Special to United Methodist Insight | September 24, 2026
Even at the age of five, I remember holding an unusual sensitivity to the loss of daylight hours as winter darkness approached. I’m someone who needs plenty of sunshine for health and well-being. One reason, I suppose, for my constant draw to gardening. I may not be a particularly skilled gardener, but I’m faithful and often bring in bits and pieces I’ve grown.
Now, the fall equinox looms. According to my resident expert, ChatGPT, this year’s date is Tuesday, September 22, at 7:05 pm my time (Central Standard Time), at 12:05 am Wednesday, September 23, UTC. On that day, both the Northern and Southern Hemispheres see precisely the same amount of sunlight.
After that date, those who live north of the Equator experience progressively more darkness; those south of the Equator experience progressively more light. The further a person is from the Equator, the more pronounced the day/night differences become.
But as a theologian, something has long troubled me: the Christian calendar has been shaped by its development in the Northern Hemisphere and, as a result, is, inadvertently at least, highly prejudicial to those who live either near the Equator or farther south.
Think about it: Advent, the time of waiting before the birth of Jesus, begins as the days grow darkest. It ends with the birth of Jesus, celebrated on December 25th, a few days after the Winter Solstice, which takes place this year on Monday, December 21, at 2:50 pm Central Standard Time.
At the Solstice, the sun appears to stand still—the days barely shift in length, but shift they do. Shortly after the move into darkness reverses, the Christian calendar celebrates the Savior's entrance. Sometimes on that shortest day, a church may offer a “Blue Christmas” worship service, a time to embrace sorrow and sadness.
This is how the liturgical calendar works—and many sources suggest that Dec. 25 was chosen as the date to celebrate Christmas in order to replace a pagan ceremony common at the time that marked the end of the darkest days.
Unless, of course, one lives south of the Equator. Everything is switched there. Our shortest day is their longest day. So, Christmas takes place as the days grow shorter, not longer.
Then there is Easter. Unlike the fixed December 25 celebration, the date of Easter shifts every year. Here is the formula for setting the date for most Christian denominations: the first Sunday after the first full moon occurring on or after the spring equinox.
Now, the astronomical equinox might not be March 21, but the church has set that date so Easter can fall anywhere from March 22 to April 25.
In the Northern Hemisphere at Easter, spring is showing up, new life emerging everywhere. Perfect for the idea of Resurrection: the sign of life after death. But what is happening to those south of the Equator? The move toward winter darkness has begun; days shorten, harvest times loom, leaves drop, the world moves into sleep mode.
It makes no sense to celebrate the Resurrection then. But the church insists upon it.
And then there is the whole snow, “In the Bleak Midwinter,” Santa-sleigh thing. Several times in the last few years, I’ve been near or south of the Equator in November or December. Remember, those days mark the start of summer or, in equatorial environments, a shift from the rainy to the dry season, accompanied by slight temperature changes.What do I see in stores near or south of the Equator as they prepare for Christmas? Fake snow, Christmas trees decorated with winter paraphernalia, Santas on sleighs, chestnuts on open fires, etc., all in areas that have never, ever, even once, seen a single snowflake, nor have any knowledge of deep freeze.
I find it ridiculous. And troubling. And it exposes a serious blindness in standard theology: while Christianity declares itself universal, its liturgical calendar expresses itself exclusively in Northern Hemispheric terms. And this is not the only issue: the centrality of the lamb/sheep imagery in the Bible, a book many declare universally true and totally without error, probably has no connection to the lived reality of billions of people.
In addition, it references crops that grow well in Mediterranean areas but may never have been seen or heard of elsewhere.
So, the Bible is not only geographically exclusive, but ecologically provincial—multiple layers of theological blindness here.
Now, my own faith underwent a radical deconstruction over thirty years ago. It came about because I became an avid student of the Bible. Entering rigorous seminary studies, I immersed myself in Hebrew and ancient Greek language study so I could read the texts in words far closer to the originals.
I entered this venture with the mindset that the Bible was a trustworthy document and that, properly understood, it could guide anyone’s life in a good direction. That is what I had been taught, and I was also taught to trust my instructors since they really KNEW the Bible. Any disagreements I might harbor must be kept silent—especially since, as a female, I was supposed to be so easily deceived. Sigh.
And I was determined to master the Bible, to gain that insider knowledge. The classroom has always been my friend, and I reveled in my growing knowledge and my ability to argue arcane points of theology. I read widely, delighting in the library offering endless options for discovery.
Sadly, the more I knew, the deeper I went . . . the more disgusted I became. In the process, I underwent a shipwreck of faith so profound and thorough that my neat little, northern hemispheric-centric world exploded into a million tiny bits.
I never stopped seeking to love God and love my neighbor; never stopped looking for ways to serve the world and bring goodness wherever possible; and gained much courage in my quest to resist evil, injustice, and oppression.
But I could no longer do any of these things without myriads of questions, doubts, and a never-ending dance with disbelief, often turning to anger over what I had been taught by those who insisted I trust them.
The more I wrestled with questions of life, death, eternity, and the nature of God, the more I came to appreciate the encroaching darkness that nature offers where I live during this part of the year. I used to resist these days until I began to see that these longer, darker nights, the plants losing their summer vigor, the falling leaves opened the door for my soul to rest, to go into its own dormant phase, to acknowledge death as a necessary part of life if rebirth is ever to happen.
I learned to release my fear of darkness, of inhabiting that space often called the “cloud of unknowing,” where I have spent so much time since that shipwreck. I found the freedom of not having answers, of embracing a world that will always be full of mystery to me.
I also know that a theological calendar that is so out of sync with the natural world for anyone south of the Equator makes no sense at all. It assumes that this magnificent planet, whirling around a massive sun and spinning further out in our place in a galaxy that is likely only one of the hundreds of millions of other galaxies currently confirmed (and there are likely billions more), is utterly meaningless to the Holy One who holds it all together. It’s just pure poppycock.
And so, here I land: a person of faith with far more questions than answers; one who embraces the darkness while loving light, and one who is increasingly disenchanted with the way religious institutions have shoved God into their tiny little pockets and are sure they know all there is to know.
So, I ask: how have you found it living in your own cloud of unknowing?
Author and columnist the Rev. Dr. Christy Thomas is a retired clergy member of the Horizon Texas Conference (formerly North Texas) of The United Methodist Church. This article is republished with permission from her Substack blog, "Christy Thomas: Quiet Resistance for a Noisy Age."