There’s a moment every December that I look forward to more than almost anything else.
I’m standing in the middle of Charlestown’s city light show — not watching it from a car window or previewing it on a monitor. Still, actually in it, among the thousands of individual bulbs, I’ve spent weeks programming. And in that moment, all the technical work disappears. What’s left is just warmth—pure, unfiltered Christmas joy.
What gets me every time isn’t the lights themselves. It’s the kids. The way a child’s face transforms when those colors wash over them — wide eyes, a gasp, then a grin that takes over their whole body — that’s what I’m really there for. I don’t think I’ll ever get tired of it.
I’ve been thinking about why that moment hits so deeply, and I keep coming back to something Jesus said in the Sermon on the Mount:
"You are the light of the world — like a city on a hilltop that cannot be hidden."
When I’m programming a light show, I’m not generating light from nothing. Every strand, every pixel, every color burst depends entirely on a power source I didn’t create. I arrange what’s already there and try to shape it into something beautiful. If the power goes out, the show ends. It’s that simple.
I think that’s what Jesus was getting at. The light He’s describing isn’t something we manufacture on our own — it’s something we receive and then reflect. The warmth people feel, the joy that lands on a child’s face, the sense that something good is happening here — that originates somewhere beyond us. We get to be the conduit.
That’s actually freeing when you sit with it. There’s no pressure to be dazzling on your own. The invitation is to stay connected to the source and let it do what it does.
Jesus went on to say: “Let your good deeds shine out for all to see, so that everyone will praise your heavenly Father.” (Matthew 5:16)
Notice, He doesn’t say make yourself shine. He says let it shine — as if the light is already there, already real, already doing something, and our job is mostly to stop blocking it.
I think about the times I’ve felt most genuinely useful to people — not the times I had the cleverest answer or the most polished plan, but the times I just showed up present, unhurried, and honest. Those moments didn’t feel like performing. They felt like the power was on, and I was standing in the current.
There’s also something worth noting in where that light is meant to go: outward toward other people. The whole point of a light show isn’t for the programmer to admire their own work — it’s for the people driving through to experience something they didn’t expect. Joy given away is the point.
We live in a time when the news feels relentlessly heavy, and the darkness — culturally, politically, personally — can feel like it’s gaining ground. Scripture doesn’t really argue with that. It actually acknowledges that the world grows darker. But it also makes a quiet, confident claim: light shines best in the dark.
A single candle in a dim room changes everything. A city on a hill at midnight is unmissable. The darker the backdrop, the more clearly the light reads.
That doesn’t mean we need to be louder, more intense, or more relentlessly online. It just means we keep showing up. We keep doing the small, faithful things — the kind word, the generous act, the honest conversation, the willingness to be present when presence costs us something.
I’ll be honest: I didn’t get into programming the Charlestown light show to make a theological statement. I got into it because I love Christmas, technology, and seeing people experience something beautiful together. But somewhere along the way, it became a picture I carry with me — a reminder of what it looks like to arrange what you’ve been given, plug into the source, and let the light do its work.
If you’re a person of faith, you’ve been given something real. Not a performance to maintain, not a reputation to protect — just a light that wants to shine. The world around us needs it. The kids with the wide eyes and the full-body grins? They need it.
Light It Up!
Let it shine. You might be surprised who sees it.