One of our young acolytes refuses to let his light go out. I’m referring to the torch that he carries at Mass. Once we’ve processed out of the church and are saying the final prayer outside the Tower doors, he frantically cups his torch with his hand. The wind is furiously raging against the light, doing its best to extinguish it. The tiny flame shakes violently, and our acolyte redoubles his efforts to keep the light alive. Our young acolyte usually wins. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it.
Our young acolyte has been formed through the Godly Play curriculum that we use in Sunday School, where each week we light a candle to remind us of God’s presence with us before we pray together. And each week after prayer time, a child is invited to change the light. They don’t extinguish the light; they change it. The light simply morphs into smoke that spreads throughout the room, so that anywhere we go in the room, we can be close to the light. The light changes, but it doesn’t go away. The light shines in the darkness, but the darkness has not overcome it.
But there’s another way of translating that verb which is usually rendered “overcome” in the Prologue to John’s Gospel. The King James Version of the Bible says that the darkness comprehended it not. Now, that’s an interesting translation, which I rather like. We might even say that the darkness can’t overcome the light because it can’t comprehend the light. The darkness hasn’t a clue how to deal with the light, as much as it tries.
For centuries, Christians have tried to explain the darkness, which we name as sin and evil. Evil is a privation of good, St. Augustine of Hippo suggested. Our prayer book’s catechism tells us that sin’s power lies in taking away our freedom.[1] Sin and evil seem like powers and forces. They appear real to us. St. Paul understood this when he said that when we try to do good, evil lies close at hand. We all know our own besetting sins, our proclivities towards gossip, prejudice, envy, and those things we know we shouldn’t do. We know we shouldn’t malign that person, but we do it anyway. We know we should return curt words with kind ones, but we refuse to do so. And evil is at work among us. We only deny it at our peril. We see it plastered all over the headlines of the daily news.
But our young acolyte who won’t extinguish his light after Mass must intrinsically believe in the simple but profound truth of St. John’s words. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not overcome it. The darkness comprehended it not. No matter how much we are subject to sin and evil, they can’t hold a candle (pun intended) to the light that continues to shine.
Maybe the truth about darkness is that it makes us feel like it has power. It dupes us into thinking it’s stronger than it really is. And it functions, primarily, by taking things away. Sin takes away our freedom by tempting us to put distance between ourselves and God. Evil assails us with doubts and deprives us of our confidence. Darkness attempts to wear us down gradually, a death through a thousand small cuts.
How many of us can withstand all these tiny deaths? Our perennial temptations do wear us down and lure us into sin. The systemic evils in our world conscript us into their schemes, and before long, we’re under their sway. It certainly seems as if darkness has an intrinsic power, and yet, the nasty secret about the darkness is that it only gains power by taking things away.
But St. John, in the exquisite Prologue to his Gospel, explains how the light works in contrast to the darkness. John focuses on the light, like our young acolyte tenaciously guarding the light of his torch. John reminds us of the light that shines in the darkness but which the darkness can’t overcome, indeed, can’t comprehend. It’s through this light, manifested in Jesus, the Word made flesh, that we receive grace upon grace. And this is how grace works. Grace heaps more grace upon grace. It gives without ceasing because its very nature is to give. Grace functions in a sphere of infinity, where in love God the Son is begotten of God the Father, and where their endless love is shared in the power of God the Holy Spirit. Grace never runs out. Grace is constantly being poured out upon us. We’ll never receive enough grace because there’s always more to receive.
But the darkness doesn’t understand this. In fact, it can’t comprehend it. Darkness operates in a zero-sum world, where supplies are limited and everyone and everything is in competition. It feeds on the deprivation of good. It chips away at freedom, and it whittles away at good. And as long as we’re operating with the same zero-sum mentality, the darkness will have power over us.
For centuries, the spiritual tradition has told us that in our holiest moments, we’ll feel most vulnerable to the darkness. As St. Paul said, when we try to do good, evil lies close at hand. And so, at holy times in our lives, we’re vulnerable to the darkness that assails us in small ways. One nagging doubt is enough to push us away from a good decision. One more taunt from an ill-meaning person lures us into a less than charitable response. An ill-timed inconvenience destroys our last ounce of patience. We can’t explain how darkness finds us when we’re at our holy work, but it does. And to explain it and ruminate about it is to give darkness too much power. In some sense, it only has as much power as we give it. Darkness grows when we react against it and when we try to fight it. Oddly enough, the more we believe we must fight the darkness, the more unwittingly we can come to personify it.
Renounce the darkness and reject it, but don’t fight with it. The light always shines in the darkness, and the darkness can’t overcome it. It can’t comprehend it. And from the fulness of Jesus Christ, the Word made flesh, we’ve received grace upon grace. There’s no end to this grace. In every moment of sin, grace can be found in forgiveness. In every instance where evil divides, grace continues to restore relationships and draw our eyes to the light that still shines in the darkness. Grace never ceases to find us, and so the light can never be extinguished.
And this is why St. John’s Gospel takes us back to the beginning, where everything is light and infinite gift and goodness. Before the darkness tried to take it away, the light was always offering itself in love. And even now when darkness tries to take it away, the light always continues to give its radiance to a bleak world. But the darkness hasn’t overcome the light because the darkness can’t comprehend it.
What the darkness can’t comprehend is that on Good Friday, when it tried to do its worst against the light, it was bested by gentle, strong, courageous love. When darkness tried to take away the life of the world’s Savior, the Savior nevertheless gave his life willingly on the cross so that all might live. And through that gift, we continue to receive grace upon grace.
When our kindness is rebuffed, we receive grace upon grace and give more kindness in return. When life throws us yet another curve ball, we resort not to bitterness, but we’re given grace upon grace to strengthen us with peace. When it seems like we just can’t go on another day and when all seems like darkness, there’s always more grace for us to receive from the eternal light, the Word made flesh, who always comforts us with hope.
I wonder if we might reimagine St. Paul’s belief that when we try to do good, evil lies close at hand. The truth according to St. John is that when darkness lies close at hand, there is yet more grace upon grace. And like our young acolyte we, too, can keep the light shining in the darkness, asking for more grace upon grace until we’re saturated with it.
This grace upon grace is the gift that keeps on giving. It’s the mystery of Christmas. It’s the light that shines in the darkness. And although the darkness will constantly try to put it out, it can never overcome the light. It can’t overcome the light, because it can’t comprehend the light. There’s always more grace upon grace, and despite the efforts of the darkness, this grace will last forever.
Sermon by Father Kyle Babin
The First Sunday after Christmas Day
December 29, 2024
[1] The Book of Common Prayer (1979), p. 849.