H. Michael Brewer
Crescent Springs Presbyterian
18 December 2005
LIGHTING THE LIGHTS
2 Corinthians 4:6
People in the ancient world knew true darkness. In the days before electricity and street lights, they
knew about darkness and they knew it was scary. Scariest of all were those weeks in December when
the daylight kept diminishing while the hours of darkness stretched out—shorter days, longer nights.
Less light, more and more darkness.
Those people weren’t ignorant. They knew the date of the solstice, the longest night of the year, the
turning point that signaled the gradual return of the light and the promise of summer. Many cultures
celebrated the return of the light at the solstice, and that’s why we celebrate the birth of Jesus at this time
of year.
As early missionaries carried the message of Christianity to other lands, they found nations that gave
great religious importance to the return of the light in December, so the Christian preachers seized the
opportunity to make a connection.
Those preachers said to the pagans, “We know that you celebrate the new birth of the sun each year.
We can help you understand the deeper meaning of that event. When the solstice comes, when the days
lengthen again, nature itself is proclaiming the birth of God’s own Son. Like you, we were once lost in
the darkness of our own confusion, lost from God, lost from truth, lost from understanding, but the
coming of Jesus is a light shining through the darkness. When you rejoice in the solstice, you are
actually celebrating the birth of Jesus who frees us from the darkness of sin, the darkness of fear, and
the darkness of death. Come and let us tell you more about this Jesus.”
As the prophet Isaiah predicted, “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.” (Isaiah 9:2 NRSV) That was good
news in the ancient world. It’s good news in our world, too, because there’s still plenty of darkness filling
our days—the kind of darkness you can’t hold at bay with the flip of a light switch—the darkness of fear,
the darkness of depression, physical illness and pain, grief and loss.
We could make a long list of the dark places in life, but we didn’t come here today just to chronicle
our defeats. We didn’t gather so we huddle in the darkness. We come here today to celebrate the light.
We come here to ponder the mystery of John’s Gospel that the Son of God has come into the world, and
in him is life and that life is our light. We gather to bear witness to the light that has shone upon us. We
have felt the warmth of that light, we have feasted on the beauty of that light, and we risk everything
believing that light cannot be snuffed out.
Let’s be plain about this. The light of Christ has come into the world and that changes everything—
but it doesn’t change everything instantly. John says, “The true light…was coming into the world.” The
verb tense John uses in Greek means an event that continues to unfold, a process that isn’t finished yet.
The light has come and it is still coming. The dawn has broken, but the fullness of day is still rising in
the world.
That’s why there are still pockets of deep darkness in our world, in our lives, and sometimes in
ourselves. The light is breaking upon the world, a light the darkness cannot overcome, but the darkness
still lingers for a while yet.
So you hang on. You keep believing in the light even when you can’t see it.
You can make it through the darkness of fear. Whether you’re afraid of cancer or loneliness, whether
you’re afraid that your best isn’t enough, afraid that somebody will discover you’re not as good or as
smart or as confident as you pretend to be. Fear darkens our days, but you can make it through because
you know that God’s perfect love is coming into the world and perfect love casts out fear.
You can hang on through the darkness of depression and the anguish of anxiety. You don’t have to
throw in the towel when some well-meaning person says, “Why don’t you just pull yourself together?”
You think nobody understands what you’re going through, but God knows how hard you’re trying. The
darkness may sometimes hide God from us, but no darkness can ever hide us from God.
And in the shadow of physical illness and pain, don’t give up hope. When sickness makes it a
challenge just to get through the day, when every hour lies under the pall of discomfort or disability,
remember that Christ is no stranger to agony and when his day arrives all will be made whole, all will be
made well, all will be made new.
Don’t give up on life. You can survive the heartbreaking midnight of grief and loss, the bereavements
that lodge like a raw wound in the heart and ache at unexpected moments, surprising us with sadness
we thought we’d left behind. Grief comes in so many forms: the death of a loved one, the failed
business, a broken friendship, the unattained dream, the children we never had or maybe the parents
we wished we’d had. But don’t lay down your faith because the dawn is on the horizon. In Christ a new
day has already begun, a bright day when death will be no more, a sunlit day when grieving and crying
and pain will pass away.
Whatever darkness afflicts your life, you can come through it. You can outlast it with God’s help. You
can come out the other side by God’s grace. “Weeping may linger for the night, but joy comes with the
morning.” (Psalms 30:5 NRSV) And morning is on the way.
The same God who once said, “Let there be light!” has now shone the true light in our hearts—
· the light of knowledge so that we may understand that God is always with us;
· the light of glory, the golden glory forged by faithfulness in hardship;
· the light of Jesus Christ who delivers us from the powers of darkness.
That’s the gospel that brings us here today—the good news of a light shining in the dark. It reminds
me of a story about John Todd, a nineteenth-century clergyman, whose parents died when he was six
years old. A kind-hearted aunt raised him until he left home to study for the ministry. Years later, Todd
wrote to that aunt expressing his gratitude and reminiscing about the night he arrived at her home deep
in the woods.
Here is part of the letter he wrote: “It is now thirty-five years since I, as a boy of six, was left quite alone
in the world. You sent me word you would give me a home and be a kind mother to me. I have never
forgotten the day I made the long journey to your house. I can still recall my disappointment when,
instead of coming for me yourself, you sent your servant, Caesar, to fetch me.
“I remember my tears and anxiety as, perched high on your horse and clinging tight to Caesar, I rode
off to my new home. Night fell before we finished the journey, and I became lonely and afraid. ‘Do you
think she’ll go to bed before we get there?’ I asked Caesar. ‘Oh no!’ he said reassuringly, ‘She’ll stay up
for you. When we get out o’ these here woods, you’ll see her candle shinin’ in the window.’
“Presently we did ride out into the clearing, and there, sure enough, was your candle…a sign to me
that I was not forgotten. That light in the darkness was a promise of welcome, the visible assurance of a
crackling fireplace, a hot supper, and loving arms ready to enfold a tired and bewildered little boy.”
John Todd’s story is our story. No matter how black the night, how cold and long our journey through
the darkness, a light awaits us and a welcome and a homecoming and open arms whose embrace
banishes even the memory of darkness.
Soli Deo Gloria!