“…to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death.” — Luke 1:79

It’s a strange place to be—experiencing grief during the holidays. Christmas is supposed to feel light. Warm. Joyful. But sometimes it doesn’t.

I have to confess, this is my first personal brush with grief at Christmas. Two years ago, we did a sermon series on The Colors of Christmas, and on the first Sunday of Advent we observed a “Blue Christmas,” acknowledging that for many, loss and grief are woven into this time of year. It was well received and meaningful, but I didn’t necessarily have a personal connection to it.

Now I do.

As many of you know, my father-in-law went home to be with Jesus the day before Thanksgiving. It wasn’t unexpected, but its suddenness still came as a shock. His memorial service is this Friday.

Pam and I are doing well overall. We’re intentionally creating space to process, keeping our schedule a bit lighter, and paying attention to our emotional reserves. Still, the combination of preparing for Christmas—a season of joy—while simultaneously preparing for a memorial service has been jarring. It’s as if the calendar itself is reminding us that life holds both celebration and sorrow, often side by side.

This past Sunday morning, the worship service opened with Joy to the World (Unspeakable Joy), and honestly, I wasn’t feeling it. I’m not suggesting we shouldn’t have sung it; the truth it proclaims is good and right. But emotionally, I simply wasn’t there. And interestingly, my assigned passage for Christmas Sunday, December 21, is titled “What If It’s True That ‘Great Joy’ Is Possible?” The irony isn’t lost on me. Sometimes the very themes we’re called to preach are the ones God invites us to wrestle through personally.

So when Pastor John preached on Zechariah’s song in Luke 1 last Sunday, one portion stood out to me in a new way. In verses 77–78, Zechariah rejoices that the Messiah is coming “by the tender mercy of our God… as a rising sun from heaven to shine on those living in darkness and in the shadow of death.”

I don’t want to over-spiritualize this, because Zechariah is clearly speaking about the entire human race—the reality of sin, brokenness, and death that touches every person. Jesus came to rescue all of us from that darkness. But this year, these words feel more personal and carry greater weight. The imagery of light shining on those in the “shadow of death” names not only the world’s condition but the space Pam and I find ourselves navigating right now.

And this is where Christmas speaks with surprising clarity. The child in the manger didn’t enter a world free from grief; He entered a world filled with it. Jesus wasn’t exempt from suffering—He embodied it. And in my experience, God most often doesn’t deliver us from suffering but walks with us through it. As Scripture reminds us, “The Lord is close to the brokenhearted” (Psalm 34:18), and “The people walking in darkness have seen a great light” (Isaiah 9:2).

Grief doesn’t place us outside the Christmas story; grief is part of the story the Savior stepped into.

As Pam and I continue to walk through this mixture of joy and grief, celebration and sorrow, we are grateful for the child in the manger who became a Man of Sorrows, acquainted with our grief. Zechariah’s prophecy feels particularly personal this Christmas. It doesn’t remove the sadness, but it does remind us that Jesus came to bring light into the darkness and to walk with us “through the valley of the shadow of death” (Psalm 23:4).

So for those whose Christmas contains both joy and heaviness, know this: Jesus enters that very space. By the tender mercy of our God, the Rising Sun comes near—offering light that steadies, guides, and gives hope in the darkness.

If this season feels heavy to you, you’re not out of step with Christmas—you’re closer to its heart than you realize.