Somehow, this night, in spite of the darkness outside and all around us, you have found this place. You could have been in any number of other places: at home by a cozy fire, celebrating at dinner with friends, or isolating yourself for fear of contracting the new variant of the virus. But you are here, and something has drawn you to this place.
Maybe it’s the light. At the time of year when the days are shortest and darkness comes too soon, something within us always seems to want to find the light, like insects gravitating to a flame. Maybe that’s why you have come to this church on this night. Are you looking for the light?
There is something irresistible about the charm of candlelight. Every year, people flock to candlelight carol services. Each Christmas Eve, during the singing of “Silent Night,” we dim the church lights and bask in the glow of hand candles. Even when all the world outside the walls of this church seems to be moral darkness, we still come to sit for a time in darkness knowing that there will also be candlelight to pierce through the gloom.
I witnessed this last Sunday evening at our service of Advent Lessons and Carols. We began in darkness, and there was a moment at the beginning of the service that, to me, felt a bit chaotic. Everyone stood up when the Tower bell rang, and just as we were supposed to light the congregation’s candles, we discovered that our candlelighters were out of wick. I found myself scurrying to the Tower doors to obtain a hand candle and pass it to an acolyte, who then proceeded to spread the light among the gathered congregation.
It was an awkward, perhaps suspenseful moment as we tried to summon light into the darkness. The light was supposed to appear, but for a minute, it seemed as if it wouldn’t. But once it did, it started to spread. And it could not stop. The next day, I watched the livestream of the service, but I didn’t sense the anxiety I felt inside as we sought to resolve the problem of wickless candlelighters. Instead, I saw something incredible happen. While I was inwardly anxious about resolving a liturgical detail, what I saw outwardly—and probably what most people saw—were tiny pricks of light spreading throughout the dark nave of the church. In the midst of the darkness, light had appeared.
And when finally it seemed that most people’s candles were lighted, one person on the Gospel side of the nave crossed the center aisle to pass the light to someone on the other side. I realized, then, that as much as I wanted to control the light that evening, I couldn’t, and even still, the light didn’t go out. It spread from person to person. The light was in no danger of being extinguished. Because it had been ignited, it could only be shared.
At this moment in time, when the entire world seems captive to chaos and illness, the image of light on this most holy night brings us back to the basics. The image of light is a simple image. It is used throughout Holy Scripture, and it may seem to be a trite one because it is used so much. There’s nothing clever about it. And yet, most people seem to understand what it means. That’s why it’s such a wonderful image.
As the prophet Isaiah tells us, to God’s people wandering in darkness, there is a great light sent from God that will shine the people into a new, better future. Eventually, there will be a Messiah who will bring his kingdom to reign and establish peace. And later, in the time of Caesar Augustus, to a land held in the vice-grip of Roman authority, the light appears in an angelic annunciation of a Savior’s birth. The glory of the Lord shines all around a huddle of lowly shepherds keeping watch in their fields. The light is carried by these same shepherds to the Holy Family itself, and Mary takes it inside, and she ponders it in her heart. And even when the light seems to become invisible, it never, ever goes out. It stays in the hearts of those like Mary who keep it aflame.
This light is pure gift. It is pure mystery. It cannot be fully fathomed or understood. It cannot be controlled. And yet it shines. We do not know when a gust of wind will threaten to blow it out. The more we try to protect it and keep it burning, the more we risk smothering it ourselves. But it always keeps burning. All we need to do is gaze upon and tend the flame.
We can imagine Blessed Mary after the shepherds have departed from her in Luke’s Gospel. She is left with a little flame in a candle, gazing upon it, pondering it in her heart. Meanwhile, the shepherds must go to other places, to share this light they have been given with others. The light has been ignited, and they must tell the good news of a Savior born for the salvation of the world.
And tonight, this is where the story stops. There will be other acts in this play. Mary’s entire life will be a grand sharing of the light that her Son Jesus has brought into the world. She will nurture the light as she rears her son and as he perfectly manifests the light of God to a world drowned in darkness. Even when people fail to perceive the light, the light is still there. It is a delicate, precious flame that can never, ever go out. The light always brings us back to the basics of the hope that is within us.
Here’s another truth: our present age is not the first to walk in darkness. Isaiah told of a people wandering in darkness, threatened by enemies, but seeing light in the hope of God’s future protection and blessing. The age of the shepherds, Mary, Joseph, and the baby Jesus was ensconced in its own vale of darkness. And tonight, I imagine that many of us are bringing the sorrows of our hearts, our weariness, and all that weighs us down to the Christmas crèche. We are longing to behold even a glimmer of light to reassure ourselves that the flame has not gone out.
Two Christmases ago, who would have guessed we’d be fumbling in the dark of a pandemic? One Christmas ago, who would have thought we’d still be sealing our faces with masks, letting the chilly night air into the church, and dealing with new utterances of a vicious virus? Would you ever have imagined in your lifetime that you’d fear getting too close to someone or that you’d meet someone for the first time without ever seeing their entire face? Nearly two years in, we are just plain weary. We know there must be light at the end of the tunnel, but we can’t see it yet. And that, in and of itself, is frightening.
Last Sunday evening, as I stood at the back of the church before Lessons and Carols, I waited for the light to spread, not knowing how or if it would. I could not control it. But it spread and it lingered for over an hour. Throughout the service, I watched my hand candle get smaller and smaller, but it never burned out. The hand candles throughout the church lighted the way for people to sing carols and, perhaps, it brought into a dark time some glimmer of hope.
I suspect that you, like me, have come here tonight not to deny the weariness of this time but to find burning within it some light to give you hope. There are many who would try to squelch our hope or who would tell us that we are looking for it in the wrong place. But we all know better, I think.
The darkness is all around us. It will, in some sense, to a greater or lesser degree, always be with us. But emerging from within it, is a light that shines forth to a new future. This is how the light of Christ works. It shines out from the heart of the darkness. There are plenty of times when the light will have seemed to go out. And when that occurs, look inside your neighbor. Look inside yourself. Look especially to the manger and the cross. The light is there.
The reason we flock to church every Christmas is not only to celebrate the birth of Jesus, our Messiah and Savior, but to remind ourselves that there is a light burning within us that we must tend. It was shared with our ancestors long, long ago, and passed down through the ages. It sparked into the world on that dark night in a cave in the Middle East. It lit fires across the world, and although some burned out, the flame itself never did. At times, in order to preserve the light, it has been pondered in the hearts of the faithful until it could be shown forth again.
We, too, have been charged to tend this flame. Like a delicate candle, let us not walk too fast with it, lest a gust of wind overwhelm it. Let us not hurt the eyes of those around us by shining it too forcefully upon them. Let us hold it gently in our hands as the mystery that it is, knowing that it is ultimately beyond our understanding.
Do not hide this light. Carry it with you into the darkest places of the earth. And when those around you fail to shine their lights, look inside yourself to find the light that was given to us so long ago. For on this night, a Child was born. A Light was given to us and to the world. And all the ages, including ours, that have walked in darkness, have seen a great light. May we always look to it, both within and without.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
Christmas Eve 2021