When I wake up for Mass and the sun hasn’t risen yet, it’s a struggle to open my eyes. Our bodies are naturally attuned to the rhythm of the sun, and scientists say the best way to become alert in the morning — even better than a cup of coffee — is to go outside and let the sunlight bathe your open eyes for a few minutes (staring directly into the sun, not recommended). There are photoreceptors in our eyes that tell the rest of the body it’s morning, triggering wakefulness. About 16 hours later, from the moment our eyes first took in the morning light, the body naturally cycles back to sleepiness. This is why it’s damaging to miss the morning sunlight or have bright lights on at night. It throws off our biorhythms and causes insomnia.

I know this because, for years, I suffered from insomnia. This created a cascade effect and I ended up clinically depressed. Depression made me not want to go outside, exercise or do any of the things required for mental health. It became a harmful cycle from which it was difficult to break free. Part of the reason I’m now back on a regular sleep cycle and my mental health has recovered is that I started paying attention to the patterns of the sun.

There are patterns of light and dark embedded in the Church calendar, as well, that are worth noticing. Take the liturgical celebrations of St. John the Baptist, for instance.

John the Baptist survived on honey. Honey, from the time God promised the Israelites a land of milk and honey, has also been a promise of heaven. Heaven is eternal light, the presence of Christ. Honey is a symbolic form of that light; it’s the sweetness of the sun created by the effort of bees. The sun pours down like honey. The air we breathe is sweet and laden with divine glory. We, like John the Baptist, are bathed in God’s light.

Also, it’s no accident that Zechariah is making the incense offering in the Temple when he’s told of the miraculous conception of his son John. Incense is a precious gift we give to God. Like honey, it’s a form of light, created in cooperation with the sun. It’s like pieces of sunshine we burn at the altar, offerings of light to our heavenly Father as a sacrifice. Christ Himself is that light. He is the sacrifice.

Finally, remember that John decreases while Christ increases. The liturgical celebration of his birth occurs in June, six months before the birth of Christ. In God’s providence, it roughly coincides with the summer solstice, the sunniest day of the year. Like the sun, his light decreases until the darkest day of the year right before Christmas. Then, from the birth of Christ on into Easter, the light increases.

Advent is the darkness of waiting and hoping. In silence, we ponder the midnight arrival of Our Lord. But always remember that the liturgy is a mystical pattern, an interplay of light and dark. From here on, things are only getting brighter.

Father Michael Rennier is vice-rector of the Oratory of Sts. Gregory and Augustine. A former Anglican priest, he was ordained in 2016 under a pastoral provision. He and his wife, Amber, have six children.