It was a frigid Christmas Eve in Washington, D.C. A lone oboe played haunting renditions of Christmas songs in the night air of Lafayette Park, where dozens of homeless men and women live just across Pennsylvania Avenue from the White House.
Jim and I had just left the Christmas Eve celebration at Sojourners, where the children had set up our large Salvadoran-style Nativity set on bales of hay. Carols were sung, and candles flickered, making long shadows on the walls and creating an aura of warmth and security. In the park, people huddled closely and stomped their feet to keep warm. We shared warm bread and fruit from the abundance of the simple feast that had followed our worship.
From the park we drove uptown to the Washington Cathedral, where the music of several choirs was filling the sanctuary. The massive church was warm, ornately decorated for the season, and packed with a throng of people dressed in their Christmas best. By the time we arrived, there was standing room only, under some fragrant pine boughs in the back.
It was nearing midnight as we drove back across the city. We began searching for a restaurant that might be open at such an hour. The owner of an Italian cafe was taking the "OPEN" sign out of his window as we pulled up. We gently pleaded with him, and he said finally, "Well, there are two pieces of lasagna left."
The cafe's television was tuned to the Christmas Mass at St. Peter's Cathedral in Rome, where it was already Christmas morning. The owner put up the "CLOSED" sign and joined us. He commented on the beauty of the Mass's pageantry, as a long parade of children from every nation of the world walked forward to receive a blessing from the Pope.
The lasagna was warm and filling, and we ate it with relish. A man carrying a basket of red, long-stemmed roses peered in the window and the owner invited him in. The rose vendor with a heavy accent had had a slow night--many people in church and not so many in restaurants on Christmas Eve.
Well after midnight, we walked into the bitter cold of early Christmas morning, past a man in a thin coat huddled by the door. We saw the owner come out and hand him something, and we knew that there had been three pieces of lasagna left.
As we drove home, I considered the variety of experiences of the evening. Jesus was surely present among the carols and the candlelight, in churches big and small that night. But most of all, he was there on the street and in the park, among the hungry and lonely--a baby born poor and vulnerable on the cold straw, to teach us about justice and compassion.
Once again we ponder incarnation--this miracle of God become flesh and dwelling among us. And we live with the certainty that the Light of the World is filling every dark corner with warmth.
In Bosnia and Somalia, in Russia and India and Haiti--though we may barely see it, that light shines. As citizens of the world's Mideast grope their way toward peace, light bathes the path. As residents of our own Midwest grapple out of a flood's devastation, the light guides their way. As apartheid slowly crumbles in South Africa, the light begins to shine through the cracks.
Wherever there is struggle, wherever there is sorrow, wherever there is suffering, the Light of the World makes a brilliant appearance. "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness--on them light has shined" (Isaiah 9:2).
Jesus came to us poor, but he came with a promise: that those who are hungry will be filled with good food, and those who are sad will be filled with laughter. Christmas challenges us once again to believe it. And to stake our lives on the promise.
Joyce Hollyday was associate editor of Sojourners when this article appeared.
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