Light In Darkness, Speech From Silence
Sermon
Love's Pure Light
Christmas Candlelight Sermons and Service
Object:
This season, the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines in the darkness and the darkness is powerless to extinguish it.
Darkness has always been a potent metaphor for those things in life that oppress and enthrall us, frighten and intimidate us, cause us worry and anxiety, and leech the joy from our lives.
We know darkness in our physical lives
* when illness is close at hand;
* when the nurse phones and says, "The results of your tests are back. The doctor would like you to come in and talk with her"; and
* when any of God's children lack the basic necessities of life -- food, shelter, and clothing.
We know darkness in our emotional lives
* when we are burdened with worry, confusion, fear, grief, or hopelessness;
* when productive stress becomes destructive distress; and
* when we live with violence or addiction or one unholy born of the other.
We know darkness in our social lives
* when relationships fail;
* when the blessing of solitude gives way to the burden of loneliness; and
* when meaningful connections with other human beings elude us.
We know darkness in our political lives
* when we fail to organize our communities and our society in ways that are just and equitable to all;
* when we substitute self-serving rhetoric for other-serving action; and
* when nations ruin their economies in the name of protecting themselves from one another.
We know darkness in our spiritual lives
* when the chasm that separates us from God remains unbridged from either side;
* when we know an estrangement from God, from other human beings, and from ourselves; and
* when prayer seems an empty exercise and worship a performance offered to an absent audience.
Darkness symbolizes the evils with which we are entirely too familiar.
Some years ago, two of my children and I went caving. We were part of a group who explored a cave at the foot of Mountain Lake, Virginia, where much of the movie Dirty Dancing was filmed. Three rooms and several hundred yards into the cave, the leaders had the group stop, sit down, be as quiet as we could be, and turn off our headlamps. One by one the lights clicked out until we were enveloped by an utter and impenetrable blackness. It was the most profound darkness I have ever experienced. It made no difference whatsoever whether your eyes were open or closed; it was all the same. You literally could not see your hand in front of your face. After a while, the leader turned on his headlamp, and what a difference one little six-volt flashlight made! It cast enough light to push back the darkness and enable us to see one another, the room we were in, and the pathway out.
While the lights were still out, the leader had asked us how hard we thought it would be to find our way out of the cave without any light. We all said it would be impossible, and any attempt would be not only futile but also dangerous, since we could not see the hazards, the slippery places, or tell the difference between a five-foot and a fifty-foot drop. The leader agreed and then said, "This particular cave is pretty popular. People come here at least every week, and sometimes several times a week. Were you to get stuck in this cave without a light, your best bet would be to wait for someone else to enter the cave and find you."
It takes no great imagination to make the connection between the darkness of that cave and the darkness we know in our lives. It takes no great imagination to make the connection between the light from our leader's headlamp and the light of Christ, the light of the world. We wait for one who enters our darkness, finds us, and brings us out.
This season, the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines in Bethlehem's darkness, and the darkness is powerless to extinguish it.
Let's not jump to premature and unwarranted conclusions. A baby is weak and vulnerable, fragile and defenseless. Right from the start, as we hear Saint Luke tell the story, the Christ Child is exposed to harm:
* his mother Mary's labor induced by a grueling eighty-mile journey;
* a mere stable for a birth room;
* a feed trough for a crib -- harsh hay and straw ticking the only mattress for his delicate newborn skin; and
* according to Saint Matthew, Herod in a murderous rage, waiting to snuff out his nascent life.
John's witness is true: The light indeed shines in the darkness, but it is not yet a bright or blinding light. It is a gentle glow, a thing of young grace and tender beauty. It is the first ray of God's new-dawning day. Christ, the dayspring from on high, has been sent to find us, lost in the night with no light to find our way, and hazards all about.
Other lights, however, must be kindled before our rescue can be complete:
* the candlelight of that Passover Meal on Maundy Thursday;
* the soldiers' torchlight of Good Friday;
* the dull hellfires of Holy Saturday;
* the glorious brightness of the empty tomb on Easter morn;
* the Spirit's flame at Pentecost;
* the fire of love blazing in human hearts; and
* the world-redeeming radiance of Christ's promised return.
What we celebrate this holy season is a birth, and as such, a beginning. This season the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness is powerless to extinguish it.
For this season, that is enough. There is a birth -- a beginning -- a ray of hope -- and more than that, an assurance that while dark corners and fearsome shadows still make us sore afraid, God has not abandoned us. Emmanuel -- God with us -- has found us and will remain with us until our deliverance is complete.
He dwells not in unapproachable light, but couches his radiant glory in the thoroughly approachable flesh and blood of the Virgin's child. Today we see his light shining in the darkness. Today we hear his word, the Word made flesh, piercing the silence.
Today the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines from Bethlehem's stable. A light shines in our hearts. And the darkness is powerless to extinguish it. Amen.
Darkness has always been a potent metaphor for those things in life that oppress and enthrall us, frighten and intimidate us, cause us worry and anxiety, and leech the joy from our lives.
We know darkness in our physical lives
* when illness is close at hand;
* when the nurse phones and says, "The results of your tests are back. The doctor would like you to come in and talk with her"; and
* when any of God's children lack the basic necessities of life -- food, shelter, and clothing.
We know darkness in our emotional lives
* when we are burdened with worry, confusion, fear, grief, or hopelessness;
* when productive stress becomes destructive distress; and
* when we live with violence or addiction or one unholy born of the other.
We know darkness in our social lives
* when relationships fail;
* when the blessing of solitude gives way to the burden of loneliness; and
* when meaningful connections with other human beings elude us.
We know darkness in our political lives
* when we fail to organize our communities and our society in ways that are just and equitable to all;
* when we substitute self-serving rhetoric for other-serving action; and
* when nations ruin their economies in the name of protecting themselves from one another.
We know darkness in our spiritual lives
* when the chasm that separates us from God remains unbridged from either side;
* when we know an estrangement from God, from other human beings, and from ourselves; and
* when prayer seems an empty exercise and worship a performance offered to an absent audience.
Darkness symbolizes the evils with which we are entirely too familiar.
Some years ago, two of my children and I went caving. We were part of a group who explored a cave at the foot of Mountain Lake, Virginia, where much of the movie Dirty Dancing was filmed. Three rooms and several hundred yards into the cave, the leaders had the group stop, sit down, be as quiet as we could be, and turn off our headlamps. One by one the lights clicked out until we were enveloped by an utter and impenetrable blackness. It was the most profound darkness I have ever experienced. It made no difference whatsoever whether your eyes were open or closed; it was all the same. You literally could not see your hand in front of your face. After a while, the leader turned on his headlamp, and what a difference one little six-volt flashlight made! It cast enough light to push back the darkness and enable us to see one another, the room we were in, and the pathway out.
While the lights were still out, the leader had asked us how hard we thought it would be to find our way out of the cave without any light. We all said it would be impossible, and any attempt would be not only futile but also dangerous, since we could not see the hazards, the slippery places, or tell the difference between a five-foot and a fifty-foot drop. The leader agreed and then said, "This particular cave is pretty popular. People come here at least every week, and sometimes several times a week. Were you to get stuck in this cave without a light, your best bet would be to wait for someone else to enter the cave and find you."
It takes no great imagination to make the connection between the darkness of that cave and the darkness we know in our lives. It takes no great imagination to make the connection between the light from our leader's headlamp and the light of Christ, the light of the world. We wait for one who enters our darkness, finds us, and brings us out.
This season, the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines in Bethlehem's darkness, and the darkness is powerless to extinguish it.
Let's not jump to premature and unwarranted conclusions. A baby is weak and vulnerable, fragile and defenseless. Right from the start, as we hear Saint Luke tell the story, the Christ Child is exposed to harm:
* his mother Mary's labor induced by a grueling eighty-mile journey;
* a mere stable for a birth room;
* a feed trough for a crib -- harsh hay and straw ticking the only mattress for his delicate newborn skin; and
* according to Saint Matthew, Herod in a murderous rage, waiting to snuff out his nascent life.
John's witness is true: The light indeed shines in the darkness, but it is not yet a bright or blinding light. It is a gentle glow, a thing of young grace and tender beauty. It is the first ray of God's new-dawning day. Christ, the dayspring from on high, has been sent to find us, lost in the night with no light to find our way, and hazards all about.
Other lights, however, must be kindled before our rescue can be complete:
* the candlelight of that Passover Meal on Maundy Thursday;
* the soldiers' torchlight of Good Friday;
* the dull hellfires of Holy Saturday;
* the glorious brightness of the empty tomb on Easter morn;
* the Spirit's flame at Pentecost;
* the fire of love blazing in human hearts; and
* the world-redeeming radiance of Christ's promised return.
What we celebrate this holy season is a birth, and as such, a beginning. This season the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines in the darkness, and the darkness is powerless to extinguish it.
For this season, that is enough. There is a birth -- a beginning -- a ray of hope -- and more than that, an assurance that while dark corners and fearsome shadows still make us sore afraid, God has not abandoned us. Emmanuel -- God with us -- has found us and will remain with us until our deliverance is complete.
He dwells not in unapproachable light, but couches his radiant glory in the thoroughly approachable flesh and blood of the Virgin's child. Today we see his light shining in the darkness. Today we hear his word, the Word made flesh, piercing the silence.
Today the boundaries of darkness are pushed back. A light shines from Bethlehem's stable. A light shines in our hearts. And the darkness is powerless to extinguish it. Amen.
