A City on a Hill Cannot Be Hid
A City on a Hill Cannot Be Hid
A Christmas Essay
My first flight to Lisbon went through the night. When the captain called to prepare for landing, I looked out the window to a starless sky, black and cold. But below the overhanging darkness sat a city glowing in the Lusophone hills. The city gleamed as a pool of stars, as though the celestial sky came from below, not above. The light could not be hid.
The brightness of the Lisbon lights reminded me of Christ’s famous sermon—the one preached on the mount, or on a hill. I imagine he stood at the central high point of that mount, eyes radiating with light, when he declared, “Ye are the light of the world. A city that is set on a hill cannot be hid. Neither do men light a candle, and put it under a bushel, but on a candlestick; and it giveth light unto all that are in the house” (Matt 5:14-15).
These scriptures read with particular beauty this time of year as lights are hung, trees raised and lit, and the nativity scene echoes through homes (either performed or in art) in all the world. The irony of the nativity, however, is that as Mary brought the “light of the world” (John 8:12) to life, she did so in humble obscurity, as if under a bushel. Christ was not born on a hill for all to see, but in the lowliness of a stable, sleeping in a trough (manger) for animal feed. Yet, despite these circumstances, Christ’s light and life were impossible to hide, for even the heavens shined high above in cosmic worship at His birth.
The remarkable light of the eastern star stood above the world, as if on a hill, impossible to hide. The light radiated bright enough to lead wise men (with eyes to see and recognize the sign) to the feet of the Christ-child—but their journey wasn’t simple, nor was it free. Their travels came with great consequences: requiring a costly inquiry before Herod the king, and immense quantities of energy and resources and time. And they paid the price, and more, eventually falling at the feet of the long-prophesied Messiah, giving of their earthy treasures: gold, frankincense, and myrrh. Though Christ was born under a bushel in physical obscurity, He came into the world spiritually (metaphysically) on the most important hill of the universe, reflected in the eastern star. The wise men journeyed up that hill with great joy—and there they stand for eternity, infinitely echoing light in millions of nativity scenes throughout the world.
Like the journey of the wise men, climbing any mountain or a hill requires energy and sacrifice. I felt this firsthand in Lisbon while summiting the steep hills of the old town past the Cathedral and up to São Jorge castle. But even once you’ve reached the top of a hill, to the stand and shine likewise requires its own cost. Certainly, the light shining from the eastern star cost Mary and Joseph a flight into Egypt. They fled to preserve the life of their baby from a tyrannical king. That very same light which led the wise men to Christ also led to their audience with Herod, ultimately ending in the horrific Massacre of the Innocents, in which Herod “exceedingly wroth… sent forth, and slew all the children that were in Bethlehem, and in all the coasts thereof, from two years old and under, according to the time which he had diligently enquired of the wise men” (Matt 2:16). But light is truth, and it cannot be hid, no matter the consequences. Each Christmas season, the truth from that eastern star continues to shine high on decorated Christmas trees. It glows, reminding us of Christ’s redemption of the Innocents, that truth cannot be hid, and that Christ, the Redeemer, is the “light of the world: he that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life” (John 8:12).
There is no price too high to pay for light and truth; for Christ can certainly turn the water of our sorrows and death into the wine of eternal rest. This is good tidings of great joy. But we must be willing to pay the price. We must climb the hill and shine, not hide. If we are to truly stand with the city on the hill and reflect the light of Christ to the world, then we can’t hide, as the star in the east could not hide from Herod. We shine by no longer hiding in the comfort of obscurity, or the feigned salutations of foreign next-door neighbors; we shine by pausing from the coziness of American commercialism to give and to help those who struggle to pay their heating bills; we shine by giving of our goods and blessings and talents to those who have not; we shine by filling our own souls with light from the stories of Jesus, telling them to our children, living by them, and sharing them with the world; we shine by lighting the world with the light of Christ. The light from a candle, no longer burdened by the bushel, gives light to all in the house, for without that light there is no life, there is no vision, there is nothing.
We live in a world, whether in reality or online (these now seem to be ever more synonymous) where darkness shades across the heart of every man and woman alive. As Dostoevsky wrote, “[here] the devil is struggling with God, and the battlefield is the human heart” (108). For those who truly shine and stand on that hill there will be an increase in flights to Egypt, and an increase in adverse responses to the glory of the light. But there are many who were born in metaphorical mangers and stables, and they’ve never left. There are many who live under a bushel, with their candlelight nearly smoke. Christ called them the “least of these” and put those who stand on that hill in their charge. You and I, dear reader, have played the part of the “least of these” more than once, and we will continue to do so. May we take turns climbing up the hill to shine for each other in this world so desperate for “the truth, and the life” (John 14:6).
In the brilliant hymn “Brightly Beams Our Father’s Mercy,” Philip Paul Bliss wrote of the light beaming from a lighthouse—as the eastern star—guiding sailors deep out at sea through the dark. The chorus, however, speaks of a second light that worked in tandem with the higher light above. The second light would burn oil from below and reflect that light directly upon the bay, giving sailors the light needed to reach the harbor. The chorus sings:
“Let the lower lights be burning;
Send a gleam across the wave.
Some poor fainting, struggling seaman
You may rescue, you may save.”
As the lower lights in this hymn, or the glow of Lisbon in the starless night, we aim to stand as a city on a hill from below, not above. There are many fainting and struggling in the dark night of today. You, in some way, are one of them, as am I. Many fight through the waves of mental, physical, emotional, financial, social (you name it) struggles, searching for light and hope. This Christmas, may we play a small role in standing on the hill and shining. May we no longer hide the light and truth of Christ in our hearts—no matter the cost. May we keep the lower lights burning, shining towards the lighthouse above. As we do so, we Light the World. If you are fainting and struggling through life (you are not alone), helping someone else may be just what you need to keep your own candle burning.
Climb the hills of your own influence and community and light the pine tree star for your family and peers to see. You and I, for now, are the light of the world, and this world will go black if we don’t stand—and we stand with Christ. Like the cosmos which unveiled their faces at the coming of the King, despite all costs, may we too light the world, pointing those around us to Christ. May we, this Christmas, climb the hill and burn the lower lights, and shine the starry night from below to “glorify [our] Father which is in heaven.”
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