There is that scene towards the end of Home Alone. Kevin, weary and sad on Christmas Eve steps into the huge cathedral downtown. The seats are sparsely filled not even trying to win the contest waged by the voices of the choir echoing through the sacred space. We empathize with Kevin’s predicament. No place else to turn on a not so perfect Christmas eve, we too head to the place we feel we might encounter the sacred.
Sunday night, I did the same. Though not alone, I too climbed the steps of the old, giant cathedral downtown. Dim lights, candles, a choir. A chance to slow down the pace of a week that promises to rush by with crazy kids, too much sugar and probably a little too much family. An hour of silence, interrupted with scripture and song. As I sat in the unfamiliar pew and quietly bowed my head I saw it.
My bag peeked back at me from its place on the floor, its contents mocking my desire for a break. Diapers, wipes, and a sweater that was worn to church that morning. Baby boots, Kleenex, Chuck E Cheese tickets all in a wad. Playmobile blind bags, an open bag of holiday shaped marshmallows and two half read books. All indications of a life outside of these sacred doors. Each thing beautiful in its own place, but all seemingly foolish at this very moment. I fight for focus. I rally my thoughts back to the place I sit. I quiet my heart and I listen.
The choir sings “Our eyes are turned to the Lord Jesus Christ. Our eyes are turned to the Lord God, our Savior.” Over and over. “Our eyes are turned to the Lord Jesus Christ. Our eyes are turned to the Lord God, our Savior.”
Then over the voices singing in unison, the cantor recites the words of Psalm 121, “I raise my eyes toward the mountains. Where will my help come from?” His question then answered by the singing choir, “Our eyes are turned to the Lord Jesus Christ. Our eyes are turned to the Lord God, our Savior.”
I think I’ve heard enough. Leaving now would satisfy the craving I needed to fulfill when I agreed to come. But leaving isn’t an option so I settle in for the next silence. Then the words of the choir start again, “Within our darkest night, you kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away. Within our darkest night you never kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away.” A familiar Taize song. But now it becomes an Advent song.
“Within our darkest night, you kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away. Within our darkest night you never kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away.” On the shortest day of the year, the day with the most darkness, the simple yet profound song stirs hope. An anthem for our celebrations this week!
Maybe your darkest night isn’t really that dark at all. Perhaps, you are not finding yourself home alone this Christmas like Kevin McAllister, being pestered by crazy thieves while your family is away on vacation. The truth is, every night brings darkness, embracing the darkness isn’t hard, mostly because it is usually fairly consuming on its own. But pinpointing and owning the hope that even a small light can bring can be a hurdle.
The promise is there. Consider again the prophetic words of Isaiah 9, “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light; on those living in the land of the shadow of death a light has dawned… For to us a child is born, to us a son is given, and the government will be on his shoulders. And he will be called Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.”
“Within our darkest night, you kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away. Within our darkest night you never kindle the fire that never dies away, never dies away.”
Spend time embracing the fire. Spend time basking in the Light. Encounter the sacred.
