In 1945 a barely nineteen year old German captive in a prisoner of war camp in Scotland received a small Bible with a printed note in the front from a parishioner here at St. Thomas' Parish. Having been ordered to the front lines in a Belgian forest only a short time before the end of World War II, he later recounted that he surrendered in the field, in the dark of night, to the first British soldier he could find.

Looking back at that same small Bible when he was my age now, 56, he said to a former seminary classmate of mine, Murphy Davis: "You know, sometimes it must be very, very dark before we understand how brightly the smallest light can shine.  In the deep darkness, the tiniest flame can seem a great light."  That enemy in the field one night, and that small Bible, were the start of a great light.

This young prisoner of war was rehabilitated by the Allies, released, and went on to become one of the greatest Protestant theologians of the latter half of the twentieth century. His classic books, Theology of Hope and The Crucified God, began a prolific writing and teaching vocation in Germany, the United States, and across the Christian world.  Juergen Moltmann turned 80 this past April.

The St. Thomas' parishioner whose message was in the front of Moltmann's Bible was none other than the President of the United States, Franklin D. Roosevelt, who prior to his election to our nation's highest office had honed his leadership skills not only with a term as Assistant Secretary to the Navy but also as a member of the St. Thomas' Parish Vestry!

The liturgical season of Advent - that ends today with our midnight service on Christmas Eve - is centered on images of darkness and light.  For many of us it is the words of the prophet Isaiah that echo in our memories, words written to the Hebrew people facing defeat and years of exile at the hands of their enemies the Babylonians.  They were words of hope spoken on the near side of suffering that had not yet ended: "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness- on them light has shined" (Isaiah 9:2).

Isaiah's words must have seemed as small a light as the British soldier, or the Roosevelt Bible given to Moltmann as a prisoner of war.  The words, the soldier, the Bible, didn't end the suffering.  But they remind those who suffer that God has not and will not ever forget them, especially in their suffering.

Christmas is for many who wrestle, as do I, with depression, a season of both "deep darkness" and "great light."  Any theology of hope worth having, Moltmann was to teach us, emerges out of the birth into our midst of the Child who will become the Crucified God. Our Christmas hope is worth only the plastic out of which our outdoor manger scenes are made, unless it speaks to those who walk in the darkness of depression and war and poverty and HIV/AIDS and violence and homelessness.  They are the only ones who can tell us whether, in their darkness, our Christmas joy brings genuine hope, or only plastic promises.  "Arise, shine!" There are many in darkness waiting for even the smallest light.