Reflections of Light
a Christmas sermon based on John 1:1-18; 8:12
Rev. Randy L. Quinn

This week there was a full moon. But it was an unusual full moon. It was unusual because it fell on the shortest day of the year – or as some folks point out – it fell on the longest night of the year. But more than that, because of the nature of celestial orbits, on this particular week, during this particular full moon, the moon was closer to the earth than it has been in over 50 years.

I heard all about the scientific explanations before I went to look at it on Tuesday night. But what I saw was the same moon I’ve seen before. Except this time the moon looked somehow bigger and somehow brighter.

In fact, the next day I noticed the sun shining through the clouds and I thought that the moon had looked bigger than the sun did!

But as I was looking at the heavens, I couldn’t help but hear the scientific explanations in my mind – the sun is much, much larger than the moon, but because of the distance, it appears smaller. The gravitational pull of the sun has more effect on the earth than the moon does, but the moon’s pull is so variable that we see it’s effect on the tides in a way unlike the sun’s apparent effect. Then there are the mathematical explanations for the orbits that are not exactly circular and the explanations for how the moon always faces the earth the same way but not the sun so that there seem to be phases of the moon’s cycle as it reflects the sun’s light.

What was missing in the scientific explanations was any sense of mystery and awe. There was no room for wonder. But I believe God intended us to stand in awe at the mystery of the sun and the moon in the sky, “the greater light to rule the day and the lesser light to rule the night” (Gen 1:16).

A current television ad reminds us that 30 years ago we learned the moon was made of rock; since we didn’t find cheese there, Kraft claims there has been no reason to return now for 25 years.

We’ve lost too much of the mystery and awe of God’s creation. Like the mystery of light and darkness, for instance. There was an article in the paper this week about the growing lights of the city that dims the view of the night sky, a clear indication that we have too much light available to us.

Light is only a flip of a switch away. And even in power outages we have generators and batteries – not to mention candles – to keep the darkness at bay.

Some of you may remember the days before electricity, but I can’t. But I do know that even before electricity there were kerosene lamps. The truth is, not many of us can say we’ve known darkness – at least not in a literal sense.

So there is little awe when we contemplate God coming as the light of the world.

It’s no big deal. We have flashlights and candles. We decorate our homes and trees with lights. There are strobe lights and searchlights. We even have nightlights!

There isn’t much room for awe and mystery.

And maybe that’s what’s wrong with our society today. We’ve taken away the awe and mystery and have been too quick to offer explanations instead.

One symptom of that, perhaps, is the growing disinterest in poetry. There was a time when everyone knew some poetry. Students memorized it in school. People wrote poetry as a form of recreation and prayer and communication.

And while there are still poets in our society, very few of them can earn a living by selling poetry.

Mystery writers, on the other hand, have no trouble filling the best sellers’ list. But their form of mystery isn’t the kind of mystery I’m thinking about. The modern mystery novel is very much a product of our society – where questions are raised and logical explanations are found to answer the riddles.

We don’t have much room for mystery anymore. We want answers and explanations.

And so we miss out on the beauty of a full moon in late December because we know the scientific explanation of what it is we see.

But tonight is not a time for explanation and analysis. It’s a time for story and poetry and song. Tonight we are invited to stand before the mystery of the Incarnation with awe and wonder.

That’s probably why I’m so reluctant to preach on Christmas Eve. I know how easy it is to slip out of the “awe and wonder” mode into the “explanation and analysis” mode of preaching.

That’s also why I often find myself turning to John’s Gospel at Christmas.

Matthew and Luke describe the Christmas story in concrete terms. They each give us a story we can visualize and understand – a young girl has a baby and shepherds and magi come to adore him. Matthew and Luke tell us of the town of Bethlehem and the star in the sky.

Their stories are so vivid we even find ourselves adding details, like the number of the magi or the sheep and camels at the manger scene or even the tail on the star.

Luke and Matthew tell us a story filled with concrete ‘things’ intended to answer our desire for explanations, not necessarily one filled with mystery and wonder.

John, on the other hand, focuses on the awe and mystery of the event. He does that in large part by turning to poetry. He uses metaphor and allusions to draw us into the mystery of the Incarnation.

John never mentions the virgin birth, for instance; John never mentions shepherds in the fields, either; and John never mentions the magi. He doesn’t deny their part in the story; he simply lifts up the more significant implications.

Instead of the concrete characters we’ve come to recognize at the manger, John invites us to recognize the more significant mysteries of the Eternal becoming human, the Almighty being humbled, and the awe of beholding God’s glory.

These mysteries are not just an historical event; they are present day wonders.

To help us see that, John uses metaphor and allusions. He alludes to creation when he all but quotes from the first verse of Genesis. He mentions the philosophical concept of “the word,” a concept that connects with the creation story as found in Proverbs (Pr 8:25-30). And even when we know he’s speaking of childbirth, he uses the poetic phrase, “became flesh.”

John’s metaphors and allusions keep us in the realm of wonder and awe as we begin to recognize the mystery of Christmas.

And most prominent in his poetry for tonight is the metaphor of light.

It was dark in here when you first arrived tonight. Some of you even complained about it. But I don’t think we can fully appreciate the light until we’ve experienced the darkness – or more correctly stated we can’t fully appreciate the light until we recognize the darkness.

Often we become so accustomed to things that we no longer recognize them. Light and darkness can be like that.

I remember going to a football game once that began early enough in the afternoon that the sun was still shining. I found it curious that the stadium lights were on in the daytime, but I didn’t think much more about it until later.

Later I realized that it had become dark. The lights in the stadium had kept me from recognizing the growing darkness around us.

I sat in this sanctuary one evening with the lights out. There was very little light in here. But after my eyes adjusted to the darkness, I found I could get around fine. The colors were subdued, but the shapes were clearly visible.

And I suspect that’s what life is like for many of us. We don’t know we are walking in darkness because we have been in it so long we think we are doing fine.

But the passage we heard from Isaiah made it clear that to people like us – the very ones walking in darkness – on them a great light has shined (Is 9:2).

I heard a preacher this week that reminded me that the darkness hasn’t changed. It’s still dark. There are still places of physical and emotional and spiritual darkness.

There are still places filled with violence and vice.

There is road-rage and drive by shootings.

There is war and rumors of war.

There is famine caused by natural disaster.

There is hunger caused by poor distribution.

The darkness hasn’t changed.

What has changed is our ability – no, our willingness – to reflect the light of God into the dark corners of our world.

You see, when I looked at the moon this week I realized that the moon has no light of its own to offer. It merely reflects the light of the sun. Even in the nighttime, the sun is at work.

Even in our darkened world, God is at work when we allow the light to be reflected from us.

The mystery of the Incarnation is that God still comes to us; the wonder is that the light still shines through us.

May your Christ Candles be your metaphor tonight, a reminder that the light of Christ reflects off you to a world in darkness.

Thanks be to God.

Amen.