Light cutting through the darkness
A sermon for the first service of Christmas
Primary Texts
Isaiah 52:7-10
Hebrews 1:1-4
John 1:1-14
Our church lectionary (our directory of readings for worship) requires us to use the gospel passage we have just heard (John 1:1-14) in at least one of the Christmas services. When a church authority – or indeed any authority – explicitly requires something be done, it implies that – left to their own devices – the people living under their authority might be inclined to do something different. I think that it is the case with John 1:1-14, which is a beautiful, poetic piece of religious philosophy, but harder for most people to relate to than the story of Jesus’ birth as set out in Luke’s Gospel, which includes a government census (we’ve done a few of those), shepherds in the fields (we’ve still got a lot of sheep) and overbooked hotels (well, it’s the Christmas season).
The natural inclination of most preachers and congregations, then, would be to stick to the second chapter of Luke’s Gospel for every service of Christmas. That would make life easier, but we would be missing out on John’s profound reflection on the mystery of God coming among us in Christ, through a passage that speaks powerfully into our here-and-now, even as it refers to the beginning of time itself.
John does not write a gentle nativity story. He gives us a cosmic proclamation: that before anything else, before chaos and cruelty, before fear and failure, there is meaning ; there is Word (the whole creative aspect of God, logos); there is light.
But John is not penning a triumphalist ditty here. It is plain from what he writes next that the situation the Word or Light finds itself in is fraught. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.” It is good to know the light has not been quenched, but the sense is that a struggle is underway. When it comes to what is wrong with the world, John is a steely-eyed realist. He names evil for what it is: real, pressing, and threatening. This honesty makes John’s Gospel a word for our own day, just as it was for first century Christians.
We live at a time when darkness has made itself felt rather close to home. The recent shootings at the start of Hannukah in Sydney (14 December) struck at a community celebrating the first evening of an eight-day festival of light. The cold-blooded murders reminded Jewish communities—and all of us—how fragile safety can be. Violence exploded that evening in an horrific way, ending the lives of young and old engaged in nothing more sinister than our celebrations this evening; both honouring the light of God.
But it is not only innocent Jewish people who have been suffering recently. In Gaza, countless Palestinian families endure conditions that make the Hunger Games look tame, where hope is effectively rationed and grief is relentless. In Ukraine, after years of Russian onslaught, a nation is worn thin—its cities scarred, its people exhausted, its future uncertain. Similar things could be said about Sudan and the Democratic Republic of Congo. Closer to home, many New Zealanders – though much less beleaguered – are struggling as a result of a soft economy: jobs lost, dreams deferred, young people leaving because they cannot see a future here.
These are not abstract issues. They are human stories—parents worrying about children, neighbours burying neighbours, workers wondering how long they can hold on. And into this world John dares to say: “What has come into being in him – in Jesus – was life, and the life was the light of all people.”
Notice that John does not say the light belongs to some people. Not to the successful, not to the safe, not to the morally pure or economically secure. The light is “of all people.” This matters when we are tempted to draw tight circles for our compassion, when suffering feels too distant or too complicated to engage, or when we, as the one suffering feel that God’s light can’t possibly be shining on us. John insists that God’s light refuses to be fenced in by borders, ideologies, identities or our sense of self-worth. It shines in synagogues under threat, in bombed neighbourhoods, in tired nations, and in quiet homes where bills cannot be paid.
John observes that, though the light (of Christ) was in the world, “The world did not know him:” The tragedy of human history is not simply that darkness exists, but that we so often fail to recognise the light when it comes. Rather than reaching out to embrace the light and the promise of peace it brings for ourselves and others, we too easily flail about, grasping at inferior solutions – shadows in the darkness (not the light itself) – that escalate violence, increase insecurity, and diminish us as human beings. We see this when retaliation becomes our default setting, when the interest of our identity group becomes more important than the interests we share as a result of our common humanity. We see it when fear hardens into hatred, and when weariness turns into indifference.
So, what does it mean to believe John’s claim today? It does not mean pretending that things are fine. Christian faith is not denial. The cross stands at the centre of our faith as a sign that God sees suffering from the inside. The Word does not hover above the world offering polite commentary. No, it becomes vulnerable. God pitches a tent among the displaced, the grieving, the exhausted.
This is good news for Palestinians in Gaza who wonder if the world has forgotten them. It is good news for Ukrainians who wake each day unsure what the morning light will reveal. It is good news for Jewish families shaken by hatred’s persistence over centuries. It is good news for New Zealanders who feel their country slipping out of reach, who grieve the loss of community as friends and children move overseas. God is not absent from these realities. God has chosen to dwell within them.
That is a comfort!
But John’s prologue does not end with comfort alone. It also carries a call. “To all who received him… he gave power to become children of God.”
To receive the light is to be changed by it. If we claim to follow the Word made flesh, then we are called to reflect that light—however faintly—into the darkness around us.
That reflection may look different depending on where we stand. For some, it may mean refusing to dehumanise those on the “other side” of a conflict, insisting, instead, on the dignity of every person even when politics screams otherwise. For others, it may mean practical solidarity with a battered group: giving, advocating, praying, and refusing to turn away. For many here, it may mean small acts of faithfulness—checking in on a struggling neighbour, supporting a local business, mentoring a young person who is unsure whether to stay or go.
Light does not have to be spectacular to be real. A single candle does not eliminate the night, but it does change it. The darkness has not overcome the light—not because the light is overpowering in a worldly sense, but because it is persistent, resilient, and grounded in God’s own life.
There is also a word here for our national discouragement. When talent leaves and opportunities shrink, it is easy to believe that decline is inevitable, that hope belongs somewhere else (maybe in the ‘Big Country’). But John reminds us that life does not flow from economic strength alone. It flows from the Word who gives life freely. Our task is not to manufacture hope, but to remain open to it—to nurture communities where people are seen, valued, and supported, even in lean times.
At the heart of John’s prologue is a promise: “From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.” Grace upon grace—not a single gift that can be exhausted, but a continual outpouring. This grace does not erase grief, but it sustains us within it. It does not solve every problem, but it gives us courage to keep acting with love when solutions feel distant.
As we hold the pain of the world in our prayers—the grief in Sydney, the suffering in Gaza, the endurance of Ukraine, the anxiety within our own communities—we do so trusting that God’s light is already at work. Often quietly. Often unnoticed. But truly.
“The light shines in the darkness.”
This is not wishful thinking. It is a confession of faith rooted in the Word who became flesh and dwelt among us.
May we learn to see that light, to receive it, and to reflect it—until the darkness, in all its forms, finally gives way.
Tony Surman