Isaiah61.1-4, 8-end, John 1.6-8, 19-28
I
wonder whether you’ve put any Christmas lights up yet, or whether you’re
intending to. It seems to me that there are more lights around this year than
ever, and perhaps that’s no surprise after all we’ve been through. The ones in
the village went up last weekend – many thanks to Marion who organised that and
all those who helped to do it. Philip put ours up around the front of the
vicarage last week, so we’re lovely and twinkly. Christmas trees are being
decorated with lights, and, of course, Advent candles like ours in church are
gradually being lit as we approach Christmas. Christians aren’t alone in
celebrating with lights at this time of year. The Jewish feast of Hannukah was
last week, and the Hindu celebration of Diwali a few weeks ago – both festivals
of light. If you live in the Northern Hemisphere it’s easy to see why there is
such an obsession with lights at this time of year. Few of us really like the
long nights of winter.. Light is important emotionally as well as practically.
We need these light-filled celebrations to cheer us up and remind us that the
darkness won’t go on forever.
Today,
as well as being the third Sunday of Advent, is also St Lucy’s Day, a saint who
is very much associated with light. Her name comes from the Latin word for
light - lux. She was a young Sicilian Christian who was martyred in Syracusa
around 304 AD, in a wave of persecution under the Emperor Diocletian. It is
said that she refused to enter a forced marriage with a wealthy pagan man, who
was so incensed at this that he had her arrested, imprisoned, tortured and
eventually executed – sadly an all too common female saintly story - forced
marriage was something that many faced. Later stories say that before this she
had taken food by night to other Christians in hiding in the catacombs, wearing
a candle on her head so that her hands were free to carry it. Her story spread
northwards from her Mediterranean home and especially caught on in Sweden and
other Nordic countries. Her feast day - December 13 – was the mid-winter
Solstice before the calendar reforms of the 17th century, and that
story of her candlelit visits to the catacombs made her an obvious figure for a
festival of light, especially in dark, Northern latitudes. On this day, in
Swedish speaking communities, young girls dressed as St Lucy, in white robes
and red sashes – the symbols of martyrdom – process through streets and
churches and homes singing, and - terrifyingly, in my opinion - they do all
this wearing crowns of candles on their heads. For younger children, the
candles are battery operated, but older girls are expected to wear the real thing.
I can hardly bear to think about the risk assessment!
Like
all our Advent and Christmas light customs, St Lucy’s day underlines just how
much light matters to us. Whether we believe she wore candles on her head to
visit those in hiding, the symbolism is powerful. Just imagine what it would have
been like to see that light come towards you through the darkness, if you were
sitting there afraid for your life. It wouldn’t just have been the candle flame
that made the difference, but the light of kindness and courage which shone
from her. You would never forget it.
Lucy’s
story reminds us of all those who’ve discovered the light of Christ in their
own lives, and then borne it for others. Even if we don’t believe her story is
literal truth, there were many other early Christian women whose stories were
similar, and many since, whose lives have been lit up by knowing how Jesus had treated
women, as individuals with hopes and dreams of their own, included and honoured
in his mission. Women have found strength and dignity in that, and the courage
to resist forced marriage and the other pressures of their society, to live
their own lives, fulfil their own callings.
Men as
well as women, of course, have discovered the light of Christ shining in their
lives, showing them new ways to live, inspiring and comforting them, giving
them new purpose, no matter who they are, how humble their background, what
they have done or what has been done to them. As Isaiah put it in our first reading,
they have found in Jesus the one who brings “good news to the oppressed, binds
up the broken-hearted, proclaims liberty to the prisoners”. It has happened
to them. They know it’s true.
Like
John the Baptist in our Gospel story, those whose lives have been lit up by
Christ know that they themselves are not the light. I am not the light. You are
not the light. And thank goodness for that. We can’t save the world - we can’t
even save ourselves – but we don’t have to do so. The candles we light at
Advent don’t just burst into flame by themselves. The fire has to be brought to
them from elsewhere. The fairy lights don’t glow on their own – they have to be
connected to a power source. But when they are, they can transform everything
around them, just as we all can – “you in your small corner, and I in mine” as
the old children’s song puts it.
John
the Baptist and St Lucy discovered the light of Christ for themselves, and they
carried that light to others, lighting up their lives too, and they call us to be
light-bearers as well.
If
we’re going to do that, though, we first need to know what the light of Christ
looks like in our own lives, what difference he makes to us. We can’t bear
witness to something unless we know what it is. We can’t bring light to others
unless we have found out what it means for us. So, what does Christ mean to us?
How does faith bring light to our lives? There’s no stock answer to that. It’s
different for everyone, but something has drawn each of us to pray, to worship,
to read the Bible, to wonder about Jesus. Something in these things enriches
us, intrigues us, changes us, inspires us to love and serve others, brings us peace
or maybe shakes us out of our complacency. If it didn’t we wouldn’t be here now,
listening to this. Something in the Christian story enlightens us. Just as a traveller lost in a dark place
might head towards the glow of a distant lighted window, knowing that there
would be at least a possibility of finding help there, we’re called first to notice
the light that has drawn our attention to Christ.
Then,
having found our light, we can share it with others. We don’t need to know any
fancy theological words to do this, and we certainly don’t need, thank God, to
wear crowns of burning candles on our heads! Bearing the light is really just a
matter of naming that light in our lives, and living as if it matters. We may
not think our faith is anything special. It may feel very feeble or tentative, but
the light we’ve found might be just the light that someone else is desperately looking
for, like the candle flame that shone through the darkness of the catacombs as
Lucy made her way to her friends there. And if we don’t share it, maybe no one
else will.
So, as
we look at the lights around us lighting up this dark Advent, may we find and
name the light in us, so that when the fairy lights and candles are packed
away, we’re still shining, and bearing Christ’s light for others too.
Amen
No comments:
Post a Comment