There's something about gathering in the darkness, isn't there?
We come together on this Christmas Eve, and we begin in shadow. The lights are low. The sanctuary is quiet. And there's a reason for that. Because before we can fully appreciate the light, we need to remember the darkness.
The prophet Isaiah knew about darkness. He wrote to a people living under the shadow of exile, under the weight of oppression, under the heaviness of their own sin. And into that darkness, he spoke words of impossible hope:
"The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of deep darkness a light has dawned." (Isaiah 9:2)
Tonight, we don't pretend the darkness doesn't exist. The world still groans under the weight of suffering. Wars rage. Families fracture. Bodies fail. Hearts break. And if we're honest, many of us carry our own private darkness into this sanctuary tonight—grief that won't let go, fears that won't quiet, wounds that won't heal.
But here's the stunning truth of Christmas Eve: God doesn't wait for us to fix the darkness before He enters it.
Listen to how the Gospel of John puts it: "The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it." (John 1:5)
Not "the light shines after the darkness." Not "the light shines if the darkness cooperates." The light shines in the darkness. Present tense. Active. Invading. Relentless.
Two thousand years ago, in a little town that hardly mattered, in a stable that smelled of animals and straw, in a feeding trough meant for livestock—God became flesh. The Word who spoke galaxies into existence learned to cry. The hands that hold the universe learned to grasp Mary's finger. The One who is from everlasting to everlasting had a birthday.
And why? Why would the infinite God compress Himself into the fragile frame of an infant?
Because that's what love does. Love doesn't maintain safe distance. Love doesn't wait for perfect conditions. Love enters in. Love becomes vulnerable. Love takes on flesh and moves into the neighborhood, as Eugene Peterson puts it.
Jesus didn’t come just to improve us. He came to bring life where there was none. He came to be the light that darkness cannot extinguish.
And tonight, we get to participate in that light.
In just a few moments, we're going to do something beautifully symbolic. We're going to take one flame—the Christ candle—and we're going to pass it from person to person until this entire room is illuminated. One light becoming many. Darkness giving way to glory.
That's the story of Christmas. That's the story of the Church. That's the story you're invited into tonight.
You see, you're not here by accident. You didn't wander in randomly. Whether you've been following Jesus for fifty years or you're not sure what you believe, whether you came tonight out of tradition or out of desperation—God meets you here. In this moment. In this light.
The apostle Paul wrote: "For God, who said, 'Let light shine out of darkness,' made his light shine in our hearts to give us the light of the knowledge of God's glory displayed in the face of Christ." (2 Corinthians 4:6)
The same God who spoke light into existence at creation wants to speak light into your darkness tonight. The same power that raised Jesus from the dead is available to you. Not someday. Tonight.
So as we light these candles in a few moments, I want you to do something. I want you to think about the darkness you're carrying. The fear. The shame. The grief. The regret. The uncertainty. Whatever it is that feels too heavy, too dark, too permanent.
And then I want you to remember: the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.
Jesus came. Jesus lived. Jesus died. Jesus rose. And Jesus is still in the business of bringing light to dark places.
That's the promise of Christmas Eve.
The light has come. And the darkness will not win.
