“Hello darkness, my old friend, I’ve come to talk with you again.”

Am I the only one who can’t stop thinking about these song lyrics since the time change in early November? Every day, when darkness starts descending upon the land before supper time, I’ve found myself humming this opening line from “The Sound of Silence,” made famous in the 1960s by American folk singers Simon and Garfunkel. Interestingly, the words seem not only seasonally appropriate but also liturgically fitting at this time of year.

Every year, at the darkest time of year, we head into Advent, a season that slowly reveals the light that is Christ. Beginning on Sunday, Nov. 30, for four Sundays the church will light the candles of the Advent wreath in anticipation of the ultimate light that comes with the celebration of the birth of Christ.

Light breaks through darkness. This is the point of Advent: we are moving toward the light. And who among us these days is not feeling the effects of darkness? Sometimes it even seems that the darkness is all-consuming, be it on a personal level or a global scale, but the church gives us Advent to remind us that Christ is the light that dispels all darkness.

But sometimes, like Simon and Garfunkel sang, we greet darkness like a friend. Sometimes darkness becomes so familiar to us that it is our comfort zone. So it becomes imperative that we recognize that darkness is where Jesus is not. Darkness is where we choose our own will over the will of God. Darkness is where there is a lack of love and sacrifice. Darkness can be a place of shadows and deception, and we can begin to think it’s where we belong.

On the First Sunday of Advent the second reading from St. Paul’s Letter to the Romans talks about coming out of the darkness: “Brothers and sisters, you know the time; it is the hour now for you to awake from sleep. For our salvation is nearer now than when we first believed; the night is advanced, the day is at hand. Let us then throw off the works of darkness and put on the armor of light.”

One purple candle is lit and we are told that someone is coming who can dispel the darkness. The week after, a second purple candle is lit and we start to see a little clearer as we hear St. John the Baptist tell us we must wake up and be alert. Then we get to Gaudete Sunday and we rejoice by the light of a third candle, rose-coloured this time, and we can see even clearer by the light of three candles, so much so that we can glimpse the light of Christmas. When we reach the fourth purple candle, we are so close to the birth of our Lord that we can almost see the glow from the manger.

The Gospel of John begins by referencing Jesus, the eternal Word: “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

The darkness did not overcome it. Nothing overcomes the light of Christ.

This season of Advent, of advancing toward the light, couldn’t come at a better time. We are feeling the weight of darkness at this time of year. We all feel the effects of the lack of daylight. We feel the doldrums of another year coming to a close. We notice the chill in the air and the dormancy of the natural world. As a church, throughout November we’ve been contemplating death and praying for all the souls in purgatory. It’s a heavy time. Necessary, but heavy.

Yet in the midst of all these dark things, we look to that first flicker of light from the Advent candle and we can be filled with great hope. This is why the church recommends our participation in the Sacrament of Reconciliation during Advent. Most parishes will offer extra hours for confession during the season. The confessing of our sins is the best tool we have that helps to conquer the darkness in our lives. A good examination of conscience followed by a good confession shines light on the areas of our lives that are in darkness, thereby freeing us to follow Christ the everlasting light.

While darkness can indeed seem like an old friend, it is the new light of the eternal love of Christ that draws us in this Advent season.

Lazzuri writes from her home in Nova Scotia, where she lives with her husband, three of her six children, and her mom. She can be reached at clarelazzuri@gmail.com.