Christmas Eve 2024
With bellies full from our shared meal, we gather in the living room, and turn off the lights. All that illumines the faces of those gathered is a single candle, flickering behind a transparency, a paper cutout of a silhouette of the holy family with the words, written above it, “The light shines in the darkness.” One by one, people take the flame from that one candle and light other candles that have been placed around the room, candles which illuminate angels, stars, or other scenes from the beloved story of Jesus’ birth. As they light candles, people share their stories, their prayers, their hopes for this season, and together we hold these offerings, and sing a carol, pointing us ever toward Emmanuel, God-with-us. As time passes, the darkness that once shrouded the room, has been scattered by the flickering flames of people’s hopes, prayers, and memories. A light indeed shines in the darkness.
I’ve just described a beloved family tradition from my mom’s side of the family. My mom remembers that her older brother, when they used to do this as kids, would always choose the darkest corner he could find, and light that candle, desiring as he did to bring light into the darkest corners of the living room, and the world.
This memory came to mind when I came across a poem this year by Jan Richardson, called “How the Light Comes.” She writes,
I cannot tell you
how the light comes.
What I know
is that it is more ancient
than imagining.
That it travels
across an astounding expanse
to reach us.
That it loves
searching out
what is hidden,
what is lost,
what is forgotten
or in peril
or in pain.
Imagine that – a Light that loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril, or in pain. It seems to me there is a lot of those things, in this life, and we often feel it more profoundly at the holidays. I think of a friend whose husband recently lost his battle with cancer, and another friend who fears this could be her last Christmas with her dad, who is battling ALS. I think of those who are fearful of what the new year will bring, and those who do not feel they can live authentic lives, for fear of their safety. I think of those who are estranged from family, or who lack sufficient work or reliable housing, or who are far from home. Of course, there are also many here tonight and everywhere whose hearts are filled to bursting with joy, and what a blessing that is! But the truth is, while there is plenty of joy and hope and love to go around this season, there is also sadness and pain for past losses, or for current realities, and there is anxiety and fear for the future. Ignoring that won’t make it go away.
That is why I am so drawn to Richardson’s beautiful claim that the ancient Light that “travels across an astounding expanse to reach us,” loves to seek out these places we may keep hidden beneath a mask of “everything’s fine,” places with peril or pain for body or spirit. Like my uncle, a boy lighting a candle in the darkest corner, the Light searches for the darkest corner of the room, and goes to it, illuminating what would have stayed in darkness and never seen the light of hope.
That’s what it was like that first Christmas night. We have sanitized this story over time, making it more sweet than fearful, more cute than painful. It is easy to miss or overlook why this light shining in the darkness, this babe born in a manger, was so important. But remember, Israel was at this time an occupied territory, and Roman occupation was often more peril than picnic. They had been waiting for hundreds of years to hear a word of hope from God, but instead they felt abandoned, lost, forgotten. The year that Emmanuel, God-with-us, was born, the earth was more than ready for a savior. They were living in a land of deep darkness, just like the people in our reading this evening from Isaiah. They longed to see a great light. They longed for that light to, as Richardson writes, search out what is hidden, what is lost, what is forgotten, or in peril, or in pain.
And we still feel that longing for the light, albeit now for different reasons. It is part of why we love going out to look at Christmas lights displays, why we love to light candles as the days grow darker through December. We long for brightness to dispel the darkness! It is also why we practice acts of generosity during this season, why we love to hear and watch heartwarming stories that restore our faith in humanity, and make us feel hopeful. We are yearning for that ancient light, that searches out the darkest corners of the room and our hearts.
I heard one such story this season, that took place in Toledo, Ohio in December of 2018. At a large intersection in town was a huge weed that had pushed through the concrete and managed to avoid getting cut down. It was a giant, persistent eye sore. As a joke one day, someone hung some tinsel on the weed, making it into something of a Charlie Brown Christmas tree. The next day, someone added an ornament, as well as a sign saying, “The Christmas Weed.” The day after that, people started leaving gifts by the tree – free gifts for anyone to take! By now, this ugly thing at a busy intersection was really getting some traction – someone made a Facebook page for it. 10,000 people started following, and as the days went on, more gifts were added. Before long, there were lawn reindeer, a costumed Santa waving to the cars passing by, and people started taking their families to sing carols at the Christmas Weed. Hats, scarves, and blankets appeared, free to whoever needed them. This organic effort, begun by a tiny piece of reflective plastic tinsel, was the light of the town!
But then, two days before Christmas Eve, someone came and took everything, and destroyed the weed, snuffing out that light. Yet still, the Christmas Weed, and the light, persisted. There appeared on the spot a potted weed, very similar to the one that was taken. Within hours there was more there than had been there before. A nearby Walgreens put out bins for the influx of items. They provided hot chocolate and opened their parking lot for visitors. Police directed traffic so people could safely visit the Weed. Local agencies took turns picking up donations. One pastor serving in Toledo said, “The Christmas Weed was the light and hope the town needed [that year].” Another resident commented, “May every town be blessed with such a Weed.”
You see – the Light loves searching out what is hidden, lost, forgotten, in peril or in pain. The Light searches out the weeds – the unwanted, unsightly intruders, and brightens them with hope. The Light pursues the darkest corners, where we try to hide the things that hurt, and as Richardson’s poem goes on, it “works its way / into the deepest dark / that enfolds you, / though it may seem / long ages in coming / or arrive in a shape / you did not foresee” – like the shape of an ungainly Christmas Weed, or a single flame in the darkest corner of the room, or a babe born to peasants in a stable in a backwater town.
The people who walk in darkness have seen a great light. It is the light that persists like a weed. It is the light that will not allow us to feel alone in our sadness. It is the light that, in the words of Howard Thurman that our choir will sing tonight, brings “hope where despair keeps watch… courage for fears ever present… peace for tempest-tossed days… grace to ease heavy burdens… [and] love to inspire all [our] living.”
Let us turn toward this Light, this Christmas, opening ourselves to it, ready to receive what it offers. May the light shining in the darkness, that shown from a lowly manger and brightened the night, shine also in our hearts. Amen.
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