Did you ever notice it’s actually pretty dark in the Christmas story?
There probably wasn’t much light in that stable in Bethlehem. Whether it was a cave or a building, an animal shelter wouldn’t have a lot of windows, and might not have much in the way of oil lamps or candles, either.
And the shepherds in the fields that night were working in a darkness that’s hard to imagine for those of us used to electricity. They probably couldn’t see where they were putting their feet, and had to keep the sheep pretty close to be sure they could keep watch over them all.
Until the angel.
A glory shining so intensely that it was terrifying, almost disabling for people used to the dark.
It’s the only light we get to see in this story: the glory of the Lord shining around the shepherds, while they hear unimaginable news from God’s messenger, and are lost in the whirlwind of an angelic praise chorus.
Just one light, one fiercely bright illumination,
but it’s enough.
When the darkness returns, the shepherds go to Bethlehem.
They hurry, they run, to do something none of them would ever have expected to do: find a newborn infant, see God’s unasked promises come true right in front of them, and start telling their crazy, unbelievable story to anyone who will listen.
All of that in the dark, from one light.
But one light is enough.
Human beings are created to respond to light, you know. We sleep and wake - or fail to do so - by the signals we get from the sun. Light affects vitamins, hormones, and body chemicals that affect our bones, fertility, mood and physical health. Just ask your doctor.
I’m more aware of that right now than usual. There’s a lot of dark in our days in December, and it’s been rainy and cloudy this month, and my body is literally starving for daylight.
So every morning, I sit in front of a doctor-prescribed light box, getting the phototherapy that manages everything from sleep to pain to appetite and energy - the light that keeps my body working.
It’s a brief, intense exposure, but it doesn’t work if I skip days, or short the time, or push the box too far off to the side. I’ve had to make it a habit, a practice, an exercise, to absorb that light,
to be open to that light,
and let it change my body for the better.
You may not need a winter light box, but every one of us depends on light, because we’re human, and we need it for energy and health and strength and life.
We can’t do without it, so we need to be open to the light, to be intentional about absorbing it.
Because there’s plenty of darkness to go around.
War,
and the many shades of bomb and gun and economic violence that mark undeclared wars from Chicago to Nigeria to Homs and Mosul and Jerusalem.
Disfunctional government, endangered resources, disease and grinding poverty and painful loss;
grief.
Anger and fear in our political rhetoric, and that pervasive culture of microcomplaints so easily fostered and enhanced by social media and cable news.
A friend of mine commented last week that it’s remarkable that Mary’s response to all the chaos and interruptions and discomfort around the birth of her son was to treasure all this in her heart. Imagine how much easier it would have been to be distressed and dismayed at the inconveniences of a stable birth.
Mary’s Twitter account could have been full of complaints about rude innkeepers; noisy, smelly animals, Joseph’s nervous over-attention or his ignorance about childbirth, the wrong coffee cups, and the eruption of crude and dirty shepherds when she’d FINALLY gotten Jesus to sleep…
Instead it’s one Instagram of the miracle wrapped in blankets and lying in a manger, and a quiet symphony of words and moments that she treasures in her heart.
There’s not much light in this story, but Mary opens herself to it; makes an exercise, a practice, a discipline of absorbing the light.
Like the shepherds.
Shepherds who weren’t waiting for babies, or news, and probably had more interest in the local politics of land and taxes than in the prophecies of faith or the miracles of a messiah. Shepherds who were briefly washed in exorbitant brightness, and opened themselves to it. Shepherds who absorbed that unasked glory, and shared it.
I was reminded of that last week, when I happened to mention to my cousin Julia that I had to “use my light” to get through the dark days of December. She was impressed by my spiritual depth - for a few seconds, anyway - until I explained about the phototherapy box. You see, Julia is an actor, and to many actors and artists, light describes a powerful spiritual truth.
The light that artists use is their call to create, the light inside them that demands to be acted on, to be shared.
“Even when what you’re making is dark,” Julia told me, “even if it’s a very deep purple,” — even, I think, if it’s tragic — it is light.
And when artists and actors use that light, it grows.
“When I’m in a show,” Julia said, “I feel myself getting brighter. When I’m in an ensemble, we pass that light back and forth, and it grows as we share it.”
In just that way, the shepherds passed around the Christmas light, encouraging one another to respond: to go to Bethlehem, to be open to the miracle, to accept the unasked promises so suddenly fulfilled.
Light that grew brighter in them as they shared their story with Mary and Joseph in the stable,
that grew and spread as they let the light spill out of them, telling everyone they met, and amazing them with the miracle, with light, growing brighter, even in the dark;
even when the light itself was dark.
Because, after all, God didn’t become incarnate among us just for the hours of celebration and light. God delights in the joy we share as we remember that birth together, but God also became incarnate because even the darkness of human life — pain, fear, anger, sorrow, death — even the darkness is light when God creates it, lives it, shares it with us.
That’s the miracle of Christmas:
light shining in the darkness,
and darkness that, itself, is light.
All wrapped snugly in cloth,
nestled in a manger,
unexpected and unplanned and utterly glorious.
And all we have to do to be part of the miracle is to open ourselves to that light.
To make a habit, a practice, an exercise, of choosing to soak in the light.
We need that light, and the world needs us to absorb it, and share it; to grow brighter in the sharing, and in the dark.
I have a little Christmas gift for you. A small star that absorbs the light, light which then becomes visible in darkness.
Use it to remind you to keep your eyes and spirit turned to the brief, powerful brightnesses of Christmas: to the gifts, food, music, joy, sparkling trees and houses, rich warm tradition, and the angels’ praise.
Make it a habit, a discipline, to soak in the brief, bright light of Christmas, of God, wherever and whenever that light comes to you in the world.
Treasure it, and ponder it in your hearts.
Absorb that light because then the light of Christmas, the light of God, will be visible in us when we are in darkness
like the shepherds, like Mary, like that tiny, perfect infant.
One light,
which is enough for the whole story,
now and always.
