Yesterday was St. Lucy’s Day. Not a big deal for the average American (even, I think, for the average American Catholic). But—oddly enough—for Scandinavian Lutherans “Luciadag” has traditionally been an important part of the Advent observation.

On the morning of December 13, all over Scandinavia (but especially in Sweden), you used to be able to see the eldest daughter of the household (at least back when they had multiple children) rise early, don a crown of lingonberry leaves with seven burning candles in it, and lead a procession of her sisters and brothers, all clad in white and singing. She served the family a ritual breakfast of coffee and special “Lucia buns.” Since the 1920s, the processional song has been this version of the old Sicilian (correction: Neapolitan) favorite:

Although I think I’m generally acknowledged to be America’s foremost interpreter of Scandinavian culture (after Woody Allen), I have to admit my childhood Christmas memories are pretty generic Yankee. Aside from a couple peculiar foods and Christmas carols, my family did the holiday pretty much the same as the Anderson family on “Father Knows Best.” So when, as an adult, I first encountered the Lucia tradition, with its Italian song sung by Swedish girls, I found it extremely odd.

And yet it works. This is just another example of the genius of Christianity, I think, and of the special genius of Christmas, which has proved almost incredibly flexible and (dare I say it?) diverse throughout history.

St. Lucia, a Christian martyr from Syracuse born in the 3rd century, had a name that means “light,” and her feast day is December 13. Under the old Julian calendar, that was the longest night of the year. Incongruous? Not at all. It’s merely a paradox which would (and no doubt did) delight Chesterton.

There’s a profound difference, I believe, between the Christmas celebrations of northern lands and those of more moderate climes. It’s no accident that our dominant cultural Christmas symbols come almost exclusively from countries where the snow lies deep and nights are long in December. Christians in northern lands grab hold of Christmas with (literally) heated intensity. This is the time of year when “nature seems dead,” when Seasonal Affective Disorder kicks in, when generalized fear of the future sharpens itself into a shaved point of localized fear, as the farmer wonders if he’ll be able to feed his brood through the winter. Did he slaughter too much of the stock? Too little? How late will spring be this year?

For the northern Christian, the Christmas season was the time when he cocked a snook at the powers of darkness. His feasting and revelry and candle-lighting and gift-giving constituted an act of defiance of this world, and of faith in the God who became very vulnerable flesh in Bethlehem.

(Cross-posted at Mere Comments.)