Through Advent we have considered the Light that breaks in where hope falters. If anything, this journey has made us ever more aware that human hope is weak. How easy is it to find yourself questioning if the violence, the scarcity, the poverty, the suffering is all that remains? We look at images of war, of children covered in blood and dust, cars and their passengers burned from the inside, and we think that surely this must be the way the world ends. 

But Light, THE Light, breaks in. Even here. Even now. Into our weakened hope, the Light of the world pushes back the cosmic darkness. He enters in. His arms encircle the dust-covered child, his love baptizes our burned-out realities with life afresh. 

In Advent we long for his coming.  At Christmas we remember that we are not alone in the darkness. With the birth of Christ, God’s Word, his promise of ultimate renewal, was made flesh. With the sound of his first baby cries, Love himself became incarnate. 

On Christmas, the war against the darkness really begins. Christ the King comes to us, his weary band and he invites out of our self-pity and into the Spirit-filled hope of life, life abundant, life eternal. This fractured, fragile world is given (and it is a gift) a new hope.

Look at Fritz Eichenberg’s nativity,  Christmas 1954. In this image, the angels sing. The dove flies over the sleeping mother and child and the star of David shines over the happy scene. Joseph welcomes the visiting worshipers even as he keeps watch in the night with the cows, sheep and hens. 

But what lurks beneath the floorboards? See the three sleeping dragons? 

Danger is present in this scene. It is not the scene of complete and utter safety. Instead, it is a scene of holy presence. Christ the King of Heaven dwells with us in the darkness. At his coming, we are no longer alone. Light has come - and this gives us deep, precious hope.