Such a small thing: Turn on Christmas lights. Even if itâ??s a small church. Even if itâ??s a black church. Even if itâ??s the cold, gray winter of a Jim Crow life. Still you plug in the bulbs and light the night sky with electrified elation.
Look at our church. Look at our Christ. Look at our happy, bright season. And never mind the critics and their gripes about lights: Too expensive. Too bright. Too much. In the gloomy winters of my conflicted childhood, my familyâ??s brightly lit church on a poor Denver street was joy and light, sanctuary and salvation rolled into one. Nothing was better.
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