I went to the Christmas Eve Candlelight service at my church tonight. Everybody was given a candle when they came into the sanctuary. It's a vast auditorium, filled with over five thousand people. At the end of the service, they turned off all the lights. It is dark. I can barely see the candle in my hand. The people beside me, in front of me, all around me are just dark shapes, sensed more than seen. The rustle of clothes and the quiet stamp of feet mingle with the low strains of Silent Night. Up on the stage, a dozen candles flicker in the darkness, tiny pinpricks of orange light.

There is movement up at the front. Little candles begin to wander, multiply. The pastors and deacons can be dimly seen lighting their candles, and taking them out to the congregation. The little flickering flames grow in number. The unseen ceiling is revealed in the warm glow as the light spreads. I can see my own candle again. The people around me slowly regain their color.

The little flames finally reach me. I light my candle, and then pass it on, lighting others around me. The tiny flame is bright to look at, dancing on the wick. The vast hall, so dark before, is lit up, bright enough to read by. Thousands of little flames flicker amongst the people. As one, we begin singing Silent Night. We raise our little candles high, the flames wavering and flickering on unseen winds.

Five thousand candles. In the deepest darkness, a single candle is a bright and welcome sight. Five thousand together light the room enough to work by. We are the light of the world. In some places, we are single flames shining bright and lonely in the darkness. In others, our many lights push the darkness away. But we are little candles still. Our flickering, wavering flames overcome the darkness around us, but compared to us, our Lord is as the sun, great and mighty, vanquishing all darkness. By His Holy Spirit our little flames shine for all the world to see, a pale little light for those who cannot see the sun.