They Needed Light

The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it. (John 1:5 NLT)

As I type this, I’ve just received an email telling me my dream trip, the one I’ve been planning for two years, has been canceled. As you read this, on that trip is where I should be.

I know that as sacrifices go this year, it’s not tipping the scale, but the trip was both symbolic and a lifelong dream for me, and I’m devastated.

December may host the darkest days of the year, but for many, the darkness never lifted after last winter. When spring arrived, so did a protracted global crisis. We’re walking through the Christmas season tired, grieving, and anxious. Family togetherness probably won’t look the same. There could be members missing from the circle around our tree. It’s unlikely that my church will have in-person services for this important time of year, and that loss of community during one of the most-community oriented seasons of our lives cuts deeply.

The lights might be twinkling, but not a lot of people are singing “Joy to the World” in quite the same key they’re used to.

Into all this enters the promise of a baby in a manger, wailing under a star whose wattage won’t quit. Nothing about that part of the story has changed. The Light of the world still came, still lives, and if nothing could extinguish it when John penned those words some 2,000 years ago, nothing in this year of woe can, either.

Think about the world Jesus entered.

When the star shone over Bethlehem, people there were living under oppressive rule. They might not have seen Roman soldiers often, but they felt their presence. They knew the grasping greed of the tax collectors and their power to destroy a family already on the economic edge. They had seen crosses on the roadside, and they knew who usually hung there. Though their ruler, Herod, pretended to be a Jew, they understood his true loyalties lay only with himself.

They needed light to believe the darkness that pushed them into the ground and stole their breath could be pierced.

When the star shone on Bethlehem, most of the population existed in near-poverty, including Mary and Joseph. They had a home and enough food, but they worked constantly, and one bad year could be the difference between survival and devastation. Jesus and Joseph would have carved plows, yokes, chairs, and bowls six days a week, unaware of this thing we refer to as leisure time.

They needed light to hope that their children’s lives could be better.

When the star shone over Bethlehem, mothers died in childbirth, children died of diarrhea and other effects of poor sanitation in crowded areas, and everyone died in plagues. In cities, people lived like sardines together in buildings with no modern comforts such as air conditioning or indoor plumbing. Alexander Hamilton famously sings that, where he came from (1750s Nevis), many people lived “half as many” as twenty years. Jesus understood this, too—at 33, he had already lived close to the 35-40 average lifespan. (High infant mortality, however, skews that number.)

They needed light to see that the grave didn’t close out their life stories, and that this difficult world was not their only chance to find peace.

This is the world into which the great I AM entered as flesh. The similarities of disease and injustice strike us more clearly this year, perhaps, but they don’t surprise the baby who took up residence in a feeding trough in a place whose capacity for sin he knew too well.

The darkness can never extinguish the Light of the world. All the pain and difficulty in Jesus’ world could not stop the blinding star from flashing its sign for all to see who wanted to see: “Come. Faith, Hope, and Love are born tonight. This Light cannot ever be overcome.”

We can be overcome. We can be overwrought and overworked. We can lose heart, and our courage to keep on can be extinguished. Those are the days when we look to that star over Bethlehem, and we hang a facsimile of it on our Christmas trees and remember: its incredible light was only a sign. Though it shone like a Fresnel lighthouse lens beaming its way out to a dark sea, it only pointed the way to the greater Light.

That Light shone in a wooden trough in a cave on a holy night long ago. It also shone out of an empty tomb on a morning when all hopes had been shattered. The darkness cannot extinguish it. Death has no power over it. Neither pandemics nor racism nor ugly divisions can separate us from it. If we follow him, even when it feels like we’re walking in the deepest darkness, we can know that we are walking toward life.

Scriptures for Reflection

Jesus spoke to the people once more and said, “I am the light of the world. If you follow me, you won’t have to walk in darkness, because you will have the light that leads to life. (John 8:12 NLT)

The Lord is my light and my salvation—so why should I be afraid? (Ps. 27:1 NLT)

Your word is a lamp to guide my feet and a light for my path. (Ps. 119:105 NLT)

Reach for More

Ask God what one area of your life needs light right now. Maybe it’s your work, your family relationships, your marriage, or your mental health. Close your eyes and visualize his light shining into that part of your life. Feel the heat and see the brightness. Rest in it for as long as you need. Start each day by writing three ways you can seen Jesus’s light in that area—even in the smallest of things. If you can only find one, that’s a start. Focus on a prayer of thanksgiving for that.

Jill Richardson is a writer, speaker, pastor, mom of three, and author of five books. She likes to travel, grow flowers, read Tolkien, and research her next project. She believes in Jesus, grace, restoration, kindness, justice, and dark chocolate. Her passion is partnering with the next generation of faith. Jill blogs at jillmrichardson.com.