I sat this morning thinking of a sermon preached in my parish on the Sunday after Christmas –when I had been graciously given the morning off, and the Rev. Dr. Jim Horne stepped into the breach. He spoke of all the Holy Days that the church has placed between Christmas morning and the start of the New Year, and how they seek to remind us of the most central truth of all about the great truth we have so recently celebrated.
There is something marvellously Anglican about celebrating St. John on December 27. Christmas dinner has barely settled, the last of the shortbread crumbs still cling to the clerical collar, and someone — somewhere — has tried to return a gift without a receipt. And into this post-festive fog strides St. John, the beloved disciple, with a Gospel that begins not with shepherds, angels, or frankincense, but with: “In the beginning was the Word.”
Nothing like a little cosmic theology to pair with leftover turkey.
John has always seemed to me the patron saint of those who like to step back from the fray and say, “Yes, yes, the manger is lovely, the shepherds are charming, but have we considered the metaphysical implications of the Incarnation?” He’s the apostle who brings you from Away in a Manger straight into a seminary lecture — yet with such beauty that even the sheep would stop chewing and ponder.
And of course, there’s the other great Johannine theme: love. Not the mushy sort that Hallmark sells by the carton this time of year, but the sturdy, weather-resistant love that holds communities together when someone forgot to plug in the Christmas tree or the choir missed their entrance at Midnight Mass. John insists that love is not just a sentiment, but the very architecture of our life in Christ.
He tells us over and over that to love God is to love our neighbour — and that the two cannot be separated, no matter how strongly we might wish to on days when our neighbour is practising the spiritual discipline known as “being difficult.”
On this feast day, I imagine John standing somewhere near the church hall, gently smiling as we sort out the post-Christmas chaos. He sees us wrestling with recycling bags, packing away nativity figurines (always one shepherd missing), and debating whether the poinsettias have one more Sunday left in them.
And he whispers his great theme: “Little children, love one another.”
It’s simple, yes. Almost annoyingly so. But perhaps John knew that if the Church could get that one thing right, everything else — creeds, doctrines, vestries, coffee hours — would fall beautifully into place.
He also knew, I suspect, that we’d need the reminder again on December 28. And 29. And indefinitely.
But perhaps what I love most about St. John is how he holds together wonder and daily life. His soaring theology of light shines right into kitchens, hospital rooms, and parish offices piled high with forms that no one remembers creating. John tells us that the Word became flesh not to impress us, but to dwell among us. In our humanity. In our confusion. In our attempts at grace.
And if the light shines in the darkness, then surely it can shine in the week between Christmas and New Year’s, when time becomes a vague suggestion and clergy cannot remember what day it is.
So today, we give thanks for St. John — for his Gospel, for his example, for his reminder that love is not optional Christian equipment, and for his steady assurance that the Light still shines, even when we can’t find the switch.
Companion Prayer
Holy God,
On this feast of St. John the Evangelist,
fill our hearts with the love he proclaimed
and the light he saw shining in Christ.
Help us to dwell in that love,
to share it with patience and good humour,
and to trust that Your Word continues
to make its home among us.
May we walk in the light that no darkness can overcome,
today and always. Amen.