This past week I found myself pondering two things that I encountered online. The first was an opinion essay in the New York Times called “Finding Light in Winter,”[1] written by a clinical psychologist. She argues that if we want to find light amid the darkness, we can do so. The author isn’t naïve; she’s actually pretty honest about all the darkness surrounding us: the wars, the dysfunction in our government, the mass shootings, and the perilous plight of refugees fleeing unstable countries. Rather than ignoring all that darkness, she notes that she would simply fall apart if she couldn’t find the light that still shines.
She wants to find the light because she has a generally favorable view of humanity. She believes that most people desire peace and want to do good. It’s just that it’s difficult to see such goodness because there’s so much darkness. In response, she has cultivated intentional ways of finding the light in her life. She rises early to watch the sun appear in the sky. She treasures special moments with her family. She meditates and prays. She looks constantly for the light.
And then the second thing that grabbed my attention this past week was the Facebook post written by a former seminary classmate of mine, who provocatively suggested that we should abandon Advent. For him, Advent has become just one more way that people over-anticipate Christmas, causing Advent to lose its meaning.
While I did not enter the fray of lively commentary in response to his post, I quickly noted how much pushback he received, and it wasn’t pushback grounded in a desire to prematurely sneak Christmas into Advent. Rather, I detected a loving defense of a season of waiting and anticipation, and I suspect that this love of Advent is, if unconsciously, rooted in a desire to find light within the darkness. Advent is a season in which we’re brutally honest about the darkness that seems to prevail while also looking with hope for the light that can shine within it, indeed in spite of it.
It's to this light that John testifies. For the second week in a row, we meet him in Scripture, although he’s depicted differently by Mark and John. Mark’s John is “the Baptist,” the rugged man who’s a precursor of the Christ, an edgy prophet crying out in the wilderness. But John’s John is not called the Baptist, nor does he seem to be the center of attention. His primary function is to do one thing: to point to Jesus, the true light that has come into the world.
And John does this in the most peculiar way. He states unequivocally what he’s not. He’s not the Christ. He’s not the prophet. He’s not Elijah. He might be a voice crying in the wilderness to prepare the way of the Lord, but by saying who he’s not, he effectively points to the true light, which is Jesus Christ. It’s as if John is the first exemplar of the via negative or “negative theology” that tries to speak about God by saying what God is not, or by saying rather little about God at all, lest we make God too small.
But there’s something powerful in John’s negations, which aren’t merely negative or pessimistic. There’s something in them that’s both oddly clarifying and oddly hopeful. By acknowledging that there’s one greater than he, John acknowledges that the One who is Messiah, who is the great Deliverer, is beyond what we can fathom. And best of all, that One comes to us in the darkness.
It's rather like finding light in winter. The author of the New York Times essay was not making an explicitly Chrisitan argument, but her point does apply to our Christian belief. And our belief is that there is real darkness in the world, and to deny that reality is to deceive ourselves and to do great harm at the same time. To pretend as if there’s no sin or evil is to diminish the profound suffering of the innocent civilian caught in the conflict between Hamas and Israel or the despair of the person struggling with depression as the days get shorter or the helplessness of the student bullied by teachers and students alike. To ignore sin and evil is to be morally irresponsible.
And yet, the darkness is not the complete picture of reality, nor is it the truest picture of it, which is precisely why my seminary classmate’s post about getting rid of Advent is off the mark, in my opinion. We do need Advent. We need it because it’s the season in which we both confront the reality of darkness in our midst and profess that it doesn’t have the last word. The final word can only be spoken by the Word made flesh, who is the true light that lightens the world.
And all this makes Advent a peculiar and glorious season. We allow some joy of Christmas to break into this shadowy world, when in the northern hemisphere, the days are dark and short. But we honor the waiting for Christmas to arrive. To ignore the waiting is to pretend as if only the light exists, as if everyone must be perpetually happy at Christmas, as if there is no darkness, sin, or evil.
And this is where we are called to be like John, the one crying in the wilderness to make straight the way of the Lord. We are called to point to the true light of the world by saying what that light is not. And that light is not so many things. It’s not the power-mongering of war, corporate greed, institutional dishonesty, unforgiving anger, the careless ignoring of the needy, the celebration of division, or the insidious individualism that threatens our collective identity. The true light is precisely what those things are not.
When we acknowledge what the light is not, we need not become reactionary or negative. We testify to something to which John himself witnessed: that despite the darkness, there is a light that shines with hope and glory beyond our imagining. We’re never told that the light that enlightens the world drowns out the darkness. We’re just told that it can’t be extinguished by the darkness. This true light is brave and strong and loving enough to come to us in the darkness.
And this is such good news for all who are lonely, suffering addictions, struggling financially, or locked in a prison cell. Their situations are real and horrible, but the final word is given by the true light that shines into their lives in spite of overwhelming darkness.
In the overwhelming physical darkness of this time of year, as I was closing the church after Evening Prayer on Tuesday, I found a handwritten card in the basket at the back of the church. It was another iteration of a prayer intention that has been left routinely in this church by someone coming in to pray. The intention asked us to pray for a son who has been addicted to drugs for fifteen years. Despite much prayer, nothing has changed. The writer of the card said they were losing their faith and beginning to give up on God. My heart broke. I brought the card to the sacristy, and I have kept that card with me as I pray the Daily Office as a reminder to hold that son close in prayer.
The cry for help on that card is a reminder that there’s darkness in this world, persistent darkness. But that card’s plaintive cry is answered by John’s cry in the wilderness of darkness, a cry of persistent hope. It’s a hope I want the son’s parent to feel. I want that parent to know that even in winter, there’s light. I want the parent to know that the darkness of the son’s addiction is not the true light, but that the true light is still there with that son. It shines hope into a world dark with addiction and violence and despair. The true light has come into the world and still comes and will come again. It still shines because of a resurrection and in spite of a crucifixion. It’s greater than we are, it’s greater than John was, and it’s not what we often think it's supposed to be. This light can always be found in the darkness, because although there are many things it is not, what it is not cannot overcome it.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The Third Sunday of Advent
December 17, 2023
[1]Mary Pipher, “Finding Light in Winter”, The New York Times, December 11, 2023, https://www.nytimes.com/2023/12/11/opinion/love-light-winter-darkness.html