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| Greene Square, Cedar Rapids |
In Adam Hamilton's new book analyzing the meaning of Christmas for Christians, he spends a chapter on the Scriptural image of Jesus-as-light. The Gospel of John introduces Jesus with The true light, which enlightens everyone, was coming into the world (John 1:9, NRSV), and later Jesus describes himself, I am the light of the world. Whoever follows me will never walk in darkness but will have the light of life (John 8:12, NRSV).
What is this darkness, and this light? Hamilton identifies two sources of darkness: [1] moral darkness, external acts of selfishness or misguided zeal like terrorist attacks and child abuse; and [2] existential darkness, internal feelings of being lost or unloved (2020: 123-128). He goes on to describe the birth of Jesus as "God's response to both moral and existential darkness" (128), providing hope and trust in times of despair. But as the chapter continues, there is an interesting turn. As it turns out,
We are God's plan for changing the world... for addressing injustice, for healing the wounds of injury and suffering. We are God's plan for including every person in this beloved community.... As we become children of the light, we cannot keep that light within ourselves. It is meant to spill out from us naturally and touch the lives of others. And every time it does, the light extends just a little farther, the darkness recedes bit by bit, the kingdom of God expands, and the world is changed. (140-141, emphases mine)
Hamilton illustrates this concept with the story of Kansas City's Secret Santa, who gives away $100,000 worth of $100 bills each Christmas season to people who need it (143-145). I'm ambivalent about this example, which is so striking it's easy for people to say, "Great, but I can't afford to give away $100,000 to strangers," and to dismiss it. A better example is the woman (p. 143) who helps low-income children both locally and in Africa, though again how many of us can afford to travel to Africa?
I take his main point, vividly illustrated by the collective passing of candlelight at Christmas Eve service, to be that each of us has the potential and the task to spread the light. "In our world," he warns, "you're either bringing darkness or light" (146). Without the option of sitting on the sidelines cheering on spectacular heroes like Secret Santa, we can spread the light steadily, which more often than not is going to mean incrementally. Smiles or friendly words are ways the light gets spread that are attainable for any of us.
Sometimes it can happen just by being there. In the early years of Brewed Awakenings Coffeehouse in Cedar Rapids, I invited myself to play guitar on the occasional afternoon, and when they didn't chase me away, I kept doing it. One day a woman came in and sat with her coffee by the fireplace near where I was singing. She stayed for awhile, and as she left she said, "Thank you for singing. I was feeling terrible when I came in, but your songs are funny and they made me feel better." I hadn't come there with that intention. If I'm honest with myself, my main motive was probably seeking attention. But I somehow became a vessel for the light to reach her existential darkness.
The lesson is in how many things had to come together for that to happen: There had to be a coffeehouse, or some kind of third place, for her to go for respite, that also occasionally welcomed goofy would-be songwriters. Its existence required an intrepid entrepreneur like Deb Witte, who started Brewed Awakenings, a city code that enabled it to open, and an older, low-rent building in a decent location to facilitate its takeoff. Even Secret Santa needs a place where he can efficiently encounter people to help. In suburban style development he could walk for a very long time before encountering anyone at all, whether or not they were in need of his help.
Light can get spread all kinds of ways, in all kinds of places. But if we want it to happen a lot, and Hamilton says God does so we do too, then we need the kind of places where people encounter other people on a frequent basis. In other words, we need walkable urbanism, with its short blocks, safe and interesting walks, mix of uses, and human-scaled buildings close to each other.
In her chapter entitled "The Uses of Sidewalks: Contact," Jane Jacobs demonstrated how city design done right facilitates a series of informal, low-stakes encounters that grew social trust, community identity, personal safety, and organizing capacity:
The sum of such casual public contact at a local level--most of it fortuitous, most of it associated with errands, all of it metered by the person concerned and not thrust upon him by anyone--is a feeling for the public identity of people, a web of public respect and trust, and a resource in time of personal or neighborhood need. ([1961] 1993: 73, emphasis mine)
City design done wrong kills those capacities:
The more common outcome in cities, where people are faced with the choice of sharing much or nothing, is nothing. In city areas that lack a natural and casual public life, it is common for residents to isolate themselves from each other to a fantastic degree. (85)
Do you want to spread the light? Have you resolved, with the woke version of Ebenezer Scrooge, to "honour Christmas in my heart, and try to keep it all the year?" Either we make progress towards walkable urbanism, or else we fail and the world gets darker.
SOURCES
Adam Hamilton, Incarnation: Rediscovering the Significance of Christmas (Abingdon, 2020)
Jane Jacobs, The Death and Life of Great American Cities (Modern Library, [1961] 1993)
SEE ALSO:
Robert Steuteville, "My Christmas Wish: A Return to Street Grids," Public Square: A CNU Journal, 22 December 2020
David Vera-Barachowitz, Mike Flynn, and Lian Farhi, "The Post-Pandemic Street," Planetizen, 22 December 2020
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