Notes From Jon

Each Advent, our home, like many other homes in our small town, is decorated for the season.  And that decoration includes lights.  Some homes have thousands of lights spread across their yards, floodlights lighting the front door, and Christmas trees blazing in the windows.  Others (like ours) have a few lights, or maybe no lights at all outside, but the glow of a Christmas tree warms a few windows.

Then there are the window candles.  We didn’t do this until we moved to Kenbridge, but it’s become one of our favorite decorations – candles in the window, symbolically inviting the Holy Family to find shelter here:  “There may not be room in the inn, but I have room for you!”  Every tucked-away electrical outlet finds its annual purpose, and our windows shine with welcoming light throughout the night.  I can see and feel their warmth as I’m coming home in the evening, or during my morning walk before the sun rises.

There are times, though, when the light gets out of hand.  What is warm and welcoming outside becomes an uncomfortable burden inside.  Like when we notice the bright new addition to our monthly power bill.  Or when we have to make an unexpected trip to the store to get those tiny (but expensive) light bulbs.  Or when it’s time to leave for a trip, and we have to find all those tucked-away outlets again to unplug the lights.  For someone like me, who sometimes has a hard time falling asleep, the extra bright lights in our normally-darkened bedroom windows make it difficult to tune out the world.  For someone like Tanya, who loves a clean and tidy house, the extra lights at nighttime take away one of the merits of nighttime – the short-lived illusion that everything’s as tidy as it should be.

Sometimes it’s enough to make you want to pull the plugs on the things!

We welcome the warm glow of the Light of Christ at Christmas time.  How special this season is, how nostalgic and moving!  But when it comes to letting the Light of Christ into our lives – into all the parts of our lives – things get a little more complicated.  And why?  Because the light that started off as a warm glow from the darkness of a stable, became an almost unbearable brilliance from the darkness of a tomb.

The light can be costly at times, asking us to give things up.  In some strange way, the Light requires that we keep opening doors and windows into new and painful areas.  Like a floodlight, that Light finds its way into even the darkest rooms of our hearts, and shows us things we’d rather not be reminded of.  Sometimes its brightness keeps us awake, spurring us to thought or action at times we’d rather be resting.

“There may not be room in the inn, but I have room for you!” we say.  “Once Christmas is over, though, you’ll need to leave – or at least you’ll need to move into the back bedroom before you get too bright.”

But no matter the cost, the Light heals and frees us, the Light makes us whole.

Oh Jesus, Light of the World, bring your Light into my heart this day.  Let the Light find me out, in spite of myself.  Let it show me the things that need fixing, remind me that things are not as tidy as they should be, spur me to action at times when I’d rather be resting.  And let its brightness consume all the darkness that is in me, until all that’s left is the Light.