(John 1:1-18, from Second Sunday after Christmas Day)
My demon stopped by for a chat toward the end of Christmas Day.
“What’s up, Christian?” it asked, sounding almost cheerful but ending with a sneer that gave “Christian” the sound of an insult.
“Hello, demon,” I replied. “What is your name today?”
“What a delicious time of year this is,” the demon continued, ignoring my question. I had known it would.
“You sound like you really mean that,” I observed. “Isn’t Halloween more your style?”
The demon snorted derisively. “Ridiculous heresy. But Christmas – now there’s a holiday I can work with.”
“How so?” I asked.
A corner of the demon’s mouth curled upward, unnerving me.
“Oh, I think you know, Christian,” it said, giving me a conspiratorial look. “Christmas just wasn’t what it used to be for you this year, was it?
The demon had a point. With the kids growing up, gift-giving had begun feeling more and more transactional. And all the shopping, decorating and driving seemed to be leaving me more tired and sore than in the past. People were starting to go missing, too. My grandparents and my father, and more recently both of my wife’s grandparents, a sister-in-law and an uncle. Christmas was contracting and becoming tinged with grief. And the news – good Lord, the news was depressing. And I needed to lose weight, and the washer needed fixing, and I had so much prep to finish before the semester started, and …
A sound made me glance at the demon. Its head had tilted back, eyes closed, and its tongue was finishing a loud lick of its parted lips. The demon opened its eyes and rolled them toward me.
“Oh, do go on,” it slurred.
I certainly could have. I nearly did. But a new thought had occurred to me.
“Your name is Despair,” I told the demon.
Instantly awake again, the demon wheeled on me with the anger of a cut-off drunk.
“And what do you think your pathetic holiday is about, Christian?” it roared. “An impoverished baby born 2,000 years ago in a backwater of the Roman Empire – what difference did it make? Your so-called king grew up, made some noise, got himself killed, then disappeared, leaving you alone against people whose hedonism and warmongering make the Romans look like amateurs. Hang all the cheap lights and plastic tinsel you want, Christian. It can’t make things any better, and neither can your absentee king. Because the day after Christmas is no different from the day before Christmas. Nothing changed, and nothing ever will. Your name is Despair, like mine is, and it will be your name until you’re too dead to know anything at all.”
Despair was breathing hard. A droplet of spit dangled from its lower lip. Nothing in his diatribe had surprised me. I had known each word was coming before Despair said it. I had been hearing versions of it in my head for days now, sometimes mumbled, sometimes shouted. But this time, something had flickered at the edge of my awareness as I listened. Something tiny, but bright, warm, inviting, and … alive? I stared at it hard, straining to see it clearly. Then, there it was.
“Verb tenses matter,” I whispered, more to myself than to Despair.
“What sort of nonsense …” Despair began, ridicule in its voice. But I pressed on.
“John wrote the opening of his Gospel nearly a century after Jesus had come and gone,” I said. “So he could have written that the Light shined in the darkness. Shined for a while, then flickered out. Disappeared, just like you said. Everyone would have understood what he meant, and nobody would have questioned it. Because the Jesus that John was writing about was obviously gone.”
Silent, Despair looked uncomfortable.
“But John picked the present tense,” I continued. “He wrote that the Light shines in the darkness. Shines, as in shines on, in that time and every time, including this time.”
Despair coughed a little and stared, seething, at its hooves.
“You’re right, Despair,” I said. “Nothing has changed. You and your kind have tried everything to get rid of that Light, and you’ve been at it for 2,000 years. But you still can’t overcome it, still can’t understand it. You never will, and that’s why your name is Despair.”
Furious, Despair tried to speak but seemed to be choking on something. Its voice finally came, strangled and hoarse.
“And what is …” It paused for a ragged gasp. “… your name today, Christian?”
I smiled, knowing the demon’s visit had reached an end.
“Hopeful,” I said. “My name is Hopeful. Hopeful in the Darkness, if you want the whole thing. Merry Christmas, Despair.”
The demon fixed me with flaring eyes but remained mute. We both knew it could not speak my name and so could not speak to me. I hummed a carol as the demon began to fade. One hand came up, the clawed fingers balled into a fist that the demon shook at me.
But then it was gone.
