Steve Lindsley
Isaiah 9: 2,6
The people who walked in darkness
have seen a great light;
those who lived in a land of deep darkness—
on them light has shined.
For a child has been born for us,
a son given to us;
authority rests upon his shoulders;
and he is named
Wonderful Counsellor, Mighty God,
Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.
John 1: 1-5, 14
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All things came into being through him. What has come into being was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. And the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a father’s only son, full of grace and truth.
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Darkness.
In the beginning – in the very beginning – that is all there was. Darkness and chaos and the murky deep. And it was God who went into that darkness and brought light there; brought it in the form of order and structure and purpose and meaning. Out of which planets were formed, life was fashioned, creatures created. But first, before any of that, darkness had to be infused with light. A feast of light.
Even so, the darkness lingered. It retreated to the far corners and crevices of the world, where it waited for its next opportunity. Because as wonderful and beautiful and astounding as creation is, it never was meant to be perfect. Just as we were never meant to be perfect. For where there is light, there is always the potential for darkness.
And so darkness did find its way into the world again, into the lives of a people who were waiting themselves. Waiting for the one who would set things right. The one who would be full of grace and truth, upon whose shoulders authority would rest; the one with many names, they were waiting for him.
And there was darkness in their waiting. They cried out, How long, O Lord, how long? How long must we wait for the light to come?
And then it came. It came when the darkness was as dark as it would ever get. It came when the waiting people were not sure they could wait one moment longer; it came. The Word became flesh. On this very night. And through him we have seen the glory of God, full of grace and truth.
And so now: the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light. And those who lived in a land of darkness – deep darkness – on them light has shined.
A feast of light!
A feast of light that, as we’ll witness ourselves in a little bit, begins with one flame from one candle, the Christ candle; and then spreads out to everyone else; all the while the light growing and growing as the darkness gets smaller and smaller. All as we sing about silent nights and a wondrous star lending its light, and alleluias with the angels to our king….
Our king. Not the kings of this world or the want-to-be-kings of this world. The light of this night can never come from them – despite what the pundits promise, despite how the spin spins.
No, the light of this night comes from our king, whose palace is an animal stable, whose throne is a feeding trough, whose court hands are teenage parents and barnyard animals and wayward shepherds and visitors from the East. Jesus is our king, and it is to him we sing: Christ the Savior is born, Christ the savior is born.
Even though it’s sometimes easy to forget that. Even though we don’t always see the light. We expect darkness. Sometimes it seems that we even prefer it. We are more drawn to a harsh word than a warm one; more likely to see the bad instead of the good, more prone to divisiveness and discord over harmony and peace. As bright as the light shines, we are still drawn to the darkness.
And that is why Jesus came into the world the way he did – to remind us that, as dark as it may seem, the light is still there.
Hans Hallundbaek, a Presbyterian pastor in New Jersey, tells the story of a Christmas Eve service he helped lead at a maximum security prison in town. He writes,
Christmas in prison is not Christmas. It is undeniably dark. There are no celebrations, no gifts, no decorations. For those incarcerated, the only acknowledgement is the Christmas Eve service, led by volunteers from the outside, held in small cinderblock-walled rooms with folding chairs, a card table, and a metal music stand for a pulpit.
I’d been asked to give the message that evening, Haullendbaek writes. I struggled through it – what does one say on a night of hope to people who have lost all of theirs? At the end I could tell by the blank stares that nothing I said had resonated with them. It was just words – words spoken into and lost in the darkness of it all.
And then it hit me: these men were lost the darkness, and they needed to see the light. And I knew in that moment what I needed to do.
I put down the printed order of worship and said, “In closing tonight, let us light a candle to remember the light of Christ born into the world on this night.” One of the men in the front row said, “Pastor, are you crazy? This is a maximum security prison. Candles are contraband here.”
To which I replied, “Not my candle.” I positioned myself in between them and the empty card table, with my back to them. I reached down as if picking something off the table; and when I turned around to the men I held in my hands a candle. Except it wasn’t a candle – not a real one, at least. It was a candle in mind only, but I held it in such a way that it might become a candle in theirs, too. I held it up high: “Can you see,” I said, “Can you see this beautiful candle?”
Initially, they stared at me with bewilderment. Until someone two seats back said, “Yes, pastor, yes, I see the candle. It is beautiful.” Other heads started nodding.
I carefully placed the candle at the center of the table. I reached into my pocket and produced a small box of imaginary matches. “Let me light the candle,” one of the men said. He came forward, took the “matches” out of my hand, struck one of them, and lit the candle. He took his seat.
And so there they were, this roomful of men, hardened by years and in some cases decades of prison, soaking in the light of this candle. I swear I could see the flame reflecting in their eyes, sinking even deeper into their hearts. How thirsty the soul must be to so eagerly see a candle’s light glowing inside a dark prison room.
We gazed at this lit candle in silence for a while. And eventually it came time for our service to end. I leaned over to blow the candle out, only to be cut off by a loud voice from the very back row: “NO! No, pastor, please! Please don’t blow that candle out. Don’t ever blow that candle out. I want it to stay lit so that every time I come in this dark room I can still see its light.”
Hans did not blow the candle out that night. It remained lit long after that Christmas Eve service ended. And when he returned the following year to lead the service again, when he walked into that same dark cinderblock-wall room, he was greeted by familiar faces who pointed at the card table, where the candle still was, where the flame had stayed lit all year long.[1
Beloved, I have no idea what is going on in your life. I have no idea what this coming year will bring – bring our church, our community, our country, our world. Sometimes it seems like the darkness is all there is, all there ever will be.
But if this night tells us anything, beyond a shadow of doubt, it is that the darkness is never too dark for the light to shine. So look for that light wherever you are, friends. It is there – the light is always there. A feast of light!
In the name of the Creator, Redeemer and Sustainer, in the name of the One born this very night to be a light to the world, thanks be to God – and may all of God’s people say, AMEN!
* Because sermons are meant to be preached and are therefore prepared with the emphasis on verbal presentation, the written accounts occasionally stray from proper grammar and punctuation.
[1] Adapted from https://nextchurch.net/christmas-in-prison/.