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| "Fall Sun" by maxine1313, on Flickr |
Hebrews 1:1-4
Long ago God spoke to our ancestors in many and various ways by the prophets, but in these last days he has spoken to us by a Son, whom he appointed heir of all things, through whom he also created the worlds. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being, and he sustains all things by his powerful word. When he had made purification for sins, he sat down at the right hand of the Majesty on high, having become as much superior to angels as the name he has inherited is more excellent than theirs.
John 1:1-14
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
There was a man sent from God, whose name was John. He came as a witness to testify to the light, so that all might believe through him. He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light. The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world.
He was in the world, and the world came into being through him; yet the world did not know him. He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him. But to all who received him, who believed in his name, he gave power to become children of God, who were born, not of blood or of the will of the flesh or of the will of man, but of God.
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.
--
As the first birds start to sing their song over Bethlehem, Mary opens her eyes. Joseph is not yet stirring, and the newborn Jesus is still sleeping, tired from all the work of entering the world. The first ribbons of daylight creep through the cracks in the ceiling, and in the rising light of dawn, Mary feels all of the anxieties of the night lift away.
The darkness had been full of hard things: a hard journey over the hard ground; the sharp pains of labor; the rough disappointment of hearing that there was no room; the sting of fear that comes with being vulnerable, homesick, and in pain in the deep middle of the night, when the shadows are darkest and when the world seems most uncertain.
But it is morning now. The morning is still and clear. The rising of the herald star is now eclipsed by the rising of the sun; light upon light. There is a softness here, a hush, a waking moment to ponder all the wonders of the night. For the first time, Mary can see every detail of her baby boy's face; each soft curve of his cheek, each eyelash as it flutters, every wisp of downy hair.
What has come into being with him was life, and the life is the light of all people. He is the reflection of God’s glory and the exact imprint of God’s very being. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
Light was the first miracle of all creation - in the beginning, when the world was a formless void and the Spirit of the Lord hovered over the face of the waters, God spoke into the darkness and said, "Let there be light." And there was light. And it was good.
We repeat this miracle every morning - from darkness, light rises with each new dawn. Today, once again, the sun has risen, in hazy streaks of light that tumble over the bluffs and reawaken the sleeping earth from its nighttime dreaming.
But this morning, the light seems different, doesn't it? Somehow it is clearer, holier, filled with the shimmer of deep miracles; in the light, we get our first real look at the tiny, red, wrinkled face of the newborn Jesus. I'm not sure whether it is the gravity of this baby's divinity that makes our hearts soften, or whether it is merely the effect of being in the presence of an impossibly tiny, fragile, untried, adorable baby. But either way, don't you feel your heart soften just a little when you, like Mary, take your first deep look at the baby Jesus, our newborn savior, God in a wee bit of flesh?
We live in a world that keeps its edges sharp. We tend toward cynicism instead of good will, sarcasm instead of genuineness. We take pride in having hard noses and being hard-headed and drawing hard lines. Politicians and news media drive us toward establishing clear, fear-filled boundaries between races, religions, political ideologies, and worldviews. We are told that we will succeed if we are tough, unrelenting, and defensive instead of vulnerable, soft, and considerate.
But against all of these hard edges, the light of Christ spills over into our world with shifting edges, moving into all the dark corners, spreading over hills and valleys, uncontained, unrestricted, making fuzzy the edges of our shadows, making permeable the boundaries of our hearts and minds. That’s what light does! It flows and fills; it cannot be captured or hoarded. Light has power to banish darkness; brightness to bring clarity; gentleness to rouse us from dark nights of the soul.
The soft light of Christ’s dawn does not just rise over Decorah this morning.
The light of Christ’s dawn rises over children awakening in refugee camps and over homeless families in makeshift shelters.
It rises over Democrats and Republicans and Independents; democracies and monarchies and parliaments.
The light of Christ rises over Israel. And over Palestine.
It rises over peaceful, sleepy small towns and war zones and crime-ridden corners of giant cities.
The light of Christ rises over farmers and police officers and bankers and electricians; piano teachers and custodians and stay-at-home-parents and CEOs.
It rises over Lutherans and Catholics and Methodists and Presbyterians; over Jews and Muslims; atheists and agnostics.
The light of Christ rises over shrinking ice caps and barren forests; over flourishing farms and rolling seas.
It rises over those who have spent this dark night in fear, in grief, in anxiety, or in sleeplessness. It rises over those who slept deeply and in peace. It rises over those who have worked the night shift and over children who awoke in the wee hours of the morning, wide awake with excitement.
John tells us that Christ, the true light coming into the world, is the light that enlightens everyone. Christ is the light that opens our eyes to see a world that God loves, deeply. And Christ is the light that calls us to serve and love all people and all places that the light touches.
Just as Scrooge’s heart was enlightened by his visions, softening him to become a person of compassion and generosity; just as the Grinch’s heart grew three sizes after hearing the Whos down in Whoville singing in the morning light, so also does the birth of Christ call us toward enlightened eyes that see one another and the world with new softness, new compassion, new love and generosity and graciousness of spirit.
My prayer today, for you and for me, is that this Christmas morning might re-enliven us in our God-given calling to love one another. That we might take the risk of being vulnerable and crossing boundaries, just as God himself crossed the boundary between heaven and earth to become a fragile human baby in our world. My prayer is that we might not draw up walls and fences around the light, but instead be bearers of the light, vessels for Christ, vehicles for the ongoing illumination of the world.
I bless you and commission you for this task, in the words of poet Jan Richardson:
Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light
Blessed are you
who bear the light
in unbearable times,
who testify
to its endurance
amid the unendurable,
who bear witness
to its persistence
when everything seems
in shadow
and grief.
Blessed are you
in whom
the light lives,
in whom
the brightness blazes—
your heart
a chapel,
an altar where
in the deepest night
can be seen
the fire that
shines forth in you
in unaccountable faith
in stubborn hope
in love that illumines
every broken thing
it finds.
Amen.
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