January 4, 2026 Reflection

There is something about the days after Christmas that feel a little strange.

The decorations are still up, at least for some of us. Others have already packed everything away with admirable efficiency, while a few of us are still negotiating with ourselves about how long after Epiphany a Christmas tree can reasonably stay up before it stops feeling festive and starts feeling… aspirational. There may still be needles in the carpet. There may still be chocolate in places we forgot we hid it. The house looks mostly normal again, but not quite. Today is the 10th Day of Christmas, the day of the lords a-leaping, which I can only imagine as a very ill-advised attempt to leap down the church aisle. Lots of enthusiasm, questionable form, and a quiet reminder that Christmas joy sometimes arrives with less grace than we planned.

January 4 sits in that in-between space.

Christmas has happened. The story has been told. The baby has been placed in the manger, the angels have sung, the carols have been belted out. And yet, the world hasn’t magically changed.

The wars haven’t stopped. In fact, now our neighbour to the south has started a new one. The news hasn’t softened. Our personal worries haven’t wrapped themselves up neatly just because we sang Joy to the World. Credit card bills arrive with perfect timing. Health concerns persist. Family dynamics remain… complicated.

And into this moment, not the polished Christmas-card version of life, but the quieter, messier, post-holiday reality, the Gospel of John speaks.

“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God.”

John does not ease us into the story. There are no shepherds to warm us up. No angels. No sweet, familiar details to anchor us. John opens with language so vast and cosmic that it almost feels like the wrong reading for the first Sunday of the year.

And yet, it is exactly right.

Because John is not interested in nostalgia. He is interested in meaning.

John is not telling us how Jesus was born. John is telling us why it matters that Jesus came at all.

“What has come into being in him was life, and the life was the light of all people. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

That is not a sentimental statement. It is a defiant one.

Because darkness is not theoretical for us.

Darkness looks like the ongoing violence we see in the world, conflicts that stretch on with no clear resolution, images so constant that we almost scroll past them now, not because we don’t care, but because caring feels overwhelming.

Darkness looks like political division that makes conversations feel fragile and exhausting. It looks like economic anxiety that sits quietly in people’s chests, worries about housing, food prices, retirement, or whether work will still be there six months from now.

Darkness looks like personal grief, the loss that becomes louder once the busyness of Christmas fades. It looks like illness, or aging bodies that don’t cooperate the way they once did. It looks like family relationships that feel strained rather than comforting.

John does not deny any of this. He does not rush us past it.

But he also refuses to let darkness have the final word.

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Notice what John does not say. He does not say the darkness vanishes. He does not say the light fixes everything instantly. He does not say, “Just think positively and everything will be fine.”

He says the light shines. Quietly. Persistently. Stubbornly.

Like a candle left burning in a window long after the guests have gone home.
Like the porch light someone leaves on because they’re not sure when you’ll get back, but they want you to know you’re expected.

And then John says something even more astonishing: “And the Word became flesh and lived among us.”

This is the heart of the text.

Not floated above us. Not shouted at us from a safe distance. Not protected from inconvenience or pain.

The Word became flesh.

God chose skin. God chose vulnerability. God chose to experience hunger, fatigue, frustration, and grief.

A few days after Christmas, I had one of those very ordinary moments that didn’t feel spiritual at all. I was standing in the kitchen, in my new slippers, trying to make sense of leftovers that no longer seemed to belong together. The house was quiet. The calendar was full again. And I remember thinking, This is it, this is where real life has already resumed. And it struck me that if God only showed up in the big, beautiful moments, God would have missed me entirely in that moment. But this is exactly the kind of place John is talking about, the place where God chooses to be present, not just in celebration, but in the ordinary, unremarkable return to routine.

Which means – God chose to be born into a world that was already broken.

This matters more than we sometimes realize.

Because if God chose flesh, then there is no part of your life that is too ordinary, too messy, too unresolved to be a place where God is present.

Not the exhaustion you feel at the start of a new year. Not the doubt you carry quietly. Not the frustration you feel about the state of the world. Not the grief that sneaks up on you in the quiet moments.

John is telling us that God did not drop in for a visit. God moved into the neighbourhood.

And anyone who has lived in a neighbourhood knows, once you move in, you don’t get to avoid the noise, the mess, or the complicated relationships. You take it all on. You belong.

And I see that lived out here, all the time.

I see it when someone unlocks the church early on a cold, grey morning, not because anyone is watching, but because others are expected to arrive. I see it in the quiet conversations after worship, when someone notices another person lingering and chooses to stay a little longer. I see it in the meals delivered, the emails sent, the rides offered, the prayers spoken aloud and the ones never spoken at all.

None of it flashy. None of it headline-worthy.

But this is what it looks like when the Word continues to become flesh, when God’s presence takes shape in ordinary, faithful acts of care.

Which means God is present not only in moments of joy, but in the aftermath, in the clean-up, the questions, the uncertainty of what comes next.

That matters in a congregation like ours.

Because we are not a people who pretend life is simple. We are a community that knows what it means to walk through grief together, to navigate change, to ask hard questions without easy answers. Some of you are beginning this year feeling hopeful and energized. Others are simply hoping it will be gentler than the last one.

And John tells us this: God is already here.

“From his fullness we have all received, grace upon grace.”

Not grace once. Not grace only when you get it right. Not grace that runs out if you ask too much.

Grace upon grace.

The kind of grace that meets you where you are, even if where you are feels unfinished. Especially if it feels unfinished.

John is also honest about how people respond to light:

“He came to what was his own, and his own people did not accept him.”

That line should make us nod rather than wince.

We don’t always recognize light when it appears. Sometimes it looks too small. Sometimes it asks something of us. Sometimes we are simply too tired to welcome it.

And yet, the light does not withdraw.

This is important as we stand at the beginning of a new year.

January encourages reflection whether we like it or not. We take stock. We think about resolutions we will probably revise by mid-January. We notice what feels heavy. We wonder what needs to change, in our lives, in our communities, in the world.

And maybe the invitation of this text is not to fix everything.

Maybe the invitation is to pay attention.

To notice where light is already shining.

Light looks like people quietly showing up for one another.
Light looks like conversations that soften instead of harden.
Light looks like acts of kindness that never make the news.
Light looks like a church that keeps opening its doors, not because it has all the answers, but because it trusts that God is still at work among ordinary people.

And then John says this:

“No one has ever seen God. It is God the only Son, who is close to the Father’s heart, who has made him known.”

In other words, if you want to know what God is like, look at Jesus.

Not at power. Not at domination. Not at certainty.

But at love embodied. At truth spoken gently. At presence that refuses to abandon.

And here is the good news for us, standing at the threshold of another year:

The story is not over.

The Word is still becoming flesh. Light is still shining.
Grace is still unfolding, even when we cannot yet see where it is leading.

So if you are entering 2026 with confidence, may you carry humility and gratitude with you.

If you are entering it with uncertainty, may you trust that God does not wait for you to have clarity before walking with you.

And if you are entering it weary, may you remember that light does not require your strength in order to shine.

It simply shines. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it.”

Not then. Not now. Not ever.

Amen.