Some years ago when I was sitting at my kitchen table one evening in December preparing a Christmas service, the lights went out. It wasn't an ordinary power-cut, because it started out with a power dimming, a "brown-out". I had driven home from work a little while earlier, through streets that were in near-darkness, and when I went into my house and switched on the lights they were equal to about a single candle. I just had time to light an actual candle before the power blacked out altogether and stayed out for several hours.

It was an experience that we've all had -- the experience of finding ourselves in the dark. It's a bit like injuring your thumb or elbow: you suddenly realize how much you need that thumb or elbow for your normal activities and how difficult everything is without it. Without light, without being able to see, we sighted people are disoriented and unable to function normally. And in addition to the practical difficulties, I think we all feel a little bit of anxiety, a return to the fear of the dark that we had as children. I was relieved in a deep and grateful way when the lights came on again and power was restored -- restored to me as well as to the lighting and heating systems.

I wonder about that fear of the dark that most of us knew as kids and still experience sometimes: where does it come from? In our mother's womb it's dark, very dark, and our eyes are shut most of the time. We don't see or sense light in the womb as far as I know. The other fears we have as babies -- fear of falling, fear of sudden loud noises -- are about things we didn't experience in the womb. But darkness -- that was our first environment. Why are we afraid of it? Or, to put it another way, what is it about light that we love so much, so much that even when we have enough to see by, as much as we need for all practical purposes, we gather more than we can ever use and festoon our homes and our trees with lights, clear and coloured, candles and bulbs, stars and icicles and fibre-optics?

I think perhaps that it's as we learn to love the light that darkness becomes fearful and alien to us. Darkness is indeed our first home, but when we're born we enter a world of much greater opportunities, wider horizons, the world of light. And we never look back. It's no coincidence that light has always been such a powerful symbol of goodness, or that darkness has stood for an opposing power. One of the world's most ancient religions, Zoroastrianism, believes in the eternal conflict of light with darkness.

Christianity believes in Jesus, who said, "I am the Light of the world." Judaism celebrates Hannukah, a festival of lights. And in our own congregation, the flaming chalice is our most revered symbol. At Christmas, we find it easy, for once, to join with those of other faiths and those of no faith in stringing Christmas lights, lighting candles, trimming our trees with a star. It seems to be almost instinctive with us, this love of the light. And yet, we were not born that way. Chances are that when our eyes first opened to the light we winced and cried. Too much light damages our skin and our eyes. We wear sunglasses against the glare and sunscreen against the harmful rays. We've learned to love light, after our first infantile resistance to it, but we can only take so much of it.

I think it's in this strange paradox that the power of the light symbol is found. Light is so much more powerful than we are; it transcends our small lives completely. We have absolutely no control over the rising and setting of the sun, the lengthening and shortening of the days, the brightness or greyness of the skies. When we respond to light, as sun-worshippers or chalice lighters or as ordinary people commenting on what a bright and beautiful day it is, we're responding to a power greater than ourselves. When we find ways of harnessing the light, in a candle or a hydro-generating station, we're claiming for ourselves a part of that power-beyond-ourselves; we're aspiring to greatness. And when the claim fails, when the power is cut, when we can no longer see but are plunged back into a baby-like state of darkness, we panic rather easily.

The opposite is true, too. Can you imagine, for a moment, never being able to close your eyes, not being able to keep out the light? That's almost as frightening, isn't it? Light is wonderful, and awesome, and terrifying, and we're happiest when we can have it in carefully controlled amounts -- enough for us to see well, not enough to disturb or dazzle us. (Some of you may be reminded of that line from Webster's play, The Duchess of Malfi, from the man looking at his murder victim: "Cover her face: mine eyes dazzle."

The Christmas season is brim-full of light and lights. Our holiday traditions involve not only the birth of Jesus but the winter Solstice with its looking forward to the return of light. The Scripture story itself contains the paradox of light, for it tells us that the humble shepherds were watching their flocks by night -- perhaps with the help of moonlight or lamps of some kind -- when suddenly, out of the darkness, the angel of the Lord came upon them and the glory of the Lord shone round about them, and they were sore afraid. It was too much, and I think it's wonderfully to their credit that after the initial shock they allowed themselves to look at the light and to see the multitude of the heavenly host. In something of a contrast, the wise men out east saw an unusual star, but not (apparently) unusual enough to be scary, and besides, they knew a lot about astronomy and felt quite in control of the situation.

Some of you may be familiar with the book Our Chosen Faith, by John Buehrens, and Forrester Church. In that book, there's a section about light which I'd like to read to you now, because I think it relates to the experiences of the wise ones and the shepherds and the ancient keepers of the Solstice waiting for the returning light. It's called "The Cathedral of the World".

In the cathedral of the world there are windows without number, some long forgotten, covered with many patinas of dust, others revered by millions, the most sacred of shrines. . . . Each tells a story about the creation of the world, the meaning of history, the purpose of life, the nature of humankind, the mystery of death. The windows of the cathedral are where the light shines in.

. . . Because the cathedral is so vast, our time so short, and our vision so dim, we are able to contemplate only a tiny part of the cathedral, explore a few apses, reflect upon the play of darkness and light through a few of its windows . . .

Fundamentalists of the right and left claim that the light shines through their window only. Skeptics can make a similar mistake, only to draw the opposite conclusion. Seeing the bewildering variety of windows and observing the folly of the worshippers, they conclude that there is no light. But the windows are not the light. The whole light -- God, Truth, call it what you will -- is beyond our perceiving. God is veiled. Some people have trouble believing in a God who looks into any eyes but theirs. Others have trouble believing in a God they cannot see. But the fact that none of us can look directly into God's eyes certainly does not mean that in the light and the darkness, mysterious and unknowable, God is not there.

. . . not only the world's religions, but every ideology, every scientific worldview, every aesthetic school, has its windows in the cathedral of the world. In each the light and darkness mingle in ways that suggest meaning for those whose angle of vision is tilted in that particular direction. Attracted to the patterns of refracted light, the playing of shadows, the partial clarification of reality, these people are also worshipers, their windows too become shrines.

. . . Reality shines through every window in the cathedral (and out from every eye.) . . . on the cathedral floor and in the eyes of each beholder, refracted and reflected through different windows in different ways, it plays in patterns that suggest meaning, challenging us to interpret and live by the meaning as best we can.

In the spirit of that reading, I'd like to suggest to you some of the windows through which light may shine into our hearts and minds in this festive season. I've already talked with about Hannukah, and I've touched on the Christmas story. Here are some of the other windows.

The Winter Solstice celebrations in Sweden honour the Christian Saint Lucia. Her name means "light" and there is a legend that she brought food to starving Swedish people during a famine and then disappeared. Each year, the oldest daughter of the household gets up early on December 13 and, wearing a white dress with a crown of candles, and singing, this young girl brings coffee and sweet rolls to the adults in bed. Perhaps some of the residents of Kitchener-Waterloo, if they have Scandinavian heritage, kept that tradition last Wednesday! Now, children don't always understand their traditions in the way that adults think they do. Here's how one teenager describes the Saint Lucia festival, in her own words, and I take no responsibility for the historical accuracy of the story, but it does fill out our picture of this tradition:

Lucia was a girl from Italy -- some think from Sicily. There are many different stories about her. One we learn is that Lucia knew a boy who loved her eyes very much. She didn't want to marry him but she gave him her eyes. God thought her very pious and gave her new eyes. Then people thought she was a witch. They tried to drown her. But she floated up to the surface. Then they wanted to burn her but the fire wouldn't touch her. Then a soldier came and he took his sword and cut her down and she died. After that, she became a saint.

In school we celebrate St.Lucia. We elect one girl to be Lucia of the year. Lucia has a crown with lights all around it. She has a red ribbon round her waist and a white gown. Lucia has maids that follow behind her. On stage they line up to her left and right. At the end of the line we sometimes have starboys in long white shirts and pointed caps who attend to Lucia. Some schools also have "gingerbread boys" [who] play a part in the Lucia celebration singing songs. We often start practising a month before St.Lucia's Day, so it's a big event. In some schools it's a really big celebration where you perform for parents, relatives. and other students. In other schools it's only for the students.

Teenagers often have a party the night before St. Lucia's Day and stay up all night. Really early in the morning they go to their parents' room and wake them up singing songs and serving gingerbread and coffee to them in bed.

I like that bit about "really early in the morning" don't you? Not so different from Christmas Day in homes with small children, eh? As a female, I enjoy the fact that the focus of the festivities is on a girl for a change, but the broader focus, I think, is on children, as Christmas is. I believe the important message is that the light of truth can come through our children, through the innocence of a child as surely as through the mind of a great philosopher. The emphasis on the candles, and the very name Saint Lucia, meaning Holy Light, reminds us that light in darkness is not only precious but is carried by our children.

If you lived in India, or if you were a Hindu living anywhere else, even here in Kitchener-Waterloo, you would have kept the festival of Divali, which takes place in the late Fall, when the days are getting dark. (This year it was October 26.) In Sanskrit, the word Divali means "row of lighted lamps" and the festival is about the triumph of light over darkness, good over evil, justice over injustice and intelligence over ignorance. It's also a time for worshiping the goddess Lakshmi, often called "Mother Lakshmi". She's the goddess of light, wealth and beauty, and she's connected with prosperity, luck, riches, abundance and generosity.

Hindu thinking, which is not so very different from our own, is that light dispels the darkness of this world and allows us to find our true path. We can then walk through this dark world shedding light, illuminating the darkness of other people. (As our chalice lighting words say, casting "the light of freedom, justice and peace upon all the world.") For Hindus, light and cleanness go together. A traditional Hindu would start the Divali celebration by having a bath before sunrise and saying prayers and putting on new clothes.

The Goddess Lakshmi is invited into everyone's home at Divali, but she will only go where it's clean; she never stays where there's any laziness, carelessness or untidiness. Houses and even roads have to be spotlessly cleaned. The buildings are whitewashed and painted in beautiful colours. Water, which washes things clean, is considered holy and health-giving, so many people place lighted candles and flowers in the water of their nearest river as a sign of respect. And not only houses and roads and people are washed clean, but cows and other animals are also bathed and decorated and form part of colourful processions.

As twilight begins, lamps are lit or candles burned in every room of the house. Many families also burn candles all around the top of the roof, or along fences, on the front porch, and especially on the altars, where the family's money has been placed for special blessings. And then, before Lakshmi, the goddess of good fortune, can be invited in, the goddess of BAD fortune, Alakshmi, has to be driven out and banished. This is done by banging on pans and lighting even more candles to scare her away. yelling at Alakshmi to leave your house, ringing bells, and stomping your feet around the whole house. In India it's traditional for the oldest woman of the house to "sweep" Alakshmi out of the house with her broom, waving it in the air as well as on the floors.

Then, after all the lights are lit and Alakshmi is gone, the doors and windows of the houses are opened to welcome Lakshmi into the household. And the feasting begins -- just as it does with so many other festivals. But one thing that's a bit different about Divali is the emphasis on good luck and riches -- some of us who complain about the commercialism of Christmas might not approve of this. Gambling is one of the biggest activities on this day! Farmers celebrate the success of their crops, and in the cities, merchants use the festival to bless their businesses. In some modern Divali festivities, people like to put lottery tickets on the altar for blessing, and scratch them off later in the festival. If you don't win on that ticket, you can know that Lakshmi is waiting to give you Her blessings at a later time, or perhaps She used the rupees from your lottery ticket to bring money to another lottery gambler!

Most holidays have some beginning which can be traced to a particular time. They are ways to celebrate important events or values, and they come into existence, transform and disappear as history unfolds. But two special days have been celebrated from before history began -- the winter and summer solstices, when the sun appears at its highest or lowest in the sky. They are cosmic events. The original meaning of "solstice" is "sun standing still! On every continent except Antarctica there are prehistoric monuments that exist to mark these days. The Winter Solstice occurs on December 22 this year.

In earlier times bonfires would be lit on this evening, in part to ward off the cold of the long night, in part as a way to call out to the sun and ask it to return. Through the night, people would gather around the fires and talk of the sun and of the heat and light it gave to them. They would wonder if perhaps one day the sun would vanish forever and take all life with it. Through the bitter cold before the dawn they waited and watched until the first faint flicker of sunlight touched the horizon. Imagine their sense relief when the sun appeared, and did NOT go any lower than the day before! Some of the customs that we still observe began with these very ancient solstice celebrations.

A huge log -- the Yule Log -- was brought into an outdoor clearing and became part of a great bonfire. Everyone danced and sang around the fire and all the noise would awaken the sun from its long winter sleep, hurrying spring on its way as the cycle began once again in the "triumph" of the Unconquered Sun! Perhaps you, like me, feel some sense of participating in that triumph each year after the Solstice when you first find yourself saying to someone, "Have you noticed how the days are getting longer?"

There's a poem which I've read on various occasions at community tree-lighting ceremonies and other seasonal celebrations. The poem is in the back of our hymn books, with so much other good material, and it's by one of our beloved ministers, Max Coots. It expresses, for me, the vitality of celebration, not of one story of stars or angels or candles or oil lamps, but all of them:

When love is felt or fear is known,
When holidays and holy days and such times come,
When anniversaries arrive by calendar or consciousness,
When seasons come, as seasons do, old and well-known, but somehow new,
When lives are born or people die,
When something sacred's sensed in earth or sky:
Mark the time.
Respond with thought, or prayer, or smile, or grief, or thanks;
Let nothing sacred slip between the cracks within the mind,
For all of these are wonderful and holy things to find.
Mark the time well; rejoice; sing Alleluia.

And I want to add to that one more thought: Christianity has chosen the star, the bright but non-threatening light, to symbolize Christmas; we've chosen the chalice, a bright but contained light, to symbolize our faith, and both those choices are good. But I like to hope that at this festive season and all year round we will, like the shepherds, also experience just a little bit of fear and trembling in light of the amazing world beyond our knowledge, and that we'll then overcome our fear enough to let our darkness be lightened. In the words of T.S. Eliot, "O Light Invisible, we give Thee thanks for Thy great glory!"