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"Salem.....Where a Warm Welcome Awaits You"
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CHRISTMAS EVE 2005
(The following sermon was preached by Pastor Barbara Melosh on December 24th, 2005.)
Our Advent waiting has ended. We gather again in darkness, this night. But it’s a darkness that is already receding. A few days past the winter solstice, each day now brings a few more minutes of light. It’s the gift and enduring human wisdom of the church year, this setting of light next to darkness in Advent and Christmas. In the northern hemisphere where the calendar for worship has its origins, there had long been festivals of light in December, when the light fades earlier each day and the nights lengthen. Ancient cultures marked the fading of the light and lit fires and raised a clamor to call back the sun, and to celebrate its return as the days grew longer after winter solstice. And so as the Christian calendar took shape, the early church made solstice the time to celebrate the birth of Christ and to remember the promises that he will be present with us and he will return. The Light of the World—the Light of Christ, the son of God, set next to the light of the sun, the star that nourishes all life on our planet. Many centuries later, our experience of winter darkness has been profoundly changed by electric light. Yet we too feel the weight of the early dark. As the days shorten, we hurry home to seek shelter and light. For some, the earth’s darkness seeps into emotional life, making winter a season of depression. This primal response to darkness shapes the many images of darkness as fearful, anxious, threatening. Darkness sometimes implies concealment, and with it, the suggestion of guilty knowledge or wrong-doing. Darkness can represent the unknown, with all its brooding shadows and hidden dangers. Isaiah tells of people who “walked in darkness”—in “thick darkness,” the “gloom of anguish.” For them, the coming of the light is joy and freedom. But there is more. Sometimes light is oppressive, and darkness a comfort. After a day in the relentless summer sun, it is a relief to be in the dark, coolness and shadow a respite from the heat and light of the day. Migraine sufferers recoil from light, which causes excruciating pain. Light can be exposing, intrusive, even blinding—like the high beams of another vehicle coming toward you, the flashlight aimed at your face. So it is in Luke. It’s a scene set at night. The shepherds are tending their flocks. The light comes as a shocking intrusion into their vigil. “Then an angel of the lord stood before them, and the glory of the Lord shone around them, and they were terrified.” Terrified—strong language. In the King James Version, it is “sore afraid.” And so the shepherds don’t rush toward the light in gratitude and joy—not at first, they don’t. They shrink back in terror. But then the angel tells them, “Fear not,” and they walk out of darkness toward the light, the word made flesh in a manger in Bethlehem. In this service tonight, we hold light next to darkness as we worship by candlelight. In a few minutes we will light candles to proclaim the Light of Christ as we sing Silent Night, that much loved carol. It’s a moment that brings forth tears for some, in that way that meaningful ritual so often does. And why is that? Certainly, this time of year is full of emotion, and not all of it is the cheer of colored lights or the upbeat tinkling of jingle bells. The power of ritual in worship is the power of truth telling, through symbols and language rich enough to name all that we are. Here we gather in the light and shadow of the cross, where all that we bring with us this night is already known to God. Our weariness and disappointment. Our anger with those who have failed us. Our shame and guilt for our own failures. Our loneliness and longing. Our grief for those who we mourn this night. We bring with us our failures, our vulnerability, our grief and longing, yes. And through our tears we catch a glimpse of something else, too, our shining possibility as people born of God. For our tears on Christmas Eve are tears of joy too, joy spilling over, as we are opened up to the peace and loveliness of this night and filled with God’s shalom—God’s wholeness and healing. What has drawn you here this night? For some, it is a cherished moment in the rhythm of a church year that is deeply familiar, part of a regular cycle of worship that sustains you. For others, it is the deep comfort of tradition, though you have found yourself seldom in church these months or perhaps years. Some are here, very likely, for the sake of others—church does not answer your own search for meaning, but you are here to keep company with parents or friends or partners or children. For still others, maybe it is the pull and tug of unfinished business—you have left church, mostly, or were never in it in the first place, and yet now you find yourself restless and questioning, wondering if you can find a place for yourself in the church’s story. Whatever it is that has drawn you here, whatever you bring--this is the place for all of it—all our desperate longing, all our deep, undefeated hope. For centuries, Christians have done what we are doing tonight. Here we have come, to gather with others in the dark. To hold our little lights against the darkness, as we look to the One who is the Light of the World. The gospel of Jesus Christ, for you.
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