Christmas I: December 29, 2024

Laura Meyers

Readings: Isaiah 61:10-62:3 | Galatians 3:23-25; 4:4-7 | John 1:1-18 | Psalm 147 or 147:13-21

The Gospel of John begins with a cosmic perspective: “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” Unlike other gospels, John starts not with Jesus’ birth but with creation itself. The preexistent Word, Jesus, created all that exists, tying Him intimately to the ordinary elements of life—dirt, water, air, and all living things. These elements, so often overlooked, become sacred because they are infused with the presence of the Creator. John’s opening reminds us that Jesus is not only tied to human history but also to the very fabric of the universe.

John continues, “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” This passage offers a profound truth: light persists. It cannot be consumed or defeated by darkness.

December 21 marked the Winter Solstice—the longest night of the year. The short days and endless nights have a way of pressing down on us. For some, being here, in this place, during this season, feels unbearably heavy. The weight of grief, loneliness, or uncertainty seems magnified in the stillness of long nights. The solstice, however, also carries a quiet promise: even the longest night gives way to dawn. 

As the longest night stretched on, I kept coming back to one simple truth: even the smallest flicker of light can pierce the deepest darkness. It doesn’t work the other way around. Darkness doesn’t have the power to consume light. It can’t silence it. It can’t put it out. This truth is both a physical reality and a spiritual metaphor. In the contemporary darkness of our time—marked by division, injustice, and suffering—this promise remains: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness does not overcome it.

This is what the story of Christ’s birth tells us. That night, thousands of years ago and miles away, a light entered the world. And that light is still shining. It was not just a momentary event but a cosmic intervention, a reminder that God’s light is present and active, even in the midst of our darkest hours.

If you remember, they tried to snuff out that light. They tried to silence him. He was arrested, humiliated, beaten, and crucified. They buried him in a tomb, thinking that was the end of it. But it wasn’t. The light didn’t go out. It rose again, strong and steady. The resurrection story underscores the tenacity of God’s love and the resilience of divine light. It reassures us that no matter how bleak things appear, the light endures.

This light isn’t distant or unreachable. It’s right here, right now, in this very space. It’s in you. It’s in me. It’s in the quiet moments when you feel hope stirring. It’s in the small gestures of kindness you show one another. It’s in the resilience that keeps you going when everything feels impossible. These moments of light remind us that God’s presence is woven into the fabric of our daily lives.

No matter how heavy the darkness feels, it doesn’t have the final word. Light is persistent. It keeps shining, even in the most unexpected places. This light exists in your sadness, in your fear, in your isolation. It exists in the stillness of long nights and in the slow return of dawn. Even when it feels impossible to believe, the light remains.

Sometimes this light reveals itself in small ways—a kind word from someone when you needed it most, a moment of quiet peace, a memory that brings warmth to your heart. Other times, it appears in bigger ways—a deep sense of purpose, a renewed connection with someone you love, or a spark of hope that refuses to fade away. The beauty of light is that it meets us where we are, offering what we need in ways we might not expect.

This light is not fragile. It’s not easily broken or extinguished. It’s steady, unyielding, and fiercely present. And even if you can’t feel it right now, even if you doubt its presence, know that it’s still there. The days are already beginning to grow longer. The nights are slowly shortening. Even if you can’t see it yet, change is happening. Minute by minute, light is returning. And that light carries with it the promise of hope, renewal, and grace.

So here’s what I hope you’ll hold onto today: You are not alone. You are not forgotten. And you are not without light. The same light that shone in Bethlehem so many years ago still shines in you. This truth is both a gift and a calling, inviting us to reflect and share that light in the world around us.

As we move beyond the Christmas season, let us carry forward this truth. By noticing and celebrating God’s presence in our daily lives, we ensure that the light of Christ illuminates not just a season but our entire lives and beyond. The Incarnation is not confined to a manger scene or a single day—it is God’s ongoing work in our lives, redeeming every moment, every space, and every person.

May this light, steady and unyielding, bring you a sense of peace. May it remind you that darkness doesn’t get the last word. And may you, even in this place, know your worth is beyond measure.

Amen.

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Second Sunday of Christmas: January 5, 2025

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Christmas Eve – Nativity of our Lord: December 24, 2024