By Rebecca Cooney | FāVS News Columnist
Christmas mornings began in the dark. Growing up in Moraga, California, the journey to First Covenant Church in Oakland started long before the sun came up. At 6 a.m., my siblings and I were already “dressed to the nines” in our finery — new button up shirts, ironed dresses, hair done up with bows, fighting off sleep and the chill of the Bay Area fog.
The drive was a quiet pilgrimage through the winding roads, but the destination was a world apart. We were heading to Julotta, the traditional Swedish dawn service. For a child between the ages of 6 and 16, this was not just a religious obligation. It was a journey into a different kind of reality. It was a transition from the cold, gray dampness of the outside world into a sanctuary of light, sound and safety.
Entering the Christmas village
The magic began the moment we stepped out of the car and walked as a family up the hill to the church. Leaving the foggy darkness behind, we entered the atrium and were immediately transported. It felt like walking into a Christmas village. The air was thick with the scent of pinecones, hot chocolate and apple cider.
Any tiredness or grumbling from the early wake-up call vanished instantly, replaced by anticipation. My parents beamed, happy to have the family together, greeting friends with hugs and laughter. Through the huge doors lay the sanctuary, basking in warm light. It was a visual feast: garlands, fresh poinsettias and a massive Christmas tree topped with a traditional paper star, with presents for needy families tucked beneath its branches.
As the youngest of five kids, life was often a whirlwind of activity and noise. But this space was a sanctuary in the literal sense. Inside these walls, the busy hum of our daily lives faded away, and time seemed to stand still. It was a safe space where nothing could touch us but joy, love and warmth.
The sound of morning
The heartbeat of the Julotta service was the choir. About 50 men and women, dressed in special holiday choral robes, would file onto the risers. When the room went silent and they began to sing the traditional hymn “Var Hälsad Sköna Morgonstund” (“Be greeted beautiful morning hour”), the emotional weight was palpable. The lyrics did more than just welcome the dawn. They signaled the official, spiritual arrival of Christmas.
I remember watching the faces of the choir members — people I knew from ordinary Sundays — transformed by the music. There was one woman who cried almost every time she sang. As a child, I found her vulnerability disarming and brave. Seeing an adult openly moved by the spirit of the lyrics helped me understand the gravity of Christmas — that it was about more than just the excitement of presents. It was an art form, and it was holy.
The ‘Festival of Lights’
While Julotta marked the culmination of the season on Christmas morning, the anticipation began weeks earlier. On Dec. 13, we celebrated Santa Lucia Day, the “Festival of Lights.” This event was held in the church gym, usually a utilitarian space for youth groups and folding chairs.
But for this feast, the community worked hard to transform it into something unrecognizable. Lights were dimmed to a warm ambient glow, tables were dressed with linens and centerpieces and chairs were covered to hide their metal frames.
The air smelled of fresh bread, savory meats and rich sauces — a sensory mix of Swedish cuisine and the spirit of God. I recall the hush that fell over the room as the procession began. The central figure, chosen to portray Lucia, led the way. She was dressed in a white gown symbolizing purity and a red sash representing martyrdom, but what captivated me most was the crown of greenery and candles glowing upon her head. Following her were the handmaidens — her court of young girls also dressed in white, carrying candles to light the path.
To my young eyes, the Lucia figure and her court were profoundly aspirational. Amidst the usual whirlwind of childhood, they appeared angelic, mature and untouched by the world. I was transfixed by the way they walked so slowly, bringing light into the dim room.
While I never wore the crown of candles myself, I found my own place in the story during the children’s Nativity plays on Christmas morning. I worked my way up the hierarchy of roles, from a sheep in the flock to a shepherd, and finally, to the angel Gabriel.
Being cast as the only angel with a speaking part was a profound moment. Standing on that stage to deliver the message of Christ’s birth, I felt seen in a manner that children seldom experience. I felt a responsibility to the story and a true connection to the magic I had witnessed for so long.
A spiritual anchor
Today, my relationship with faith has evolved. I am not a regular church attender, and I have redefined my connection to religion over the last several years. Yet, when the holidays approach, I find myself seeking to relive that magic.
The memories of First Covenant Church — the light streaming through the stained-glass windows, the smell of saffron buns, the total elation when the procession entered the room — serve as a spiritual anchor for me now.
Looking back, I realize that my experience was the embodiment of First Covenant Church’s mission: to “be a light for the city.” In the diverse urban landscape of Oakland, the church created a refuge of warmth and brightness that I carry with me.
These traditions, dating back to the Middle Ages, were born out of the darkest time of the year to symbolize the return of light to the world. Remembering them today confirms for me that God is present in beauty and in the effort we make to create peace for one another. The contrast of that early morning drive — leaving the dark to find the light — remains an enduring lesson of the holiday season.
The views expressed in this opinion column are those of the author. They do not necessarily reflect the views of FāVS News. FāVS News values diverse perspectives and thoughtful analysis on matters of faith and spirituality.
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What a beautiful story from childhood at Christmas. Thanks for sharing the peace and brightness of that special time.
It’s nice that you felt this. Not vital. Just nice. In my family, Christmas was entirely a pretentious show of one-upmanship. My parents didn’t regard any of the gifts I had made as a child to be any more than trash, and for that matter, my father regarded me as trash till the day he died when he told me that he was ashamed of me. No attempt to honor him was ever accepted by either parent. He even denounced me a disrespectful cheat in 1st grade when I wrapped up a gift for my mother. So I doubled what I gave to each of my parents but could never outdo them at any Christmas. For that, the guilt piled on further year after miserable year till Christmas was for me an evil to escape. Today, I ban it from my home, preferring other avenues for the exercise of natural innocence that have much greater meaning… and Christianity has no part in it. Let nobody try to convince me otherwise. It’s detestable to me.
Sorry to hear Yvanna, sounds just awful.