Light in the North: A Scandinavian Christmas

Here in Gothenburg, Sweden, winter is not just the name of a season; it is a state of mind and a reality to cope with. The sun rises late and sets early, leaving us in a grey twilight for most of the day. By three in the afternoon, the city is dark, and further up north, they do not see the sun at all. In Stockholm, they have so far had thirty minutes of sunlight during December; that is less than two minutes of sunshine per day. But this darkness is one of many things that makes a Swedish Christmas so special. We do not fear the dark; instead, we fight it with light, a light that comes in many forms. 

Having spent the past couple of months working abroad, all the way from Rome to Bethlehem, enjoying the warm climate and holy Christian sites, I still found myself longing for the return home. I realized just how deeply my spirituality is rooted in our Scandinavian traditions, and thus even booked a flight early just to get home to our annual Saint Lucia concert, as Advent would not feel complete without it. As a Catholic living in this once Catholic, now allegedly ‘secular’ and post-Lutheran land, I would, on paper, feel more at home in the countries I just spent autumn in. Yet, walking through the streets of my city, I often marvel at how beautiful and deeply religious our traditions still are, even if many people have forgotten why. 

Light of Bethlehem 

The first thing a visitor notices is the windows. It does not matter if it is an apartment in the city or a small red cottage in the countryside. In almost every single window, you will see a bright Advent star or an Advent candelabra (of which the electric version was actually invented here in my city of Gothenburg), the seven lights symbolising the gifts of the Holy Spirit or the burning bush as seen by Moses on Mount Horeb. 

Walking home, passing row after row of these lights, it feels like the whole country is holding its breath. We are waiting. Historically, these lights guided people to church in the early morning. Today, they turn every home into a lighthouse to light up our lives in the midst of the darkness, a geometric reminder of Bethlehem, a compass pointing towards Christmas Eve. Even for those who do not go to church, this tradition is sacred. It is a way of saying, “The true light is coming.” 

She comes with peace

In the middle of December, when the nights are at their longest, we celebrate something uniquely beautiful: Saint Lucia. It is a paradox that Sweden, a country shaped by the Reformation, loves this Catholic saint from Sicily more than anyone else does. 

On the morning of December 13th, schools, offices, and churches turn off their lights. In the darkness, a procession enters. It is led by a young woman, often with long blonde hair, dressed in white, with a red sash around her waist and a crown of burning candles on her head. She brings peace and beautiful songs about the light overcoming the dark, and also, of course, coffee and saffron buns. She is often accompanied by Stjärngossar (roughly translated to “Star Boys”). Attending Mass at the Franciscan Monastery in Gothenburg this Sunday, I had to fulfill my yearly duty of putting on a white robe, a long white pointy hat, and a stick with a gold star in my hand, taking on the role of a Star Boy symbolising the wise men, accompanying Saint Lucia in the procession before church coffee could begin. 

To see Lucia enter a dark church is a powerful experience. With her white dress symbolising purity and the red sash the blood of her martyrdom. For a brief moment, the modern world stops. We simply sit in the quiet, listening to the choir, reminded that the darkness cannot win.

The taste of medieval tradition 

In Sweden, Christmas Eve is the main day of celebration. As with many other holy days in Scandinavia, we celebrate them on the eve, not on the actual day. We then gather around the famous Julbord, a buffet filled with herring, salmon, and ham. But one humble dish tells a very old tale: Dopp i grytan (“Dipping in the pot”). 

It’s a simple tradition. We take hard bread and dip it into the rich broth where the Christmas ham has been boiled. It tastes of salt and spices, a warm comfort against the cold outside. Before the Reformation, Christmas Eve was a day of fasting. You could not eat the meat yet, so you dipped your bread in the broth to satisfy your hunger while you waited for the birth of Christ. We are tasting the anticipation of the feast as many generations before us have. And even though Swedes generally no longer fast, and the table is filled with meat, the bread still remains. 

The Hymn to the First Martyr 

We also maintain a tradition that is distinctly Swedish yet deeply rooted in the Acts of the Apostles. We celebrate my patron saint, Saint Stephen (Sankt Staffan). 

In the rest of the world, Stephen is remembered solely as the first Christian martyr. In Swedish folklore, however, he became the patron saint of horses. We have special songs, Staffansvisor, that tell the story of “Staffan the Stable Boy,” who watered his five horses before seeing the Star of Bethlehem, and you will not find a soul in Sweden who does not know how to sing them. 

Julotta: The morning watch 

The climax of our Christmas is perhaps the Julotta, the early Matins service on Christmas morning. In the past, people would race their sleighs over the snow to get to church first. Today, we still rise long before the sun. Leaving a warm bed at 6:00 a.m. to go out into the freezing, pitch-black morning requires discipline. But stepping into the church makes it worth it. The nave is illuminated only by real candles. There is no electric light, only the warm glow of wax and wick. Sitting there, surrounded by the smell of incense and winter coats, singing the old hymn Var hälsad, sköna morgonstund (“All Hail, Thou Lovely Morning”), the message becomes clear. The light has returned. The Savior is born. 

Perseverance 

In church this Saturday, during the annual Saint Lucia celebration, I found myself deeply emotional. It was not only the beauty of the singing but also because of melancholy at the thought of how our traditions are step by step being watered down and adjusted to accommodate others. I just hope my own children will be able to experience this immense beauty that I got to experience. Winter in the North may be hard. But our traditions give us reasons to come together. The star in the window, the candles of Lucia, and the breaking of the bread—these are not just old habits. They are anchors. They keep us rooted in our history, our family, and our faith. They remind us that Sweden, despite its modern veneer, rests on a foundation of Christian faith and European culture, which we must protect and cherish. This is our culture; it is beautiful, and it is worth defending. 

God Jul.