Psalm 147:12-20
Ephesians 1:3-14
John 1:1-18
They say that to win a fight you have to know your enemy. God entered fully into the darkness with us, got to know it intimately, but the darkness just couldn’t win. The light shone in the darkness and the darkness did not, could not, overcome it. Could not understand it. Could not grasp it or make sense of it. God made the world and brought light into every darkened corner of shame and fear and hiding. God gave strength to the light that was already there. And the darkness cowered, and fought back, and bit and scratched and yelled and even threw its worst at God by betrayal and mocking and murder on a cross, but that light just kept shining. And the darkness just didn’t get it.
I mean, who offers forgiveness while they are being beaten bloody? Who shares a meal with someone when they know that someone will soon betray them? Who gives and gives, while we take and take, and continues to give even when the gifts are smashed and used as weapons between those to whom they are given? Who cleans up and shows up time after time no matter how messy it gets and how often we run the other way? Who gives up their comfort to sit with us in our pain, or gives up the fruit of the vine and wheat of the field to be hungry with those who are hungry? Who willingly enters into darkness to embrace those who hide there?
Darkness doesn’t do that. Only light can do that. Hate cannot drive out hate. Only love can do that. Fear cannot overcome fear. Perfect love casts out fear. Light shines in the darkness, and those things which had sought to hide can hide no more. Truth sets us free even when we would rather hide in comfort. We could just keep our heads down and hand over the lunch money when that schoolyard bully shows up, or we could stand up, talk with the teachers, say no to the bully, find out what fear the bully is hiding in, and heal together.
Back in seminary, when I was open and honest with my home synod about my bisexuality, they were afraid for me, afraid I would not find a parish call, afraid I would be bullied and that my presence would cause more harm than good. They were afraid because, after our denomination openly affirmed ordaining those who identify as Gay, Lesbian, Bisexual, and Transgender, they had experienced great loss of many parishes they honestly and deeply loved. But if I were to keep my head down, to stay in the dark, to remain in secret about who God has made me to be, I would be fighting fear with more fear. I could not lead honestly and from a place of freedom if I felt silenced. We know far too well that darkness abuses power by making us ashamed, by cutting us off from each other and making us afraid of what might happen if we are honest about our dreams and our doubts.
Another story from recent news: Leelah Alcorn, a transgender teen in Ohio, killed herself this past week because her family was ashamed of her, cut her off from her friends who had offered support, and did so in the name of their Christian faith. She and her entire family were struggling in a darkness of secrecy and shame, leading up to her stepping in front of a semi truck. But the light of hope that sprang from her suicide note, from the many trans* adults who reached out and spoke up about their lives, the Christians who stood up to say that their faith supports and celebrates human diversity, the light of hope which came from the tragedy is still spilling over in words and actions of welcome and acceptance for the many, many teens and adults who have been frightened into hiding and slowly dying under their secrets.
There is a Rabbinic parable I heard ages ago, wherein a teacher asks some students how to tell when night is over and day has come. One student guesses that it is when the last star of the evening has gone out. Another supposes it must be when the sunrise first brings rosy light to the sky. The Rabbi tells them that night is over and day begun when one person can look at a stranger and see that one as their own family. When the light reaches our hearts and changes our vision, both of the other person and of ourselves.
An addict’s first step toward healing is to come into the light and admit there is a problem over which he or she is powerless. Whether it’s our sexuality, poverty, feelings of failure, hiding from the realities of our own lived experiences just increases the darkness. Anybody have that one uncle or estranged second cousin that nobody talks about at the holidays? How awkward does that make family dinners?
To bring our secrets into the light takes away their power. And in those times and places when we do not have the strength to name our illnesses, the light still comes to our darkness. The light still opens prison doors, the light always unlocks the chains which hold us back from living in freedom and love. And when we have grown too comfortable with our chains, too familiar with our prisons, when we do not want to leave them, the light stays there with us, never abandoning us even in our death.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not understand it, and the light keeps shining. When God baptizes someone among us, we give a candle, lit from the Paschal candle, to the newly baptized, with the words, “May your light so shine, that all may see your good works and give glory to God in heaven.” We do this for many reasons, but we do this because that light which shines in our Baptism is a light we carry with us into the rest of the world. The light which is Jesus in our lives shines forth into the lives of those around us, shines hope and healing into the dark places of fear and uncertainty. The light does not give us all the answers, does not mean that we will never be afraid of anything again, but Jesus does remain with us, to feed and to carry and to guide us through every darkness of this life. He is light we can neither control or hide, but only reflect. He is the light of the love of our God, who has made this world, who walks with us in this world, who is always bringing life out of death, always doing a new thing, always loving and forgiving and restoring creation, including us.
This Second Sunday of Christmas, we continue to celebrate the Light coming to us wherever we are. We continue to marvel at God living in our skin, walking among us, pointing out and shattering the lies, of every size, which have held us captive for far too long. And in this infant, who grows up through childhood and adolescence into adulthood, God does the work of saving us from those lies. And we have seen his glory, full of grace and truth. Grace which loves us without end. Truth which sets us free to live in that love. And from his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace. The grace just keeps coming. The light just keeps shining, surprising, renewing. Jesus keeps showing up among us, making us into children of the light. God in Jesus entered fully into the darkness with us, but the darkness just couldn’t win. Can’t win. Won’t win. Because even when it doesn't look like it, Jesus wins. Light wins. Love wins.
Many thanks for these reassuring words!
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