetic meditation considering how the wisdom of God must be mined for, must be sought after in the darkest of places. “A miner puts an end to the darkness; he probes the deepest recesses for ore in the gloomy darkness…. so that he may bring to light what is hidden.”4
Now step into the ancient imagery with me; consider the metaphor. The miner enters the deep darkness with only his tools and the little bit of light he can carry. He leaves his home planted above the earth in order to plunge into the realm below. He gets comfortable with the inner workings of the earth’s crust, not fearing the grimy coat of dust that will certainly descend upon him. At great personal risk to himself, he diligently searches for gold, silver, and precious stones, intent upon delivering them into daylight. In Advent the descent of Wisdom5 comes clearly into focus. Christ the miner is ever stooping, ever working unseen below our feet. Christ the miner crawls into our darkest caverns, descending into the shroud of time. Christ the miner chisels and cherishes the work of his hands, seeking to preserve what is precious, gathering the broken bits into his healing light.
Each year as Advent approaches, I find myself ravenously craving the dissonance of a liturgical season that chooses to brazenly face the darkness. The happy-clappy celebrations seem hollow. Instead, I want an acknowledgement of the obscurity. I want someone turn the strange underground lights off for a moment and simply to say that we have been walking in darkness. Each year as Advent circles back, I see its rhythmic flame flicker upon the varied surfaces of collective and individual pain. Acute or chronic, aching or burning, silent or deafening— pain is pain is pain. Yet I find comfort in the anomaly of descent. Christ made a home in the darkness, entering this weary world, participating in the burden of pain, taking up Job’s audacious dare. No, the velvet blackness has not evaporated. Yet I am certain of the Guide who is with me, and I am certain that his flame that will never go out.
Isaiah 9:2
I was focused primarily on finding the sea monsters. Turns out they don’t show up until the end.
Job 10:4-5 CSB
Job 28:3,11a CSB
“Christ is… the wisdom of God…” -1 Corinthians 1:24 CSB
Sea monsters! Velvet blackness. This is a rich post. One of my faves. ⚡️❤️