When my kids were younger, our family had a tradition of inviting the neighborhood kids over—most of whom were not Christian—to help decorate our Christmas tree. We served sweet treats rather like we’re doing at Trinity today, and invited them to make some crafts to decorate the tree with or take back to their own homes. It was a pleasant holiday party. Pro-tip: we did not worry about whether our greeting was Happy Hannukah or Merry Christmas or Happy Holidays. Everyone actually was happy, and I was fascinated watching what sense the kids made of the many Christian symbols in our home. Some of them asked what they were, and I would explain. Some of them also made their own very sacred meaning out of the decorations: I remember the year when a group of mostly unchurched children gathered every decoration in the house around a single tiny baby Jesus in the creche set. And I also remember the year when eight year old Sarah Simon taught me about John the Baptist.
It’s certainly not what she set out to do, and she may not even know that’s what she did. I probably should tell her, but now that she’s a young adult off doing her own thing, I’ll have to tell you instead. Before the party, we always liked to have the Christmas tree set up and strung with lights, but that particular year we ran into an unexpected problem. We were using strings of those old-school incandescent lights where if one in the sequence was burned out, none of the rest would light up. On the whole darn tree. And there were lots and lots of those tiny bulbs. I spent about a half an hour trying to figure out which among the bulbs was the faulty one, but then gave up and complained to my neighbors, who happened to be Joshua and Ruth Simon, Sarah’s parents. I’m using their real names. They were and are an observant Jewish family.
Josh heard my impatience and frustration, and said “no worries, I’ll send Sarah over. She’s really good at that kind of thing.” And he did and she was. Sarah tested light after light until she found the right one—the burned out one, that is—and I listened to her for about an hour while she patiently pulled out each bulb, repeating to herself “not the light, not the light, no this one is not the light…”
Once she had identified the light that needed to be changed, the string lit up and the tree was ready for decoration. Illuminated with the hopes of generations, through traditions long pre-dating even Christianity. Alongside Sarah and her family celebrating Hannukah and Hindu people celebrating Divali, human beings everywhere look to the symbolism of lights in a dark time of year. But Sarah’s unique contribution to my understanding—in a way that reflected the Jewishness of John the Baptist himself—was knowing that you might have to be very patient while you look for the light.
John himself had certainly been patient, standing at the river’s edge for God knows how long—in clothes that probably needed a good washing—waiting for the light. “He himself was not the light, but he came to testify to the light,” says our Gospel reading. But John was one of thousands of years of faithful Jews who were waiting for the light of God’s anointed Messiah. The one who would restore Israel to her intended role as light to the nations. God’s people, that is, who had walked in darkness through their enslavement in Egypt and their wilderness sojourn and their bloody battles with neighbors; the long succession of unwise kings and destruction of their temple; exile in Babylon and a raggedy return to Jerusalem. My friends, we are hardly alone in waiting—fervently longing, actually— for things to be better. The Psalms give us language to sustain the long wait: from Psalm 130—
Out of the depths I cry to you, O Lord.
Lord, hear my voice!
Let your ears be attentive
to the voice of my supplications!
If you, O Lord, should mark iniquities,
Lord, who could stand?
But there is forgiveness with you,
so that you may be revered.
I wait for the Lord; my soul waits,
and in his word I hope;
my soul waits for the Lord
more than those who watch for the morning,
more than those who watch for the morning.
The long-suffering Psalmist and John show us how to wait, and—through the patient discipline of waiting—John gained clarity about who he was, and humility about who he was not. Not the Messiah, not Elijah, not the prophet and definitely not the light. Knowing who he was not freed him to be who he was: the prophet who could point to the light of Jesus Christ. There’s a certain irony in the timing of this passage in our lectionary, because in just a week—on Christmas Eve—we’ll hear about the light who shines in the darkness, which the darkness did not overcome. The Prologue to John’s Gospel—which actually immediately precedes today’s reading—describes of a light of cosmic significance. The light of Jesus Christ, that illumined first day of creation and flared in a wild star and lit up a stable in Bethlehem. That’s the timeless light that predated time itself, and will remain at the end of time. But John’s identity was a different one. He dwelled in history; he had to wait for the light.
And so did Sarah Simon, God bless her, and so do we. Right now, even. There are plenty of broken lights along the way to any Christmas. I’m not telling you anything you do not know: temptations to excess consumption and busy-ness and sorrow over Christmases past and I’m sure you have your own story of holiday disappointment. And also joy in the beautiful music of the day, and the children’s pageant. So hang in there with Sarah and all the people of faith in time and history. Practice John’s own patience. Because the light that God called into being from the first days of creation is still coming our way. And we, we, like John the Baptist, have one job on earth. To recognize the light of Christ, and testify to it.
