Every Christmas I notice the lighting displays get more elaborate. Somehow
that was only to be expected, particularly in a society like ours, where we
always seem to equate “better” with “more”. But what I’ve really noticed in the
last few years is the proliferation of displays that seemingly have nothing to
do with Christmas. Okay, candy canes I can go. North Pole scenes, sure. Santa
Claus has been around for a long time, and although we’ve mostly lost touch
with it, he is based on St Nicholas
of Myra, an ancient bishop. I can even make a stretch for the lit polar bears I
see. I suppose you could say the polar bears came from Santa’s North Pole. But
a giant Mickey Mouse? And Scooby Doo? I think the one I saw a few years ago won
the prize for mixed metaphors: a snowman with a nativity scene in his
translucent, lighted, blow-up middle. I do hope I’m not insulting anyone’s
Christmas displays, and maybe they’re meaningful to the people who put them up,
but I wonder sometimes what we’re trying to express. I ask myself, what in the
world is all this about?
I’ve come to realize in an increasingly
cold, do-it-all-yourself, care-only-about-yourself world, these frantic
displays are seeking some semblance of warmth and light and hope. They are what
we do to remind ourselves there is something bigger and better than sitting in
darkness.
I think it has to do with our basic human need for light. Especially
this time of year, as we drew closer to the winter solstice and to the end of
the calendar year, and the light continued to fade. All this midwinter display
is about our longing for light and warmth and hope: light coming into the
darkness, warmth returning to the earth, hope expanding in our hearts.
The problem with what we do with our
lighting this time of year is that it’s a lot like Christmas candy. It’s high
in sugar, high in calories, gives a quick fix if we’re hungry, but it doesn’t
satisfy. And if you eat enough of it, you’ll end up vaguely nauseated from too
much sugar and not enough real nourishment.
Congratulations then. You’ve come to
the place of nourishment. You’ve come to the place of light and warmth and
hope.
It doesn’t matter what brought you here tonight. Perhaps you come
regularly. Or maybe tonight it was at the urging of family, or friends, or a
longing for the tradition of your childhood. Or perhaps you’re not really sure
why you’re here. Maybe you just drove by and saw the lights and the sign. Whatever reason brought you here: welcome.
Welcome to the place of nourishment. This is the place where light lasts,
warmth continues to warm, and hope returns.
This is the place God called you to
tonight. Like the shepherds in the field in tonight’s gospel reading, God
called you out of the field to come into the light.
The light of God’s presence shone around you, and if you saw it, like
the shepherds, you were terrified. You might not have known it or recognized
it, but God spoke to you and said, “Do not be afraid; for see – I am bringing
you good news of great joy.”[1]
And you came here for some company in your terrifying fear of the darkness that
suddenly became light.
The only thing that will fill our need
for light permanently is Jesus, light of the world. God, coming into the world,
as a tiny helpless baby, is the light of the world. If you ever thought God
could not understand your pain or your joy, remember Christ himself bore the
pain of being born. Christ himself was helpless: needing food and warmth and
light and hope to survive. A God who knows the pain of abandonment on the cross
knows all about our need for hope. A God who knows and bears the pain of being
human is a God that can hold out the light in the midst of the darkest night.
The nourishment that feeds us and gives
us light and warmth and hope is available from God in the great mystery of God
come among us as a tiny helpless babe. And that same God is the God who died
and rose again: the God who gave his body and blood to nourish us not only
tonight, but always.
So come tonight. Come to this table for nourishment.
Come to this table and let light enter into your very being. This is the
mystery of the Incarnation of Christ born in human flesh. This is the mystery
of God become flesh and dwelling among us as one of us and so much more than
us. This is the mystery that God felt our pain and our sorrow and our joy and
gladness. This is the mystery that God is a light to lighten our darkness, not
only this time of year but, all year, every year.
God seeks us in our darkness and in our coldness and
in our hopeless places. God is there in those places waiting for us with light
and warmth and hope. Come to the promise of light and warmth and hope. Come to
the place where light lasts, warmth continues to warm, and hope returns. AMEN
The Rev Nicolette Papanek
©2017
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