Isaiah 9:2-7/Luke 2:1-20
We
were in a strange country, in a strange room and bed. The room was windowless
and the darkness around us was thick and deep. My children were little, and the strangeness of their circumstances
startled them awake. Into that deep darkness, they cried out with their little
voices,
“Mommy! We’re scared. Where are you? We
can’t see you.”
The darkness felt impenetrable, and in
this different room, I could not find a light, so I called out to them in
response, trying to find a way for us to reach one another in the dark.
“Listen to my voice. Follow the sound
of my voice. I’m right here. Listen to me. I’m right here. Just follow my
voice.”
But
the dark was too much for them. They were afraid to move, afraid to trust that
my voice would lead them to me. When I finally found the light and turned it
on, the sudden brightness flooded the room. Everything became clear. Reassured
by that swift, bright light, the children ran to me. I was more than just a
voice in the dark.
“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.”
Walking
in darkness changes our gait and pace. We move cautiously, inch-by-inch. We
grope our way forward, taking tentative steps, unsure of what obstacles might
lie ahead. Voices sound strange in deep darkness. Is that voice we hear ahead
of us or behind? Darkness leaves us blind and unsure. Deep darkness leaves us
hesitant and distrusting, only the small bit of ground currently underneath our
feet seems certain. We only believe in the steps we take. We have no faith in
what lies ahead. And where we have been seems swallowed up in darkness’s
coal-colored pitch.
“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.”
I
wonder if the people who heard Isaiah’s words were like my children. They
stared into the darkness of the world and cried out for help. But even if they
heard a voice calling them forward, they were too afraid to follow its sound.
The darkness seemed to stretch on forever. They could not remember its
beginning, and they could not imagine its end. Isaiah’s prophetic promise of
their deep darkness being shattered by a light must have descended on their
ears like notes of sweet music. When would this light come? Where and how? How
much longer would the darkness of their lives endure?
“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.”
Perhaps for a moment the people who
heard these words believed. Perhaps they waited with great expectation for the
light to come. Perhaps God’s voice shimmered around them, calling them to
listen, to follow, to trust. But the darkness was easier to bear. And this
great light seemed too long in coming.
They settled into their darkness once
again, moving cautiously forward, inch-by-inch. Night’s shadows blurred
Isaiah’s words. Darkness seemed to swallow up even God’s promises.
Until …
Until the darkness surrounding some
shepherds was shattered by the Light. The shepherds must have been used to the
dark. They lived their lives on the hillsides, in the valleys and in the open
spaces. The night sky, whether dark with clouds or brimming with stars must
have been as familiar to them as the ground they walked upon. The shepherds
must have been accustomed to the dark, so did they take the night sky for
granted? Did the familiarity of the heavens cause them to become merely commonplace
to the shepherds below them? Did those shepherds cease to gaze with wonder at
the brightness of the Milky Way shining above them?
Until …
Until an angel shone before them and
proclaimed the birth of a child, a child born to them; a child born to lead
them out of the darkness, a child born to be God’s salvation, a child born to
be the Light the world had been waiting for.
Did those shepherds take the stars for
granted, until the raucous praises of multitudes of angels pierced the quiet of
the night? Did the gift of wonder return to them as their rusty alleluias and
quavering glorias rose in pitch and tempo to match the heavenly hosts’? Did the
gift of wonder return to them when the Light finally broke through?
It must have been Light unlike any
other they had seen or imagined or believed possible. It was Light that
suffused the entire cosmos with its glow. To them, those shepherds and those
ordinary folks living in the darkness, a child was born, and the Light of God filled
the world.
God was in the world, born with a
baby’s cry, a mother’s tears, and a father’s fearful astonishment. God was in
the world, and the darkness was swallowed up in this glorious, riotous Light.
A child was born to them – to shepherds, to
carpenters, to inn keepers, to women, to men, to old, to young. A child was
born to them, and on this night, this holy night, we ponder that this child was
not only born for them so long ago but born for us as well. Born to bring Light
into this dark world, born to set us free from the brokenness that binds us.
On
this night, this holy night, we remember that a child has been born for us,
that the darkness has not overcome the light, in fact the opposite is true. On
this night, this holy night, we are reminded that there are still reasons to be
filled with awe and wonder. On this night, this holy night, we are reminded
that our hopes will not go disappointed, that God’s peace is bigger than the
wars we wage, that there are still reasons to be joyful, and that Love, God’s
Love, God’s overwhelming, life changing, creation renewing Love, comes in
unexpected and unlikely ways.
A
child is born – for us! On this dark night, this silent night,
this holy night, let us renew our wonder at what God has done, what God is
doing, and what God will do. A child is born for us and Light shines in the darkness.
Alleluia!
Amen.
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