Day 26—Thursday, December 25 (Christmas)

What was from the beginning, what we have heard, what we have seen with our eyes, what we have looked at and touched with our hands, concerning the Word of Life— and the life was manifested, and we have seen and testify and proclaim to you the eternal life, which was with the Father and was manifested to us— what we have seen and heard we proclaim to you also, so that you too may have fellowship with us; and indeed our fellowship is with the Father, and with His Son Jesus Christ. These things we write, so that our joy may be made complete.
I John 1:1-4

One
Luci Shaw

Winter, and very cold,
and the night at
its deepest. The politicians,
as usual, double-tongued.
The town chaotic, teeming
with strangers.
And tonight, as often
in winter, in Bethlehem,
snow is falling.

I always love
how each flake,
torn from the sky,
arrives separately,
without sound, almost
unnoticed in
a flurry of others. How
each one (on a clear
night) likes there glittering
on the swelling breast
of snow, crisp
and intact, as wholly itself
as every radiant star
in a sky sparkling
with galaxies.

How many new
babies tonight
in Judea, coming
like snowflakes?
But plucked,
dazzling, from the
eternal heavens
into time,
tonight is born
The One.

Shaw, Luci. "One." Accompanied by Angels: Poems of the Incarnation. Grand Rapids, MI: William B. Eerdmans Pub., 2006. 19-20, 24.

LIGHT AND DARK
Christmas has become associated with all things “cheer,” “goodwill,” and “merriment”: eggnog, Santa Claus, white elephant parties, sparkly sweaters, twinkly lights, scented candles and glittering tinsel. And for good reason. This is a holiday inspired by the coming of the world’s salvation in the form of Jesus Christ. On those living in the land of deep darkness, a light has dawned. It’s a joy to shout from the mountaintops; Good News anyone would want to celebrate.

But joy is often most joyful when contrasted with suffering. Often, joy comes after mourning. The sun rises after a long, dark night.

In the nativity there is the joy of the world’s deliverance and the tragedy of what it will cost. There is the child and there is the cross. Light and dark.

We see it well in Rembrandt’s Adoration of the Shepherds. The painting is all about darkness and light. The newborn Messiah is the brightest source of light in an otherwise dominantly dark scene; brighter even than the lantern held by a bystander. He is the light of the world. But notice what looms in the darkness in the upper half of the painting: the beams in the rafters form a cross.

The joy of Advent is inextricable from the pain of sin, suffering and longing. Joy’s potency comes not from negating suffering but from relating to it, emanating from it, embracing the longing. Joy is Sehnsucht, wrote C.S. Lewis in Surprised by Joy: “an unsatisfied desire which is itself more desirable than any other satisfaction.”

The curious tension of joy is beautifully present in Advent, a season of celebration but also longing. We rejoice over God’s coming to dwell with us and redeem the world. And we wait, wait, wait for the day when he will return to bring justice and peace to this unjust and bloody planet. In the meantime we exist in a state of hopeful expectancy, a frail world that wearily waits for a new and glorious morn.

Advent begs the question: If Jesus’ birth is such good news, such a great light, then why is the world still so overwhelmingly dark? Why did this light of the world not overcome the darkness once-and-for-all? Why are there bombs and beheadings in the news every week? Where is the light in places like Ferguson, Gaza, or Ebola-stricken West Africa? How can the Good News be believed in a world where innocents are slaughtered every day?  

The questions aren’t easily answered with logic, but they are engaged—and embodied—in art.

Art is no good if it has no conflict or contrast. Many of the best paintings, like Rembrandt’s Adoration, are the ones that dramatically employ the interplay of light and dark. The best novels and movies are the ones that throw all manner of roadblocks and challenges at the protagonist on his or her way to a cathartic resolution. The best symphonies are the ones that include sections of both jubilation and lament, with lots of dynamic contrast (soft, loud, pleasant, dissonant) on the path toward grand conclusion.

Contrast is fundamental to beauty. A sunset is beautiful because it’s where darkness and light intertwine. The terror of thunder and lightning is often a necessary accompaniment to the nourishment a field needs. For much of the world, springtime comes only after a long, cold winter.

The epic of this world is one of terror, darkness and despair mixed with love, beauty and hope; a story of many downs and many ups, many brilliant moments and many heartbreaking tragedies.

In the life of Christ we see it all in microcosm: a joyous birth amidst Herod’s unspeakable slaughter; Christ’s miracle-working amidst throngs of poor, suffering and sick; wedding feasts where wine flowed; Roman torture where blood gushed. Birth and life and death. And then life again. Ups and downs. Lights and darks.

What a magnificent story it must have been to witness first-hand.

What a magnificent story it continues to be: a joy we continue to behold, a light that gives us sight and warmth, a love that gives us hope.

Father,
Thank you for your illuminating light.
You, who let there be light in the beginning,
Whose light shines on those living in the land of darkness,
Who remains the light of the world,
Shine brightly.
Overcome the darkness.
Shine through us.
Let your light shine in us, before men, so that they would glorify you.
Let the Light of your presence guide us,
for in your Light do we see light.
Enlighten us, Oh Lord.
Help us to walk in the light, as You are in the light.
So that others would see and know
The joy of knowing You.
Amen.

Brett McCracken, Assistant Director of Brand Messaging, UCM