What a glorious, happy day that will be, when people seek out the church, seeking God and knowledge of God. Some people do just show up; they find us. This is God at work, surely. Some of you are here because of someone who was or is still part of this church; you found us through them. They found you. This is God at work, surely. I hope there’s at least a little conviction in your heart that part of your discipleship is to go and seek the lost, or the wandering, the straying: those who could be here but aren’t. I feel that conviction, not that I do much about it. Maybe this will be the year. It’s not January 1^st, but this first Sunday of Advent does start a new worship year. It’s a time for new possibilities, new resolve. Church is the place for new possibilities. Our God is a God of new possibilities, second chances, hope.

What keeps us from realizing these new possibilities? Habit? Hurt? A God of light has claimed us, and we can feel, all too strangely feel, as if we were still stumbling around in darkness, trying to get our bearings, feel our way forward, one painful step at a time. We have our bruises to show for bumping around in the dark. We have old scars to show for our stumbling around in darkness.

Isaiah foretells a time when people of all nations and conditions will seek out God where they have been told He may be found. They will come seeking to know His ways because the conviction will have come upon them, because the Spirit will have spoken to them, that peace, real peace, lasting, durable, resilient, blessed peace, can be found only in living for God, living by the Word of God.  Our walk in the light of the Lord reflects that light, so that others can see.  Old habits and our hurt hinder our realizing our possibility. We want light yet find darkness: in our culture, our politics, darkness in our relationships, even, still, darkness in our hearts. We don’t want the darkness, but it’s there. We can’t say for certain when or where, or how it got in there. It’s hard to work in the dark. About all the dark is good for is sleeping, staying put. For some, about all the dark is good for is the waiting for the light.

An Advent study I led a few years back asked participants over the four weeks to try on some spiritual practices, some religious exercises. First was keeping vigil, that ancient practice of waiting for the new light of the new day. I wasn’t really keen on it, since December nights in central Illinois are bound hard by dark and deep cold, and bed was warm. It’s easier to sleep than to rise; it’s more comfortable.

Still, it was just one week, so I rose earlier than was my habit, went next door to the church, lit a candle in my study, and kept vigil. In the light of that one candle I prayed and read Scripture, as the Advent study suggested. The light of that one candle was feeble, though warm and pleasant; still, by itself it wasn’t much light. After a time, as I read and prayed, the sky began its slow change, from the deep grays and rich blue hues, to ever softer, almost imperceptibly warmer colors. The light was on its way. The new day had come. As that famous American novelist wrote, the Sun Also Rises. Darkness doesn’t last: the light will come; that’s reality; that is hope.

When we gather here on Christmas Eve, when we light our candles, each candle by itself isn’t much light, though lovely, warm, and gentle in its way. Together, though? What is it about all that candlelight, together? Or is it our singing, along with the candlelight: that act of simple faith, heartfelt piety? We each bear the light, each of us lightkeepers; in church together, we share the light.  Our ritual is to take the light from the white candle, the center candle, the Christ Candle, and from there we begin to light other candles. This is no dead ritual but a moving illustration of the Spirit, moving through us to others, moving us to take and to share the light of Christ with others, so they receive it, and in their turn share it also. We see, in that light, how we all share the light with one another. We see how, the more light there is, the better we can see, and the lovelier and richer is what we see, and what we feel. Our waiting is not in vain. The light comes to us. The Sun also rises.

We conclude our Christmas journey with the visit of the wise men from the East, from country far: part of the fulfillment of what Isaiah foretold long ago. Most people prefer to journey by day, yet most depictions of the wise men have them journeying by night, in darkness. Beloved, this is our journey, also: our journey to our King, and we journey through much darkness to arrive there, yet there is light. The wise men were guided through the darkness by a star, a light from heaven.

I’m fascinated by the night sky and fascinated by how sailors would use the stars to guide them. I look for the North Star, and I know where I am. Under God’s heavenly host, I know where I am; I know whose I am, and I feel that all those lights make the darkness a thing of beauty, not something to be feared.

We needn’t fear the darkness. Darkness there must be, but the light comes, too. There is always light in the darkness. We have our star, in the heavens. The next time you look up into a starry sky, consider with the ancient people that you are beholding God’s angels, arrayed in splendor, singing praise to God in a music we do not hear, though, as we look up and up, by the Spirit, we may feel that music. The light God gives is trustworthy. We can safely navigate by it. God’s light will lead us home.

Isaiah urges us to walk in the light of the Lord. It may feel as if the light we have been given is little, feeble, flickering. We have light together. Let us share the light with one another, as Christ shares himself with us, so generously, especially so from this table. As you receive with faith, you receive the light of God; light in a bite of bread; light in a drink of juice. The light is sweet; the light is a promise of fuller, eternal light.

We are made in such a way that food and drink do gladden the heart, as we may have experienced this past Thursday. Beloved, the table is large, and there are many more around it than we see. The holidays are not a happy time for everybody, but they can be a joyful time for us all if we hold on to the light we have been given by God in Jesus Christ: light that is the pledge and promise of fuller light, purer light, eternal light. Happiness comes and happiness goes, but joy abides: this is the peace of God, about which Isaiah spoke.

The time will come when we will sleep. Truly, now, while we have light by which to work, now is the time to do our work. Jesus did his work. The world did not thank him for it. He did not seek the world’s thanks. He sought the praise of his Father in heaven. When that stone was heaved into place over the opening into the tomb where Jesus lay, there was darkness indeed. We are told darkness covered the earth for several hours. There isn’t much darker than the closed grave. No wonder our hearts shudder and our minds struggle!

The Sun also rises. The light will come. As it was for our Savior in that darkness, so it is for us: the unbeatable power of God makes light where there was darkness, makes life where there was death, makes hope where there was despair, makes joy where there was sorrow. God made a way where there had been no way. God makes that way, here. He makes it by His light. We are in a season of light, light that makes us glad against the darkness; light that changes the darkness. We know the light of candles and Christmas trees. Know the light of God’s Word, the light of this Sacrament, by which God is storing up good things in you, and for you. Awake! Rejoice! Go. Share. O Morning Star, how fair and bright, / You shine forth in truth and light! O Sovereign meek and lowly [. . . .] heavenly Brightness, Light divine, / O deep within my heart now shine.

Now to the One who by the power at work within us is able to do far more abundantly than all we can ask or imagine, to God be glory in the Church and in Christ Jesus to all generations, forever and ever.