I wasn’t going to bother with the Christmas tree this year. To be honest, I’m not sure how much I will bother with Christmas itself. I’ve had enough cancelled plans, disappointed hopes, shifting schedules, and unnecessary efforts than I care to count—not exactly putting me in a festive mood. Some of this is the single and solo-dweller’s burden: why should I bother with cooking for one when I know I’ll settle for cereal? Why should I care about tidying up when it’s just me who deals with the mess? Why should I dig around in a dusty storage unit for Christmas ornaments when I can’t have anyone over this year anyway? But during a year of limited social interactions, when short days and early sunsets feel extra oppressive and remind me of all the lonely and grumpy parts of being single, there are some things that are more worth the bother than ever. Because, as my friend put it,
“Christmas trees make the dark feel special.”
What a symbol for advent that is. The son of God, arriving during earth’s darkest hour and transforming the daunting and scary horrors of night into something wondrous and cozy. And just like God’s people back then missed the humility of his manger arrival because they had mentally prepared for a flashy royal entrance,
I wonder if I’ve been looking for God to show up in 2020 in the all-consuming-ness of the spotlight and have, perhaps, missed his still small voice in the twinkle light.
Jesus is the light of the world (John 8:12) —it’s true—but maybe this light of the world isn’t the grotesque LED headlights of the sports car blinding me on the freeway, or the nauseating fluorescent ceiling panels of an office building, or the unescapable glare of desert sun. Maybe this light of the world emerges gently in the ambience of lamp light, the flicker of logs in a fireplace, the glow of the moon off the ocean and the glittering of an apartment-sized Christmas tree. I was expecting his light to overpower me, but perhaps it is shining just enough to remind me that short days and long nights can be snug and full of rest, and that darkness need not be feared when it’s only the backdrop to his sparkles.
I’m not sure what kind of God-light you’re looking for right now, what kind of miracles you’re seeking, or holiday you’re anticipating, but
I wonder what might happen if you approached this season with more expectancy and less expectation.
More of the childlike faith that looks for God everywhere, assuming he will show up, rather than the cynicism that awaits a particular proof of his goodness. Less the first century seeker of an earthly king-saviour, and more the humble shepherd worshipping at the manger of the Christ-child.
God is with us. The darkness is not dark to him (Psalm 139:12). And perhaps a way to surrender in this season is to enjoy the glimpses, glimmers and twinkles, the subtle unassuming expressions of his presence as they come along.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it. (John 1:5)