Let the Light in
Every December many of us are drawn to light like moths. We drive through neighborhoods just to see the houses wrapped in color, the trees glowing through front windows, the candles flickering on window sills. This year my wife and I almost skipped putting up our Christmas tree—we were too busy running around. But then our grandson looked up and asked, “Papa, are we not going to put up any lights?” So we did. I’m staring at it right now as I write this letter, and it looks beautiful. There’s something about all those lights pushing back the winter darkness that feels right. Hopeful. Almost holy.
Two thousand years ago, the world was wrapped in a much deeper darkness—political oppression, spiritual exhaustion, centuries without a fresh word from God. And into that long night, God hung one Light that made every other light fade in its glory.
An old priest named Zechariah saw it coming. When he finally got his voice back, the first thing he said about the coming Messiah was this: “because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Luke 1:78-79
Light is literally all over the Christmas story:
Our twinkling trees and glowing porches are beautiful, but they’re only echoes. The dark world doesn’t ultimately need another box of icicle lights from the attic. It needs Jesus, because He is the Light we were made for. As John puts it, “In him was life, and the life was the light of men.” John 1:4
Here’s why that matters so much:
Light reveals.
We all have corners we don’t want anyone to see—habits, hurts, grudges, browser histories, resentments we nurse in silence. Jesus doesn’t expose us to shame us; He exposes us to heal us (Ephesians 5:13).
Light awakens.
Sin keeps the soul half-asleep, stumbling toward death in a spiritual fog. When Christ shines in, something inside us stirs whether we feel like waking up or not. “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you” (Ephesians 5:14).
Light makes things grow.
Flowers don’t just survive the sun; they become what they were always meant to be when they live in its warmth. Same with us (John 15:4-5).
And here are two laws many have learned the hard way:
I’ve watched it happen over and over. A man finally admits the addiction he thought he had “under control.” A woman voices the bitterness she’s carried for twenty years. The second the secret steps into the light—first to God, then (when the Spirit nudges) to a safe person—the sleeper stirs. Healing begins. The very thing they were sure would destroy them becomes the first crack of dawn.
That’s the whole reason Jesus came. He let the darkness do its worst to Him on the cross—taking every secret sin, every shame, every wound we hide—and there He paid for it all. Then, on the first Easter morning, the Son rose (Sunrise) from the grave, proving once and for all that no darkness is stronger than His light. Because He lives, the same resurrection power that rolled the stone away now rolls into our hidden places, turning graves into gardens and night into day.
So maybe this Christmas, while we’re enjoying all those beautiful lights, we let the real Light do what He came to do.
Let Him reveal what we’ve hidden.
Let Him wake up what’s numb.
Let Him grow what’s withering.
Because the most dangerous darkness isn’t the one outside our windows on a December night. It’s the darkness we keep locked inside. And the brightest morning is always the morning that finally lets the Light in.
Merry Christmas, beloved.
The Light has come—and He’s still shining.
With deep gratitude and love,
Pastor Marco
Two thousand years ago, the world was wrapped in a much deeper darkness—political oppression, spiritual exhaustion, centuries without a fresh word from God. And into that long night, God hung one Light that made every other light fade in its glory.
An old priest named Zechariah saw it coming. When he finally got his voice back, the first thing he said about the coming Messiah was this: “because of the tender mercy of our God, whereby the sunrise shall visit us from on high to give light to those who sit in darkness and in the shadow of death, to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Luke 1:78-79
Light is literally all over the Christmas story:
- A star so bright that total strangers crossed deserts to follow it (Matthew 2:1-10).
- A field full of shepherds suddenly blazing with angelic glory (Luke 2:8-14).
- An elderly man in the temple holding a forty-day-old baby and calling Him “a light for revelation to the Gentiles, and for glory to your people Israel” (Luke 2:30-32).
- The apostle John, years later, cuts to the chase about Jesus saying that He is: “The true light that gives light to everyone was coming into the world” (John 1:9).
Our twinkling trees and glowing porches are beautiful, but they’re only echoes. The dark world doesn’t ultimately need another box of icicle lights from the attic. It needs Jesus, because He is the Light we were made for. As John puts it, “In him was life, and the life was the light of men.” John 1:4
Here’s why that matters so much:
Light reveals.
We all have corners we don’t want anyone to see—habits, hurts, grudges, browser histories, resentments we nurse in silence. Jesus doesn’t expose us to shame us; He exposes us to heal us (Ephesians 5:13).
Light awakens.
Sin keeps the soul half-asleep, stumbling toward death in a spiritual fog. When Christ shines in, something inside us stirs whether we feel like waking up or not. “Awake, O sleeper, and arise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you” (Ephesians 5:14).
Light makes things grow.
Flowers don’t just survive the sun; they become what they were always meant to be when they live in its warmth. Same with us (John 15:4-5).
And here are two laws many have learned the hard way:
First: Righteousness grows in the light; evil thrives (or at least mutates into something uglier) in secrecy. Leave a marriage issue unspoken and it festers. Feed a fantasy in the dark and it grows fangs. Name it out loud to God—and, when the time is right, to a grace-filled friend—and it starts to lose its power (James 5:16).
Second: Light refused actually increases the darkness; light welcomed brings more light. Jesus put it plainly: “For to the one who has, more will be given, and he will have an abundance, but from the one who has not, even what he has will be taken away” (Matthew 13:12).
I’ve watched it happen over and over. A man finally admits the addiction he thought he had “under control.” A woman voices the bitterness she’s carried for twenty years. The second the secret steps into the light—first to God, then (when the Spirit nudges) to a safe person—the sleeper stirs. Healing begins. The very thing they were sure would destroy them becomes the first crack of dawn.
That’s the whole reason Jesus came. He let the darkness do its worst to Him on the cross—taking every secret sin, every shame, every wound we hide—and there He paid for it all. Then, on the first Easter morning, the Son rose (Sunrise) from the grave, proving once and for all that no darkness is stronger than His light. Because He lives, the same resurrection power that rolled the stone away now rolls into our hidden places, turning graves into gardens and night into day.
So maybe this Christmas, while we’re enjoying all those beautiful lights, we let the real Light do what He came to do.
Let Him reveal what we’ve hidden.
Let Him wake up what’s numb.
Let Him grow what’s withering.
Because the most dangerous darkness isn’t the one outside our windows on a December night. It’s the darkness we keep locked inside. And the brightest morning is always the morning that finally lets the Light in.
Merry Christmas, beloved.
The Light has come—and He’s still shining.
With deep gratitude and love,
Pastor Marco