Sermon: Light Shines in the Darkness

Texts: Isaiah 9:2-7; John 1:1-14

Date: December 25, 2011

Rev. Dee Eisenhauer, Eagle Harbor Congregational Church

          William Willemon writes about being in Sweden a few years ago, during the winter.  They noticed that it had become popular in all kinds of churches to build an area, often a large box filled with sand, in which dozens of candles were placed.  People would come in Sunday mornings and even randomly during the weekdays and light these candles.  Willemon asked his Swedish host what was going on.  He confessed, “I don’t really know what’s going on.  Part of it may be attributed to the fact that Sweden is dark so much of the day during this time of year.  I often wonder what modern, secular Swedish people think they are doing by lighting candles.  When they light the candle and stand for a moment of silence, what’s going through their heads?  Many of them no longer know the Bible.  Many of them are not at all schooled in the Christian faith.  What is going through their heads when they light these lights?”

          Willemon says he was wondering the same thing.  But “perhaps the light speaks to a yearning that modern people have, a yearning for some light beyond our present darkness, for something that comes into our world and enlightens us, something not of our own devising.”[1]  People often speak vaguely of “spirituality;” while it may not have much shape or form, it may be that the yearning for the light that comes into the world is part of what binds humanity together.  I lit a candle in the side chapel of St. James Cathedral a few days ago.  I sent up a few prayers for people I know are suffering, but more than that I just stood there and enjoyed the beauty of light in darkness.  I wondered a bit about what purpose the other candles that had been lit that day had been given.  I was momentarily united with unknown people who were yearning for something, part of a community of light-seekers. 

          The story book Jacob the Baker includes this brief tale.  An old man was bitter and challenged wise Jacob with a complaint.  “All my life I have searched for meaning,” he said.  “The meaning is in the search,” said Jacob, waving off the man’s distress.  “Then I will never find the meaning?” the old man demanded.  “No,” said Jacob.  “You will never stop looking.”  Jacob held his voice for a moment, unsure if he had been too harsh.  “My friend,” Jacob began again, “know that you are a man with a lantern who goes in search of a light.”[2]

          That appeals to me—the idea of being a person with a lantern who goes in search of a light.  Suppose that is part of being human; suppose a lantern is standard issue for human beings.  Eventually, whether early or late in life, we go looking for a light to kindle the lantern we carry within.  Sometimes we’re not even aware of what we are doing, instinctively seeking a light without a conscious or conscientious search for meaning. 

          Does dwelling in a dark place or in a dark time intensify the search for the light?  It may or may not—it depends on the person.  Darkness of spirit can overwhelm a person, at least for a time, and leave one too dispirited to seek light.  An old Hasidic tale has a rabbi answering a question about whether the way of sorrow or the way of joy was the right way.  The rabbi of Berditchev said, “There are two kinds of sorrow and two kinds of joy.  When a man broods over the misfortunes that have come upon him, when he cowers in a corner and despairs of help—that is a bad kind of sorrow, concerning which it is said: ‘The Divine presence does not dwell in a place of dejection.’”  Clare Booth Luce understood this kind of sorrow, I think, when she said, “There are no hopeless situations; there are only people who have grown hopeless about them.” 

But the dejected, hopeless kind of sorrow is not the only kind of sorrow.  The rabbi went on, “The other kind is the honest grief of a man who knows what he lacks.  The same is true of joy.  He who is devoid of inner substance and, in the midst of his empty pleasures, does not feel it, nor tries to fill his lack, is a fool.  But he who is truly joyful is like a man whose house has burned down, who feels his need deep in his soul and begins to build anew.  Over every stone that is laid, his heart rejoices.”[3]  It’s intriguing the way this rabbi linked good sorrow and good joy—in  both there is a recognition of need, of something lacking,  and an implied expectation that the need can be filled, that what is lacking can be supplied, that what is being sought can be found.  If a dark time or a dark place amplifies longing without causing a person to resort to dejection, it may well intensify the search for light, and may improve one’s capacity to recognize the source of light and hope.

This seeking and finding, this mix of good sorrow and joy, seems to have manifested itself in Dietrich Bonhoeffer.  He was a pastor imprisoned during WWII for participating in a plot to do away with Hitler, who wrote to his parents from prison at Christmas 1943.  He said, “From the Christian point of view there is no special problem about Christmas in a prison cell.  For many people in this building it will probably be a more sincere and genuine occasion than in places where nothing but the name is kept.  That misery, suffering, poverty, loneliness, helplessness, and guilt mean something quite different in the eyes of God from what they mean in the judgment of man, that God will approach where men turn away, that Christ was born in a stable because there was no room for him in the inn—these are things that a prisoner can understand better than other people; for him they really are glad tidings, and that faith gives him a part in the communion of saints, a Christian fellowship breaking the bounds of time and space and reducing the months of confinement here to insignificance.”[4]

We are not literally in prison.  However, as the Minister of Magic says in Harry Potter’s last episode, “These are dark times, there is no denying.”  We grow weary of the constant stream of wretched news.  We all have more than enough to fret about.  We all find ourselves wondering what the world is coming to.  Yet… light has come into the world, and the darkness has not overcome it.  These dark times may bless us with an understanding that is clearer than ever of just what we lack, and just who brings glad tidings of great joy.  A hunger for hope sends us seeking the only source of hope, the love that never fails, the light that never goes out.

If we are by design creatures who seek the light, it must be that God wants to share it with us.  It is true that evil casts a shadow over our world.  But it is not our destiny to simply accept it and live out our days cowering in our corners.  Another antique story tells of some pupils who came to their rabbi complaining about the prevalence of evil in the world.  They asked the rabbi how they might drive out the darkness.  The rabbi gave them brooms, and asked them to sweep the darkness from a cellar.  The pupils tried this, but they were not successful.  So the rabbi gave them sticks and told them to beat the darkness until it was driven away.  Again they tried, and when they failed, the rabbi asked them to try shouting at the darkness.  The pupils did this also, but the darkness remained.  “Then let us try this,” the rabbi said.  “Let every person challenge the darkness by lighting a candle.”  The pupils descended into the cellar.  Each one lit a candle.  When they looked about, they discovered that the darkness had disappeared.

The people who walk in deep darkness, on us light has shined.  The people issued lanterns and sent seeking have found light to kindle tenacious hope not only for our own souls but for the rebuilding of the world.  Why else would we have left our cozy homes this Christmas morning to come and celebrate?  We celebrate with joy the light that Christ brings into the dim world; we warm to Christ’s light in our own lives.  Like the person the (first) rabbi mentioned whose house had burned down, we  rejoice over every stone that is laid to rebuild a just and peaceful world. 

I came to church today to keep company with the community who is carrying the light of Christ in the world.  Even if it wasn’t my job to be here, I would have wanted to be with you, to see in your eyes the light of hope and joy reflected in a dark time.  I know many of you as people whose lanterns have been kindled by the light God sends lovingly into the world to each generation.  I wanted to remind you that you and a thousand million others are reflecting the light in a dimly lit world.  We’re isolated from each other too often, so we might forget temporarily just how many light carriers there are out there. 

This one little story might serve as a reminder.  Former Senator Sam Nunn declared that the Cold War ended “not in a nuclear inferno, but in a blaze of candles in the churches of Eastern Europe.”  Candlelight processions in East Germany did not show up well on the evening news, but they helped change the face of the globe.  First a few hundred, then a thousand, then thirty thousand, fifty thousand, and finally five hundred thousand—nearly the entire population of the city—turned out in Leipzig for candlelight vigils.  After a prayer meeting at St. Nikolai Church, the peaceful protesters would march through the dark streets, singing hymns.  Police and soldiers with all their weapons seemed powerless against such a force.  Ultimately, on the night a similar march in East Berlin attracted one million protesters, the hated Berlin Wall came tumbling down without a shot being fired.  A huge banner appeared across a Leipzig street: Wir danken Dir, Kirche [We thank you, church].[5] 

Did you know that story?  I had heard it, but had forgotten it already.  (Darkness does that to you—makes you forgetful of how the light keeps showing up.)  I think it is an amazing story, but no one-time occurrence.  It was simply a wondrous demonstration of what happens when those who have been lit up with courage and hope get together, leave dejection behind and take their hope out in public.  The light came from beyond them and kindled their hearts, and for that time and place they became rather apparently agents of liberation.  This can happen again.  It is happening again, and always—we just might not see it the way we would see the entire population of a city out in the streets with candles. 

Light your candle.  Keep it lit.  The darkness will not overcome it.  There has never been enough dark in the world to extinguish the light of even a single candle!  This day we celebrate with full hearts the Light that has come into the world.  We are not the light but we testify to it and we reflect it.  We have seen the glory of the light and it is dwelling among us, full of grace and truth.  Good Christian friends, rejoice!