This past Monday, if you were outside in the evening and bothered to look up, you may have noticed an unusual conjunction of the orbits of Saturn and Jupiter. The two planets have not been so close to one another since 1623, but in that year, the sun’s glare would have obscured the effect of the two planets’ movements. 1226 was the last time the rare proximity of Saturn and Jupiter would have been visible to the human eye.
Of all the years in recent memory, I do wonder if this is the Christmas to look up into the sky more than we might be accustomed to doing. It has been difficult to escape the survival mechanism of looking at one’s own navel or immediate household in the past nine months. And with glasses fogging up from wearing a mask, even looking at the night sky can be quite a challenge.
I confess that I do not often look up at the stars, planets, or heavenly spheres. But now that I no longer live in Center City Philadelphia, I really should make a point of doing so. It could be that precisely what we need right now is to look up, away from ourselves, at an otherworldly realm so vastly distant from us.
This, at least, was the argument made by New York Times reporter Dennis Overbye in an article last Friday, where he suggested that observing the “rare conjunction of planets” reminds us that “there is more to the universe than just ourselves.”[1]
A look up at the night sky, at least when one can see any stars at all, is a reminder of the astounding number of heavenly bodies, bodies that are light years away. Imagine, gazing upon light that emanated from its source hundreds of years ago, as if we are looking back in time. Contemplating the heavens evokes a sober, if wondrous, recognition that our place in the universe is small indeed.
But this year has seemed much like a year of looking down. For fear of breathing in another person’s breath, we have shielded our faces. We have kept our eyes on the cracks in the sidewalk. And we have vigilantly monitored our own health for signs of a cough or congestion. We have anxiously analyzed our bank accounts, comparing them against the volatile markets. We have stockpiled toilet paper and spent countless hours staring at computer screens. How many times have you looked up this past year?
Admittedly, it has been difficult to appreciate the light this past year, for it has seemed all too dark. In some ways, the past nine months have felt like someone suddenly throwing the lights off in a room, leaving us stumbling to find the switch but unable to do so. We have grasped for the switch that would illuminate a vaccine or some revolutionary cure for a deadly virus. We have searched in the dark for ways to connect with our friends and loved ones when we couldn’t meet in person or exchange hugs or kisses.
For some, this year has been much darker than for others. There have been unfathomable losses, and to deny the reality of the darkness would be insensitive and unconscionable. The darkness, too, has extended into many areas of our lives, beyond the scope of a virus. There has been searing hatred played out on the streets of this country. Many feel stranded in the dark about what individual futures will hold, and they fear for the well-being of their children.
What has seemed permanent in the past has been rendered transient. Customs that were formerly like second nature have disappeared, and we have been groping madly around the dark room, scraping our hands on the walls and praying that we would find a light switch to illumine the darkness. But when we finally find it, the electricity is out.
So, perhaps this is why we should look up. As the light fades in the evening sky, the constant shining of the stars, the carefully scripted orbits of the planets, and the vast multitude of lights in the dark sky, remind us that we are part of something so much larger than ourselves.
Perhaps this, of all days, is the day to look up for a visible sign that St. John’s words are really true. It is on this great Feast of the Incarnation that we celebrate two contrasting things as one Truth. God is beyond time and space, and God became flesh in a tiny infant, living among the toils and tribulations of humankind. We can’t part with either piece of knowledge lest we lose some deeper truth.
When the sorrows of this earthly life have seemed too much to handle, and when the vicissitudes of life on this mortal coil have left us bewildered, looking up might be exactly the right thing to do. Looking up into the night sky, we remember, as John tells us, that the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it. It is admittedly hard to see this light in our worst moments. Life in the past months has seemed perilously close to the victory of darkness, if light could even be said to exist at all.
St. John writing about the beginning of time knew, of course, what the end would be like as well. John knew that the world’s true Light, Jesus himself, would be shrouded with darkness on the rough wood of a tree outside Jerusalem. But John also knew that on the third day, Light would rise victorious, because this Light could not be extinguished, not by the savage cruelty of humans, not even by the depths of hell.
This Light shines perpetually. It never goes out. Its full power is often masked by deceit, and it is true that the devil masquerades as an angel of light. It is also true that at times the frequency of this Light appears to waver, and its intensity seems to weaken. But this is only a delusion; don’t let it fool you. The Light is always beaming bright, even when it is rejected or goes unseen.
What the Light visualizes is simply what has been present in the beginning and eternally, when there was no beginning. The created light we see is just a visible sign of the one true uncreated Light, the eternal Word, that never had a first appearing, but which simply always was, with the Father and the Spirit.
When the light around us is poor, when it seems to randomly shift colors, when it forsakes us and leaves us lonely, afraid, and unable to move, we need to remember that there is a Light that never fades. There is a Light nearer to us than we are to ourselves which is also so far removed from us in utter constancy that we have to look up to recall that this Light still exists. This Light has run throughout eternity and broken into human time and space to thread its way into our bones and blood so that it could pull us into the eternal stream of life and love.
And even when we turn our backs on this Light, it is still there. Even when we try our best to blot it out through willfulness, pride, and sin, it does not change. Even when we are so turned in on ourselves that we only see the darkness of our own shadow, the Light is still there illuminating the form of our bodies.
And meanwhile, at the end of a dark year, Saturn and Jupiter are passing very close to one another as they follow their charted paths. These planets seem utterly unaware of the pain and travail here below. But there is still some time to look up and see the visual wonders they are performing in the night sky.
They signal that there is a rhythm and order beyond our understanding and control. And while we toil away in the heartache of this moment in time, there is at least some semblance of constancy about us. Even when ICU beds are filled to capacity, and we are tired of keeping to ourselves, and when we long to sing just one Christmas carol in church, even then, Saturn and Jupiter continue on their business, reminding us that when all seems unstable, there is something constant among us, something infinitely more constant than the predictable orbits of those heavenly bodies.
Somewhere, hidden in the mess of the present moment, the eternal Word still abides. Jesus, the constant Light of God’s presence still shines. Even when, and especially when, God’s care and provision seem masked by the dark, we must remember to look up to the lights shining in the darkness to remind us that in the mystery of God, the lights never go out.
And at some point, we will cease our stumbling, and, through God’s grace, our hands will find the light switch, and the room will be flooded with a brilliance that pains our eyes because we have been in the dark so long.
But meanwhile, we wait. And while we wait, we must remember to look up, to remind ourselves, that what St. John said was true. There is a Light shining in the darkness, and the darkness cannot overcome it. It never has. It cannot. And it never will. Thanks be to God.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Nativity of Our Lord Jesus Christ
December 25, 2020
[1] Dennis Overbye, “The Solstice, Solace for Our Darkness,” NY Times, December 18, 2020.