The Long Light of Christmas - Christmas Eve

Advent is closing, and the waiting we have been sitting in is coming to an end. The darkness we have been navigating on the way to the manger has been made lighter now; the Light has broken through. A steady, long light. Like the beam of a lighthouse: true, constant, faithful.

This series didn’t emerge from a tidy idea or a quick moment of inspiration; some neat thought followed by tapping keys and calling it done. It has been forming slowly, steeped in months of prayer, noticing, and living. This Long Light has stayed with me. I keep imagining it as the long-reaching beam of a lighthouse. I know the season I am personally, physically, and emotionally walking through has shaped this reflection.

God has a way of drawing our attention to things we might otherwise pass by.

I picture ships far out at sea, sometimes caught in violent storms, sometimes drifting on deceptively calm waters, but always under the cover of deep night. The kind of night where you can barely make out your own hands.

What must the fear be like in those moments? You are moving, whether you want to or not. The water is too deep to drop anchor. You are carried by wind and current, uncertain where you are headed. Maybe there’s a moon. Maybe only stars, unless the clouds hide even those. And when the sky goes dark, navigation falters. Fear creeps in: Where are we going? What if we’re closer to shore than we think? Will we have time to turn if danger appears?

And then, almost imperceptibly at first, a distant flash breaks through the darkness. A light, far off, steady. Relief washes in. That light tells you something important: either land is near, or danger is. Either way, you are no longer alone in the dark. The waiting is not endless anymore.

The light may still be far away, but you see it. And because you see it, you know there is direction.

There is guidance.
There is comfort.

The long light does not rush toward you. It does not demand anything of you. It simply keeps shining.

There is no magic trick here. The light does not flare up and fizzle out, only to disappear like a firework. It remains—constant, dependable.

This is the Long Light of Christmas.

God has appeared.

In our culture, we often treat Christmas as a single night to be experienced and then quickly packed away. One service. One meal. One moment where joy is supposed to peak, sparkle, and somehow feel complete. There is pressure, spoken and unspoken, to feel enough: enough wonder, enough gratitude, enough happiness to carry us through whatever comes next.

And when December 25 passes, we’re encouraged to move on quickly, as though Christmas has done its job and must now make room for the next thing. (And truly, no shame here, but how many families are packing up decorations bright and early on the 26th?) The wrapping paper is shoved into garbage bags, the gifts are put away in drawers and closets, and by evening, there is barely a trace that Christmas was here at all.

For me, I can’t rush it. I need to enjoy the reminder of the season without the pressure our culture places on us to hurry past it.

I need to experience the linger.

John tells the story differently. He doesn’t rush us to a manger scene or a moment of sentimentality. Instead, he begins in the dark, with eternity, with mystery, with a world aching for light. The people were desperate, longing for rescue, even though they didn’t yet know what shape that rescue would take. They were hoping for the long Light of Christmas, even if they didn’t yet have language for it.

“The light shines in the darkness,” John writes, “and the darkness has not overcome it.”

God does not arrive with spectacle or force. He comes close. He dwells. He chooses proximity over performance. I mean, he chose human form from the very beginning. – he chose close and connected.

We need to remind ourselves—and remind one another—that Christmas is not an event to consume and then discard. Christmas is a season to inhabit. The Church has always known this, even when our culture forgets it. Christmastide invites us to linger with the Light rather than rushing past it.

God-with-us does not expire on December 26.
He stays.
He remains.

The light continues to shine long after the songs grow quiet and the decorations come down (after Epiphany, if you are like me!)

This is good news for the exhausted—especially you, moms and matriarchs, who have worn yourselves thin trying to create “magic,” only to feel like you’ve fallen short. It is good news for the grieving. For those who feel strangely numb in the middle of celebration. For those holding both joy and sorrow at once.

You do not have to feel Christmas perfectly.
You do not have to manufacture wonder or force yourself into cheer.

The Light has come anyway. And He is patient with how we receive Him.

So tonight, Christmas Eve, let yourself linger here a little longer. Sit with the light as it steadies your vision and calms your fear.

And as you do, as I do, maybe we offer a prayer.

A Prayer for Lingering in the Long Light

God of the long light,
we thank You that You do not rush us.
That You enter our darkness without anxiety
and remain longer than we expect.

Help us resist the urge to hurry past Your presence.
Teach us how to linger:
with the light,
with one another,
with our own hearts.

For those who are weary, let the light be rest.
For those who are grieving, let the light be gentle.
For those who are numb, let the light be patient.
For those who are hopeful, let the light be steady.

As the calendar turns and the decorations come down,
Keep our eyes focused on You.
May the Long Light of Christmas
Guide us beyond this night,
beyond this week,
And far beyond December 26.

Stay with us, Emmanuel.
We are grateful that You already have.

Amen.

Photo by Evgeni Tcherkasski on Unsplash