Sermon – Version 1
Today is the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. Here in McPherson, the sun didn’t rise until 7:44 AM, and it will set by 5:14 PM. Nine hours and thirty minutes of daylight. For those of us who struggle through the dark of Kansas winters, this is the hardest day. The darkness settles in early, lingers late, and feels endless. We’re weary of darkness. We’re ready for light to return.
But here’s the good news about today’s solstice: it’s the turning point. Starting tomorrow, we begin gaining daylight back. Light is returning. And here we are on the longest night itself, lighting the love candle and celebrating light’s arrival.
Our children just shared the angels’ announcement—the good news delivered to Mary, Joseph, and the shepherds. The angels proclaimed a Light breaking into the world’s darkness. But John’s gospel shows us something even more astounding about that Light.
John doesn’t start his gospel in Bethlehem. He starts before time began. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” The Light the angels announced wasn’t just a special baby. This Light created every star that pierces winter’s darkness, every sunrise that ends the longest night. Through this Word, everything came into being.
And then comes the incredible claim: “The Word became flesh and made his home among us.” The Light the universe has witnessed from creation entered creation itself. God didn’t stay at cosmic distance. God moved into the neighborhood—close enough to touch, to know, to experience.
This is what makes Christmas so astounding. The Light that arrived two thousand years ago still shines in our darkness today. When you’re worried, when you’re lying awake at 3 AM with fears, when you feel lost in your own darkness—the Light who spoke creation into being speaks your name. The darkness cannot overcome it.
You are standing in that victory right now. Whatever darkness surrounds you, the Light has already penetrated it. The Word became flesh for you. God moved into your neighborhood to find you, to be with you, to make you God’s own child.
I want to invite you back Wednesday evening for candlelight Christmas Eve worship—honestly, my favorite service of the entire year. We have two services at 7:00 and 11:00 PM. We’ll sing the beloved carols of Christmas that take on new meaning by candlelight. And here’s my challenge: bring someone with you. Think of a neighbor, a coworker, a friend who needs to hear this good news. Invite them to experience what happens when we pass the light of Christ from candle to candle while singing “Silent Night”—watching individual flames spread person to person throughout the sanctuary, transforming darkness into shared light. Come back Wednesday, and bring someone who needs to know that on the longest night, Light broke through—and darkness never wins.
Will you pray with me?
God of light, thank you for sending Jesus to dwell among us. Help us recognize your light in our darkness and shine your love into the world. Amen.
Sermon – Version 2
Today is the winter solstice—the longest night of the year. Here in McPherson, the sun didn’t rise until 7:44 AM, and it will set by 5:14 PM. Nine hours and thirty minutes of daylight. For those of us who struggle through Kansas winters, this is the hardest day. The darkness settles in early, lingers late, and feels endless. Mornings start in pitch darkness. By the time we finish work or school, the sun has already disappeared. We turn on more lights in our homes. We notice how the lack of sunlight affects our mood, our energy, our outlook. Every year around this time, someone jokes about moving south, and every year, someone else admits they’re not entirely joking.
We’re weary of darkness. We’re ready for light to return. But here’s the good news about today’s solstice: it’s the turning point. Starting tomorrow, we begin gaining daylight back. Every morning, the sun rises a few seconds earlier. Every evening, darkness arrives a few moments later. Light is returning. And here we are on the longest night itself, lighting the love candle and celebrating light’s arrival. The timing couldn’t be more perfect. Because while we’re experiencing the astronomical turning point when daylight starts increasing, the church calendar invites us to celebrate a different kind of turning point. John’s gospel opens not with shepherds or mangers but with a cosmic declaration that changes everything: the Light that created the universe entered the universe itself.
For four weeks, we’ve been watching for light in unexpected places. We found it blazing in Nebuchadnezzar’s furnace, where God joined three young men in their trial instead of immediately delivering them from it. We discovered it breathing through Ezekiel’s valley of dry bones, bringing impossible life to death itself. We celebrated it accomplishing divine purposes through Isaiah’s living word that transforms wilderness into garden. Each week has taught us that God’s light shines precisely where darkness seems strongest. But today, on the fourth Sunday of Advent, we proclaim something even more astounding: the Light we’ve been watching for hasn’t just visited—it has moved in permanently.
I heard a story recently that captures what incarnation really means. An elderly woman whose eyesight had dimmed considerably could no longer see faces clearly. Everything looked gray and blurred to her. But when her young great-grandson came to visit, he didn’t stay at a polite distance. He climbed up in her lap, pressed his face close to hers, and announced his presence. She couldn’t see his features clearly, but she could feel his breath on her cheek, his small hands patting her face, his weight settled trustingly against her chest. She didn’t need perfect vision because he came close enough that she could know him in other ways—through touch, through presence, through the intimacy of nearness.
That’s incarnation. That’s what John means when he writes that the Word became flesh and made a home among us. The Light didn’t just shine from a safe distance where we could only glimpse it. The Light came close enough to touch, to know, to experience. God didn’t stay transcendent. God moved into the neighborhood.
John opens his gospel not in Bethlehem but before time began. “In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.” He deliberately echoes Genesis, where God spoke and light flooded the darkness. But John reveals something Genesis only hints at—the Word who spoke creation into being is itself a person, existing in eternal relationship with God. This Word isn’t just God’s messenger or God’s idea. This Word is God.
Through this Word, everything came into being. Every star that pierces winter’s darkness, every sunrise that ends the longest night, every lamp that welcomes people home—all of it came through the Word. And what came into being through the Word was life itself, and that life was light for all people. John insists on this cosmic scale because he’s about to make an incredible claim that requires this foundation.
But first, he introduces John the Baptist, whose whole purpose was pointing toward this moment. John testified about the light but knew he wasn’t the light himself. He was the voice crying out in the wilderness, “Pay attention! Look here! The One you’ve been waiting for is coming!” Then comes John’s astounding announcement: “The true light that shines on all people was coming into the world.”
Not just visiting. Not just appearing. Coming. Entering. Arriving to stay. The Light the universe has witnessed from creation now enters creation itself. “The Word became flesh and made his home among us.” The Greek word means “pitched his tent” or “tabernacled”—remember how God’s glory filled the wilderness tabernacle? Now that glory takes up residence in human skin. God doesn’t stay at cosmic distance. God moves into the neighborhood.
This is where Methodist theology catches fire with wonder. John Wesley insisted that God’s grace is always moving toward us, always preceding our awareness, always pursuing relationship. He called this prevenient grace—the grace that comes before we even know to look for it. But in the incarnation, that pursuit reaches its ultimate expression. The Word doesn’t remain at safe distance, doesn’t stay comfortably transcendent. The Word becomes flesh.
The original Greek is stark—“sarx”—meaning actual, physical, breakable human flesh. Not a spiritual body or a divine appearance. Real flesh that gets hungry and tired, that bleeds and dies. Wesley called this “God with us” the foundation of everything we believe about grace. God doesn’t wait for us to reach upward but reaches downward to meet us exactly where we are. This is the heart of Methodist optimism—God’s grace is already at work in every human life, drawing all people toward divine love.
We live in a time that feels increasingly dark. I hear it in conversations after worship and during hospital visits. People are exhausted by division, worn down by bad news, worried about the future. The darkness isn’t just out there in the world—it settles into our hearts. We wonder if things will ever get better, if healing is possible, if hope is realistic or just naive.
Into this darkness, John’s gospel speaks a word we desperately need to hear. The Light that arrived two thousand years ago in Bethlehem still shines in our darkness today. And the darkness still doesn’t overcome it. That’s not just historical fact—it’s present reality. The Word who became flesh didn’t un-become flesh. Jesus didn’t return to pure spirit after Easter. The incarnation remains. God continues dwelling with us, close enough to know, real enough to touch.
What does this mean for McPherson on December 21, 2025? It means the Light we’re celebrating isn’t distant or abstract. When you’re sitting in the oncologist’s office waiting for test results, the Light sits with you. When you’re lying awake at 3 AM worried about your marriage or your children or your job, the Light keeps vigil beside you. When you feel lost in your own darkness, unable to find your way forward, the Light who spoke creation into being speaks your name.
Notice how John puts it: the world didn’t recognize the Light. Even God’s own people didn’t welcome him. The incarnation wasn’t a triumphant arrival with trumpet fanfare and universal acclaim. It was quiet, easily missed, rejected by many. And yet—and this is crucial—the rejection didn’t stop the Light from shining. The darkness tried to extinguish it and failed. Human indifference couldn’t dim it. Even death couldn’t snuff it out. The Light kept shining because that’s what light does. It doesn’t negotiate with darkness or compromise with shadow. It simply shines, and wherever it shines, darkness has to give way.
John tells us that everyone who welcomes this Light, who believes in this name, receives the right to become God’s children. Not children who earn their way or prove their worth. Children born from God’s own initiative, God’s own desire for relationship with us. This is pure gift. We don’t achieve it or deserve it. We simply receive it—the way that elderly woman received her great-grandson climbing into her lap. She didn’t have to do anything but be there and let him come close.
The good news is that the longest night of the year is also the turning point. Starting tomorrow, daylight increases. Every morning, the sun rises a few seconds earlier. Every evening, darkness arrives a few moments later. Light is returning, patient and persistent and unstoppable.
This is what happened when the Word became flesh. The turning point arrived. The Light that darkness cannot overcome entered our world and transformed everything. And here’s what makes this truly good news—we don’t have to wait for some future moment when light finally wins. The victory already happened. On this longest night, we proclaim that Light has already overcome darkness. Jesus has already defeated death. Love has already triumphed.
You are standing in that victory right now. Whatever darkness surrounds you, whatever shadows have followed you into this sanctuary, whatever fears have kept you awake these cold December nights—the Light has already penetrated them. You don’t need to generate your own light or muster enough faith or try harder to be spiritual. The Light has come to you. The Word became flesh for you. God moved into your neighborhood specifically to find you, to be with you, to make you God’s own child.
John’s gospel declares that the Word became flesh and made a home among us. This truth invites us into our PRESENCE promise—to participate actively in the community where God dwells. Here’s how to practice incarnational presence in these final days before Christmas:
Show up. Attend Christmas Eve worship Tuesday evening at 5:00 or 7:00 PM. Be physically present with your church family as we celebrate Light entering our darkness.
Practice recognition. When you flip on your Christmas tree lights each evening, when you light candles at Christmas Eve worship, pause and remember that Jesus is the Light of the world. These aren’t just decorations—they’re testimonies that darkness doesn’t win.
Move closer. The incarnation means God closed the distance. This week, close the distance with someone who might be isolated this Christmas. A phone call, a text, a visit—your presence becomes incarnational presence for them.
Receive the gift. Take communion at Christmas Eve services, remembering that the Word who became flesh continues to meet us in bread and cup. God still comes close enough to touch.
On this winter solstice, as darkness reaches its peak and daylight reaches its minimum, we light all four advent candles. We proclaim that the Light has arrived and will never be extinguished. In three days, we’ll celebrate the birth of the One who is both Word and flesh, both cosmic and intimate, both eternal and born in time. The Light we’ve been watching for is already here.
Will you pray with me?
God of light, thank you for sending Jesus to dwell among us. Help us recognize your light in our darkness and shine your love into the world. Amen.
In crafting today’s sermon, I employed AI assistants like Claude and Apple Intelligence, yet the ultimate responsibility for its content rests with me. These tools offered valuable perspectives, but the most influential sermon preparation hinges on biblical study, theological insight, personal reflection, and divine guidance. I see AI as a supportive aid to enrich the sermon process while ensuring my own voice in proclaiming the Word of God.
Rev. Andrew Conard 