The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.
-
John 1:5
It’s a dark time of year. It just
is, at least this far north. Within a few weeks of the longest night of the
year, the shadows seem to creep deeper. The sun seems further away. Slowly but
surely the status quo seems to freeze into place.
 |
Lights and dark at the Lincoln Park Zoo makes for an odd, if
bewildering, contrast. 'Tis the season. |
And
at most universities, this dark time of year just happens to coincide with the
end of the semester.
Sitting
at the cafeteria at Roosevelt University’s Wabash Building, I observed a sort
of dry anxiety among students. It’s like they’re too little butter spread over
too much bread. Jobs claim many hours to pay tuition and other bills, and
classes claim many more hours. Sleep comes in naps between study sessions and
take-home finals. A “personal” life seems like a cruel mockery, and the future
is even more frightening.
And
oh! The irony of Daley Plaza’s Christmas Village and Lincoln Park Zoo’s winter
wonderland.
Wander into Macy’s material maze of festive magic that appeared
before the Halloween cobwebs had been put away. Get a cup of coffee while an
electronic jazz band contemporizes an Irving Berlin classic. Okay, will you
just stop trying to force joy, dammit?!
We
in the Church know these things. We feel them, too. Especially during this
season we anxiously look toward an empty crèche, searching for the boy-king who
will brighten the darkness with all his Baby Jesus Powers. How long, Lord? How
long?
It
feels to me like we’re stuck at the foot of the cross. We’re looking for some
miracle on the mountaintop, but all we see is death. Perhaps we forget that the
miracle of the resurrection didn’t occur until the darkness was perfect in the
sealed grave. We prefer the open air of Calvary to the claustrophobia of the
empty tomb. We feel like we have more control if we can just have a visible
escape route.
I’m
often surprised that the gospel reading for Christmas Day is the first chapter
of John, but within a few weeks of the darkest day of the year, it seems so
appropriate. We so desperately need light—in our final exams, in our finances,
in our overworked and underappreciated bodies—and we celebrate the light on
Christmas.
This
is the message we in the Church have to offer. We call it like it is. We see
death around us, we see the darkness, but the darkness did not and does not overcome the light. We’re
scared of the dark, too, but our hope is greater than our fear.
So
yes, it’s dark out. All the lights on the Magnificent Mile can’t stop that.
However, the light that the darkness cannot overcome doesn’t come from the
retailers. The light that truly brightens the dark world doesn’t come from
spotless resumes and transcripts. The light to which baptizers testify comes
from inside the still, deep darkness of the tomb.
And
then that light—unexpectedly—rolls away the stone.
