It has been the season of light, still is the season of light in the Christian calendar. Though many, many religious traditions celebrate times of light. Pagans celebrate the Solstice. Diwali is the Hindu festival of lights. Hanukkah celebrates light. And Epiphany, which is coming up, is the true season of light in the church is Epiphany which we actually won’t celebrate until next week. Epiphany is when we hear the story of the wise ones who come following a star much like the star in our sanctuary banners.

But this week the gospel reading also points to light. Jesus, the light of the world. Jesus bringing light in the darkness. The old, mysterious words from the opening to the gospel of John: “And the light shines in the darkness and the darkness shall not overcome it.”

These words right on the heels of our Christmas scriptures telling us, “those who walked in great darkness have seen a great light.”  Jesus is our light, whose birth we celebrate: “And the word became flesh and we have seen his glory, the glory as of a parent’s only child, full of grace and truth.”  Words of light, promises of light. Especially in time of darkness, times of despair. Light to show us our way, and where to place our feet when the road is dark and the way uncertain.

Just this past week, I was visiting family in Rhode Island when the giant storm hit. We were out driving in it when the blizzard really hit. For about an hour we crept along the road--slowly slowly-as our visibility waxed and waned, sometimes almost whiteout conditions as we went up the highway. It was dim and our best help in traveling were the taillights of the car in front of us…who in turn was probably counting on the taillights of the car in front of it.

This could have led to disaster, as we all potentially followed one lead car into the ditch. But that wasn’t what happened, or really what we even worried about. We were following the light in an uncertain landscape, in trust, and with great concentration. Following the light.

Which is what our work is as people of faith. To follow Jesus, our light, in the daily journey.  And often that means following those who go before us, beacons of light on our path.

Light. We need light to see in the darkness. We need these promises of faith. That in times of darkness like loss or grief, the light is there. We need to know that light is still there even if we can’t see it. For sometimes, we can’t.

There is a book called Little Pieces of Light written by Joyce Rupp. It is a small book, a series of meditations on how in times of darkness we can find little pieces of light, slivers of light, to guide our way, to give us hope, and that little pieces of light can be enough.

I order these books by the dozen and give them out to those who are in times of need, that they might find comfort in it during times when they are looking for little pieces of light. I know I’ve given the book to some of you.

There are many times when we struggle to see the light. Sometimes these times are short lived. I remember vividly the time as a ten year old I got lost in a campground my family was staying in after heading off to the bathrooms in the night. On my way back I got hopelessly turned around. I went round and around the campsites. All was dark. I worried I would never find my tent, I worried that my parents were going to yell at me, until, finally, I found, off in one corner, a group of 20 year olds sitting around picnic table playing cards by the light of a camping lantern. They kindly saw me back to my folks. It was their light—light on the table, light within—that guided me home.

Sometimes the times in the dark are much longer, or scarier, or seemingly endless. Sometimes we can’t find the light, no matter how we try and try and try. We lose the fight against the dark closing in. And sometimes ones we love lose this fight and choose instead to end their lives in suicide. A desperate act in the darkness.
Some traditions teach that suicide is a sin. I don’t believe that.  The UCC does not teach that. Suicide is an act of despair arising out of mental illness or unbearable stress or desperation.
But in a strange way suicide is also an act of hope—the desperate belief that anything has to be better than the struggle in this world.

No matter, I believe that at the end of our lives, whatever the circumstances, even by our own hand, we are received by God, the ultimate source of light. We are loved and made whole and understood in a way not possible now. All that has been trapped in darkness, lost in darkness, blinded by darkness, is brought into the light and held up and made whole.

I’ve almost lost two people to suicide--loved ones brought back from the brink by good fortune or chance. Folks who were then able to find barest glimmer of light that helped them to heal. I know some of you have loved others who have made this journey. And then some of us have lost people who lost their own struggle to find light and died by their own hand.

But the promise is the same to all of us from our scripture this morning: “To all who receive Jesus, receive God, we are given power to become children of God, who are born, not of the blood or of the will of the flesh or the will of man, but of God.”

We are born of the light, consecrated to light, loved in light, held in light, no matter how dark it gets. “From this fullness we have all received, all received, grace upon grace.”

It is a dark time of the year. Perhaps you are looking for little pieces of light even as the days grown incrementally, infinitesimally longer. Perhaps you feel you are walking in darkness. There is light for you. There is light in you. There are those who can carry your light for you until you are able to carry it for yourself. You are not alone.

We all pass through times of darkness when we desperately need the light. Many of you know I hiked the Appalachian Trail when I was in my early 20’s. It was a very difficult time in my life. My parents had just gotten divorce; it was not amicable. Everyone was moving. I had graduated from college, but I had failed my senior thesis.  It was a very difficult time.

I was hiking day after day after day and camping by night.  And there was one night when I somehow missed my way.  I knew I was on the trail but I had missed the campsite I was supposed to stay at that night. And so as it grew darker, I kept going, I kept hiking. Going on and on. I was so tired.

And I was alone. The partner I had been hiking with had left; he had decided he no longer wanted to make this journey. And so I hiked on and on. Alone in the dark. Not only the dark of that night but the darkness of my own fears and anger and loss and bitterness. It was so dark.

Finally, when I thought “what shall I do?” I came around one turn, one more bend, and I saw these two little glimmers of light, this faded orange, reddish glow on the ground.

These spots of light on the ground were so close together that I initially thought (in my fear) Demons! And then I thought, I don’t believe in demons! But in the dark, one believes many things. And finally, as I drew closer, I realized the lights were the two last embers of someone’s campfire. That I had found my way to a flat, clear place where I could at last spend the night in the company of some others.

Two little, tiny pieces of light. That was enough.

Our faith is about following the light, finding the light, the great, glorious, bright light of Jesus coming into the world this Christmas season. But also small pieces of light seen in each other, seen in the world, seen in the reflection of God in our most needful times.

This is the time we are looking for the light. The light this time of year, as we move into a new year, a new hope--the growing light at dawn, the growing light at evening. Jesus, the light of the world.

Ultimately knowing and trusting and believing that the light shines in the darkness and the darkness did not and will not and shall not overcome it.

Amen.