Jane McCord

The church in which I grew up, of which my father was the minister, was a large old New England colonial style edifice, painted white with large clear windows along each side.  Its tall steeple dominated the center of my small town.  

Christmas Eve was so very special.  There were window candles in the windows, and close to midnight the choir would always sing “Break Forth O Beauteous Heavenly Light” from JS Bach’s Christmas Oratorio.  Each member of the congregation would light their candle, one from another.  Then the congregation would encircle the sanctuary with our lit candles, and sing Silent Night together.   We had an undoubtedly dangerous practice of keeping the candles in our hands lit for far too long, not wanting to see the light extinguished on a cold dark night. We kids, later teenagers, would anxiously await our opportunity to ring out the large bell in the steeple at midnight – no doubt annoying the neighbors but joyously announcing the arrival of the Light of the World once again.  

Light, and Christmas window candles and Advent candles, have continued to hold a great deal of meaning for me across the years.   I have told my husband many times that if the only thing I could have at Christmas time was Christmas music and window candles,  I would be just fine with that.  And my favorite Christmas Eve verse is from John, who echoes Isaiah – “And the light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”  

In these days those words invariably bring tears to my eyes, as I fret about the state of our country and of the world.  But we must remember that Isaiah spoke from a time when his people too were oppressed and fearful about their future existence as a nation.  And Isaiah, like John, and like Jesus, reminds us that the light can start with us. 

The Winter Solstice, the shortest day, points not behind but ahead – to the coming of the light once again.   We are also called, as followers of Christ, to be the light of the world – and so for us light means hope.  In the midst of darkness, it is easy to feel our one little light makes little difference.   To quote Ginger Gaines-Cirelli, however, “even when you feel dimmed by weariness and worn down with grief, God’s love will continue to shine, lighting the way not only for you to keep going but also for others to see you and to follow.” [Sacred Resistance, p 4-5.]