Waking to the Light

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

— John 1:5

There is something tender about the first morning of a new year. The world has not changed overnight, and yet everything feels slightly quieter—like the pause just before we open our eyes. A new year does not arrive with fanfare so much as with light: soft at first, steady, and persistent.

John’s Gospel opens not with commands or expectations, but with illumination. The light shines in the darkness, John tells us, and the darkness does not defeat it. Light does not argue with the dark; it simply appears. It reveals what is already there. As we wake to a new year, we are not asked to banish every shadow—only to notice that light is already present.

For many LGBTQ+ people of faith, waking up has not always felt safe. Some of us learned early to keep parts of ourselves hidden, to move carefully through the world, half-awake and half-guarded. And yet the Gospel insists that God meets us not in denial or fear, but in revelation. Light, in John’s telling, is not exposure meant to harm—it is truth meant to heal.

Luke’s Gospel offers a quieter image of beginning. On the road to Emmaus, two disciples walk together, confused and grieving, unsure of what comes next. Jesus joins them on the journey, though they do not recognize him at first. They walk, they talk, they tell their story—and only later do they realize they were never walking alone (Luke 24:13–16). Sometimes new beginnings do not feel like clarity. Sometimes they feel like movement—one step, then another—before understanding catches up.

The first Sunday of a new year does not demand certainty. It invites attentiveness. It invites us to notice who is walking beside us, even when we do not yet have the language for what is unfolding.

And then, in John’s Gospel again, we hear the words Jesus speaks to frightened disciples huddled behind locked doors: “Peace be with you” (John 20:19). These are not words spoken to people who have it all together. They are spoken into fear, into uncertainty, into a room full of people unsure how to go on. Peace, here, is not the absence of trouble—it is the presence of Christ.

As we wake to a new year, peace does not mean that everything will be easy or resolved. It means that we are not abandoned to face it alone.

So open your eyes slowly. Let the light reach you where you are. Take the next step on the road in front of you, even if you do not yet see the destination. And receive the quiet promise spoken at the threshold of this year: peace is already here.

May this new year find you waking—not to pressure or fear—but to light, to companionship, and to a peace that meets you exactly as you are.