The Deep Night That Cradles Becoming
As the New Moon rises, we walk the Via Negativa releasing, making space, and the glory of seeking and revealing hidden wisdom.
Invocation
Holy Mystery who dwells in the deep night,
Source of life hidden beneath shadow and stillness,
We come to you in the quiet of this New Moon.
The sky is dark.
The air is cold.
Even the moon has vanished from our sight.
Yet we trust that nothing is empty in your creation.
That the silence is full.
That the darkness is at work.
Teach us to rest where becoming begins.
Help us release what has passed away
And trust the unseen labor of renewal within us.
In this hush before joy,
In this pause before light returns,
Invite us into patience, into play, into hope.
May we find you not in answers,
But in spaciousness.
Not in striving,
But in gentle expectation.
Hold us now in the deep night that cradles all new life,
Until we are ready to rise again.
Amen.
The Sacred Moment
Today, the new moon veils the sky, cloaking the heavens in silence and shadow. May we feel the call to surrender, to sacred unknowing, to the holy hush that dwells beneath words. In the deep darkness of the New Moon, we walk the path of the Via Negativa: the way of release, of letting fall what no longer serves, of listening for the presence hidden in absence. Our souls ache not for answers, but for peace within the questions, for a love that meets us in the void.
This is a moon to release, to empty, to rest.
Theme: The Deep Night That Cradles Becoming
The sky is dark, and the nights are cold. Even the moon is shrouded in the shadow of the Earth. The deepest night cradles the glorious becoming of the Word and Light of God. The air is crisp and dry. Most of the birds have flown south for the winter. A calm silence fills the night. Just as we await the return of the light to the day, we await the return of the light to the face of the moon. Expectation and longing fill us. We yearn for the warmth of life to fill our lives again.
In the heart of this darkness and in the spirit of this silence, something is stirring within us. In the dark womb of creation, life wriggles. It kicks in its endless dream. The dark is not empty, but filled. It is full of potential, full of hope, full of everything necessary to bring new life to the cosmos. In this deepest night, the cosmos itself is hard at work preparing for the world to come.
The seeds await the first rays of the sun and the first rains of the year. The land slumbers and restores itself as the mycelial networks consume all that has passed away. Nothing has been discarded, everything is being put to new use. Complexity is broken down into its simplest forms so that it may be built back up into something fresh and needed in the world.
This time of year is rife with burnout. As nature invites us to step back and to heal, to let go of all of the things that do not serve us anymore and to break down our understandings so that we can build new ones for the year to come, we push forward and strive on. This is not a time of retreat, but one in which we regroup. We let go, make space, and we seek new ways to move forward in the future.
When we do not have the nutrients that we need, exhaustion fills us. When we do not have the wisdom or the words that we require, we stumble blindly in unknowing. This New Moon invites us to sit, to wait, to be patient, to understand that in our deepest heart and in the furthest recesses within us, something new is waiting to be born. That urgency that we feel is actually an expectation of good things to come. It is a hope that drives us. But if it drives us too hard, the engine of our life will break down, and we will lose more ground.
To be strong in these shadowed times is to understand when we need to embrace our cozy, warm, hidden places where we can restore, repair, and rebuild, so that when we have strength again, we will be better ready to take on the challenges ahead.
Scripture tells us that it is the glory of the wise to find that which God has hidden. God is not hiding out of malice or disdain for the world. When God feels hidden, it is like a child wanting to play. In the darkness of the New Moon, in that silence, we listen closely for the innocent giggles that are calling us ever closer. God has not withdrawn from the world. God walks this plane with us, encouraging us to play.
When we lose that sense of play in our own hearts, we lose the child within. Jesus told us to come to faith like a child, not to be simple, but to retain that playful imagination that allows us to find humor in every situation, no matter how strange or bizarre. God is not revealed in darkness, but in that darkness we learn to play again. Like Wisdom before the dawn of creation, we learn to play with the divine so that we can renew our strength and take up as wings of the wind.
In our hearts, we learn to play again, and in that play we are restored and healed. We learn to let go and enter that open spaciousness within that allows new things to be born.
Under the shadow of the dark moon, just before the first sliver of the sun’s light appears on her beautiful face, we are invited to remember the joy we had as children and to reawaken the hope that carries us forward. Not a false belief, not a command or instruction, but a posture of the heart that reminds us that our dreams drive us ever forward toward greatness, toward making the world to come.
Without hope as the vision that carries us forward, we truly have nothing. It is easy to forget that calling of our heart, that dream that once lived so vibrantly within us, that hope that called us ever forward toward great and wonderful things. Our hands can shape our lives in so many ways. Our bodies can carry us into new and amazing places. We only have to hope that we can get there, hope that when we arrive something new will be found.
Hope is not something that merely sustains us. It is something that drives us forward. It is the vision of the world to come that invites us ever to walk toward it, even when the path is blocked and we must find a way around or through. It is hope that gives us the strength to keep moving.
Practice: Resting in the Deep Night That Cradles Becoming
Begin by finding a place of stillness.
If possible, dim the lights or sit in the dark. Let your body sense the night rather than analyze it. Allow the quiet to be what it is.
Settle your feet on the ground. Let your hands rest easily, open, ungrasping. Take a slow breath in through your nose, cool and steady. Exhale gently through your mouth, releasing the day.
Take several breaths like this, letting your body arrive.
Now, imagine the sky above you. The moon is hidden. No light is reflected. Even the heavens have gone quiet.
Feel the way the cold night wraps around the world. Notice the stillness. The absence of movement. The way creation itself seems to pause.
Let yourself rest here.
Bring your attention inward. Notice where you feel tired, overextended, or thin. Notice any urgency that has been driving you forward. You do not need to fix it. Simply acknowledge it.
With your next breath, imagine that you are stepping into a warm, hidden place within yourself. A place that does not need answers. A place that does not need progress. A place that exists only for restoration.
Rest there.
Now imagine the deep night not as emptiness, but as fullness. Life stirring quietly. Dreams wriggling beneath the surface. Seeds breaking down so they can become something new.
If it helps, imagine the mycelial threads beneath the soil, gently dissolving what has passed away and feeding what will come next. Nothing wasted. Nothing discarded.
Let this image remind you that even now, something in you is preparing for the world to come.
Stay with your breath. Slow. Spacious. Unforced.
As you breathe, listen. Not for words. Not for instruction. But for the subtle invitation of play. The quiet joy that whispers rather than shouts.
Imagine divine presence here not as a voice, but as a gentle laughter in the dark. A presence that invites you closer, not through effort, but through curiosity.
Allow yourself to soften.
Allow yourself to rest.
Allow yourself to not know.
Now, without forcing it, let a small ember of hope appear in your awareness. Not a demand. Not a plan. Just a vision. A sense that something good is forming, even if you cannot yet name it.
Hold that hope lightly, the way you might hold a fragile flame in cupped hands.
Rest with it for a few breaths.
When you are ready, begin to return to your body. Feel the ground beneath you. Feel the warmth of your breath. Gently open your eyes, carrying with you this posture of quiet expectancy.
Before you rise, take a moment to offer gratitude for the darkness that nourishes becoming, and for the hope that continues to draw you forward, even now.
Closing Blessing
Holy Presence who walks with us in the dark,
We thank you for the stillness that restores us
And the hidden work of renewal already unfolding within us.
As we leave this quiet place,
Help us carry the posture of hope rather than haste,
Trust rather than fear,
Gentle strength rather than exhaustion.
May we remember that nothing has been wasted,
That even now creation is preparing the world to come,
And that our own lives are being shaped
In ways we cannot yet see.
Teach us to move forward with patience,
To protect the fragile ember of hope within us,
And to trust that light will return
In its own time.
Until the moon shows her face again,
Keep us rooted, restored, and open to becoming.
Amen.