I don’t know about you, but there are days when it feels like the world has turned the dimmer switch down just a little too far.

You wake up, scroll through the news, and before your coffee has even kicked in, you are thinking, “Well, that is not encouraging.” We are at war. Our nation is divided. Our politics are deeply split.  There is anger. There is poverty and need.  We even experience this here in Steele County.  

I checked the most recent numbers… according to our school district, in Owatonna Public Schools, as of this past Monday, there are 171 kids listed as homeless.  171.  Now, there are many siblings in that group, so it’s not 171 families… and it doesn’t mean 171 kids are sleeping in cars or in parks.  Some are couch-hopping or staying with a relative or a friend.  But it does mean that 171 children do not have a place to sleep that is their own.  171.  

And I spoke with Dom Korbel, the director of  Community Pathways, our food shelf this week.  According to Dom, our in 2025, 1,300 families used the food shelf there each week.  That is up 200 families a week from the previous year.  

Sometimes, everyday life feels like living under a low gray sky that never quite clears.

The prophet Isaiah knew something about gray skies. He was speaking to people who were anxious about national security, political instability, and their children’s future. In other words, he was speaking to people a lot like us.

And into that reality, Isaiah says, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.”  That’s an interesting choice of words.

He doesn’t say that they’ve seen a flicker. Not a subtle candle in the corner. No, he says, “a great light.”

Isaiah does not begin by pretending it is not dark. He does not say, “Relax, everyone, it is not that bad.” He names the darkness. Then he announces light.

You see, the Christian faith is not about pretending the shadow isn’t real. It is proclaiming that there is something greater than the shadow.

And the Gospel writer Luke brings us to the darkest scene in all of Scripture. At noon on that Friday, the sun’s light fails. Darkness comes over the whole land. If you were directing that scene in a movie, you would not need much dialogue. The sky itself is speaking.

And right there, in the thick of it, Jesus says, “Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.”

It is such a simple sentence. But it is…breathtaking.

Jesus does not shout a political manifesto. He does not call down angels. He entrusts himself to the Father.

In his darkest moment, Jesus leans into trust.

I remember years ago, when our kids were younger, a thunderstorm would erupt at night.  When lightning cracked across the sky and thunder rattled the windows, one, or both, of them would inevitably appear at our bedside at two in the morning. They would just stand there.  We would wake up to find them right there…just staring at us. (It kind of freaked us out.) No speech. No theological reflection. No words at all.  They would climb in.

And once they were there, under the covers…they slept. The storm did not stop. The thunder did not apologize for waking us up. But proximity changed everything.

Proximity changes everything.

That is what Jesus does on the cross. In the storm, he leans into the Father. And through him, we are invited to do the same.

Isaiah promises a child. “For a child has been born for us.” If you were in charge of solving global instability, would your strategy begin with a newborn? Probably not. You might draft a five-year plan. Or build a task force.

God sends a baby.

Wonderful Counselor. Mighty God. Everlasting Father. Prince of Peace. Those are not just poetic titles. They are bold claims about who actually holds the future.

When the world feels dark, what we do not need is a distant God with tidy answers. We need a God who understands shadow from the inside.

Luke tells us that as Jesus dies, the temple curtain is torn in two. That thick barrier separating people from the Holy of Holies is ripped open.  In other words, at the moment that looks like ultimate defeat, something new is opening.

One of my favorite theological quotes is from Frederick Buechner. I’ve used it often.  He said, “The worst thing is never the last thing.”  The worst thing is never the last thing.

That is not naïve optimism. That is resurrection faith.

I was thinking this week about how even small changes in light affect the room. When I was in college, I worked as a counselor at one of our Lutheran Bible camps.  It was out in the woods, on a lake, in the middle of northwest Wisconsin.  The middle of nowhere. In any kind of wind or storm, it was not uncommon for us to power.  And when this happened at night…in a cabin with 12 4^th-grade boys…as soon as the lights went dark, whatever the time, the flashlights came out.  The flashlights waved all over the room…and the boys would just laughed…and I’d roll my eyes, because I knew right away that none of us were going to get to sleep for at least an hour…But I also knew the flashlights weren’t out just because they were goofy kids (though they were).  They were out because the flashlights brought reassurance.  They brought comfort.  

The darkness had not disappeared. But it no longer ruled the space.

Isaiah says the people walking in darkness have seen a great light. Walking. Not sprinting. Not teleporting. Walking.

That is important. Faith in dark times is usually less about dramatic heroics and more about steady steps.

• One foot in front of the other.
• Prayer when you are not sure what to say.
• Kindness when cynicism would be easier.
• Patience when everyone else seems to be shouting.

Martin Luther once said, “Even if I knew that tomorrow the world would go to pieces, I would still plant my apple tree.” There is something wonderfully stubborn about that. The world may wobble. You still plant.  The world may feel like it’s full of shadow, but we can still give food to those in need…we can still build a family shelter…we can still show compassion.

That is what it looks like to believe the light shines in the darkness.

I had a conversation recently with someone who was wrestling with the events happening in Minnesota in the last couple of months…the things that made the world feel like it was in shadow.  She said, “Pastor Todd, I cannot fix the world. But I can refuse to add more darkness to it.” I loved that. It is such a grounded way of living faith.

You and I may not be able to solve shadow by ourselves. But we can choose not to participate in it. 

• We can choose to listen before reacting. 
• We can choose not to post that comment that probably isn’t going to be helpful. 
• We can choose to show up for someone who is grieving.  
• We can give to support our community.
• We can choose to be light.

Those choices matter.

Isaiah speaks of the yoke being broken and the boots of warriors burned. It is a vision of peace. We are not there yet. But we live in the light of that promise.

Isaiah goes on to say that “the zeal of the Lord of hosts will do this.” Ultimately, it does not depend on our cleverness or our stamina. It depends on God’s faithfulness.  Jesus entrusts himself to the Father’s hands. That prayer is available to us, too.

When the world feels dark, we do not close our eyes and pretend it is bright. We trust.  We say, “God, into your hands.”  And then, strengthened by Word…sacrament…community… we walk back out into the world carrying whatever light we have been given.

Sometimes it will feel small. A conversation. A prayer. A generous act. But remember that even a small flashlight can change the room.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.  That light is not fragile. It is not temporary. It is Christ himself. And the shadow, no matter how loud or dramatic, does not overcome it.

So, together, we keep walking. We keep planting. We keep praying. We keep trusting because the worst thing is never the last thing.

In the name of the Father, and of the Son (+), and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.