Did you know there is more than one kind of twilight?
The first, just after sunset, is called civil twilight. In civil twilight, things on land are still visible, but a few bright stars shine.
Next comes nautical twilight. Darkness increases, more stars appear, but the horizon is still visible.
The deepest twilight is astronomical. Astronomical twilight! It sounds like a catastrophe; and maybe it is, if you dislike the dark.
Recently, as I was entering Baptist Hospital, a woman headed for the exit suddenly stopped, stared out the glass doors, and exclaimed, “It’s dark. Four o’clock in the afternoon, and it’s dark.”
She wasn’t wrong. On that cloudy December day, it seemed that twilight was already coming. I hadn’t even got past the hospital security desk, and already it felt like the day was over.
The woman caught my eye. “I hate when it’s dark,” she said. And I nodded and answered, “Me, too.”
That moment has stayed in my mind. Though possibly we had nothing else in common, for an instant, the woman and I bonded—over a shared dislike of darkness.
Dislike of darkness is common. When we’re children, we dislike darkness because it’s scary. When we’re old, we dislike darkness because it’s hard to drive in. In between, we may sometimes enjoy darkness as peaceful or private; but everyone dreads the long, dark nights of the soul.
These days, we long for something we can all agree on. If everyone has some reason to dislike darkness, couldn’t we agree to stop bringing it down on ourselves?
It’s not the sky that we darken, but our hearts. We let them fill with suspicion and anger; and then our hearts give rise to angry words that, in turn, darken the hearts of others. Bit by bit, word by word, we sink into twilight, where it’s hard to see each other. We hate when it’s dark. We hate, when it’s dark.
But darkness is no excuse for hate; because there is always light somewhere.
As twilight descends, there is still light. That first level is called civil twilight because we can still see buildings, roads, people: in other words, society. Even if we struggle to see each other’s faces, the familiar landmarks of society can keep us on the path. Meanwhile, a few bright stars call forth our hopes: I wish I may, I wish I might…
In nautical twilight, more darkness brings more stars—a blessing when we’re at sea. We chart our best course through a combination of a still-visible horizon and an increase of stars.
Even in astronomical twilight, the earth refracts the last rays of the sun; so light may still scatter through the sky.
Light is present through twilight to the moment of true darkness. And into true darkness, Jesus was born.
Nativity paintings show light shining upward from the manger, beaming from the baby onto the faces above. That’s how artists capture the truth of John’s gospel: “What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people.”
We hold to that truth, even as twilight descends.
“The light shines in the darkness,” says John, “and the darkness did not overcome it.” Because Jesus was born in the darkness, even in the deepest darkness there is always light. Enough for us to see each other. Enough for us to love each other. We love when there’s light. We love, when there’s light.
Think about those nativity paintings: the adoring faces illuminated by light from the manger. Right now, with you candles shining up on your faces, you all look like the people in the paintings, gazing on baby Jesus. What if love for Jesus kept light shining from our faces after this service ends? Wouldn’t we light up the world?
What do we have in common, beyond a common dislike of darkness? Let it be light. We love, when there’s light.
As we sing our final hymn, I invite you, on the final verse, to raise your candles high. Let this be a sign of our common bond: our shared love of the light.
Christ the Lord, the Lord most glorious, now is born, O shout aloud! Let us stand and sing.
