John 1:1-5, 9
Christmas Eve
In
the majestic prologue to John’s Gospel we hear these words, “In the beginning
was the word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. He was in the
beginning with God. All things came into
being through him, and without him not one thing came into being. What has come into being in him was life, and
the life was the light of all people.
The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it”
(John 1:1-5).
Life
and light. In the Greek, we have two, three-lettered words. Zoe—zeta,
omega, epsilon—meaning “life.” And, phos—phi, omega, sigma—meaning “light.”
John turns to two theologically, existentially profound words, archetypal
words, which reflect two aspects of reality, and joins them together to express
the inexpressible, the Word made flesh.
Life and light. Zoe and phos. One of my favorite cross design
holds these words together, forming a Greek cross, zoe on the horizontal arm and phos
on the vertical arm, sharing an omega in the center.
On
this holy night, in the dark of the night, we are here because, as John said,
“What has come into being in him was life” (Jn. 1:4). Zoe. John could have used a
different word for life; he could have said in him was bios, which also translates into English as “life.” Bios
refers only to our physical existence, life in general, in its most basic,
animal sense. Zoe, however, refers to the force or vitality that animates our
lives. It means full life, intense life, life that yields more life; it’s generative.
It’s real life. It describes the
fullness of life, the kind of fullness that belongs to God. Indeed, what John is trying to say at the
opening of his Gospel is that the source of life itself, the fullness of life
that belongs to God, is here in the flesh in Jesus. The miracle of the incarnation is not only
that Jesus was born, but that with his birth the fullness of God has entered
into the world; with his birth something new has been born in us, we have been
born into life, zoe, true life. The
French philosopher Michel Henry (1922-2002), reflecting on the theology of John’s
Gospel, might be helpful here. He says
that from a Christian perspective, “To be born is not to come into the
world. To be born is to come into life.”[1] Zoe.
On
this holy night, in the dark of the night, we are here because, John said, “…and
the life was the light of all people” (Jn. 1:4). John tells us that John the Baptist was not
the light, but came to testify to the light. “The true light, which enlightens everyone
was coming into the world” (Jn. 1:9). There’s no other word for light in Greek.
Phos.
Light means light. But
what we need to remember is hat in the ancient world is that light, itself, was considered
mysterious and divine. Although John was Jewish, he was heavily influenced by
Greek philosophy, and everyone in the ancient world knew that Apollo was god of
the sun, the god of light, the bringer of light. Today, we know more about the nature of light
than John. It’s dual nature of particle
and wave makes it even more mysterious to us.
But something of the magic of light has been lost to us, thanks to
Edison’s incandescent lightbulb. The
darkness as presence is not much of a mystery to us anymore. Night is not
really night; ambient light pollutes the skies and prevent us from seeing the
stars. So, what, then, does it mean to say in Christ was light? Has the symbol of light lost some of its
meaning? Do we need Christ as a light?
We’re no longer afraid of the dark. But if we need some light, we just use the flashlight
on our iPhones.
But
John tells us that Christ is a different kind of light. He’s not simply a
Jewish Apollo. John says Jesus, the “true light,” has come into the world
through him. There was already light in
John’s world, of course, but the life of Christ now illumines one’s life in an
entirely different and unique way. The light of Christ is not natural to the
world. The coming of his light might actually increase the darkness, because
what we thought was light might not be light at all. In fact, the coming of his
light might reverse and absorb natural light into its opposite, into darkness.[2]
The coming of his light actually heightens the darkness of the world, the
darkness already inherent in the world.
But this should not depress us because, as John claimed here in the
prologue, in one of his most profound insights of the New Testament, “The light
shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (Jn. 1:5).
This
might be heady stuff for Christmas Eve, maybe especially if we’ve already had
too much Christmas cheer. But this is
important stuff, serious stuff. For many
people, the world feels very dark these days.
For many, it feels as if darkness is overcoming the light. Many are struggling with what Christmas means, even with what it means to be a Christian today. We can draw considerable insight, wisdom, and
strength from John’s testimony. We don’t
have to be afraid of the dark. For, Christ’s
light shines all the brighter in the darkness, and darkness cannot overcome his
light, because his light is the life, the zoe,
the animating power of the universe. This means that even in the darkness, if
we search for it, Christ’s light still shines. Remarkably, light can shine from
the darkness. That's because darkness, as the mystics knew, is luminous.[3] This is the mystery that draws us here
tonight. And, if we need help remembering this, stay in your head, or, better,
consider your head. Let me explain.
In
Anthony Doerr’s sublime novel All the
Light We Cannot See, we are drawn into the lives of two children just
before the Second World War, Marie-Laure in Paris and Werner, about three
hundred miles to the east near Essen, Germany.
We imagine the world through their eyes, as Europe is about to be swallowed by darkness. Marie-Laure is blind. Her world is dark and yet she “sees” through her
imagination. Werner lives in an orphanage with his sister, Jutta. Light is a theme that runs through the
novel. Late one night, after Werner and
Jutta were supposed to be asleep, Werner pulls out an old shortwave radio, hooks
the antennae out the window, and soon hears broadcasts coming from Russia,
London, Rome, Berlin, and one coming from somewhere in France. They hear a “scratchy
broadcast;” a man is talking with a French accent, talking about light. “The brain is locked in total darkness, of
course, children, says the voice. It floats in a clear liquid inside the skull,
never in the light. And yet the world it
constructs in the mind is full of light.
It brims with color and movement.
So how, children, does the brain, which lives without a spark of light,
build for us a world full of light?”…Open
your eyes, concludes the voice in the night.[4]
How
does the brain, which lives without a spark of light, build for us a world full
of light? How, indeed. The mystery of
light and darkness in us, embedded within us, the fact that light shines in
darkness, that darkness can even generate light, allowing us to see—consider
how awesome this is! We’re confronted with the sheer mystery of our lives. If this is true about us, within us, then how
much more must it be true for the light of Christ shining in our lives, source
of life and light, even in our darkest moments?
Like John the Baptist before us, we
are here tonight to bear witness to the light.
We are here this night because our eyes have been opened and we’re here
because we want them to open more. Christ is born—and his life continues to
illumine our lives. For, “the Word became flesh and lived among us, and we have
seen his glory…” (Jn. 1:14).
[1] Michel Henry, I Am the Truth: Toward a Philosophy of
Christianity, trans. Susan Emanuel (Stanford, CA: Stanford University
Press, 2003), 59.
[2] Henry, 86.
[3] On the luminosity of
darkness, see Melanie Starr Costello’s reflection at https://www.jung.org/blog/5631417.
