Many years ago, following a Christmas holiday, I found myself on Interstate 95 in the pre-dawn darkness, driving back to college.

As I drove south from Houlton, past Benedicta and Sherman and the familiar exits of the interstate, I happened to come upon the stretch of highway from which Mount Katahdin is readily visible. It was just then that the morning sun (which was still hidden below the eastern horizon) illuminated the snow-covered peak of the mountain, causing a triangle of pink to suddenly appear at the summit of the black and indistinct bulk of Maine’s tallest mountain.

Sensing that I was about to see one of creation’s routine but breath-taking miracles in the making, I pulled off the deserted highway and spent 15 minutes watching the band of pink make its way from the summit to the base of the ancient mass of rock. It was a crystal-clear January morning, and dawn’s morning glow ran down the sides of the mountain like melting water.

Like many others who’ve been fortunate to see such a display, I’ve since learned the term “alpine glow” to describe a mountain in winter that catches the first rays of the morning sun, reflecting their color and vibrancy to those in the darkened valleys below.

The mystical beauty of such a thing is that the observer is in darkness when it begins, and yet there on the horizon is this remarkable, apparently floating island of pink heralding the beginning of another day, promising those in the darkness that the light will soon shine upon them as well.

These are not easy days for our state, country or planet. We labor over tax and heating bills that are too high and assistance programs that are too small for the demand. We read of acts of domestic and workplace violence that have assailed our fellow citizens. We continue to reel at the massive devastation caused by earthquake and tsunami and avalanche and mudslide. We lament the suffering of the innocent, caught between warring nations and factions in the world’s many so-called “hot spots.”

Nonetheless, in dark moments there are always signs of God breaking into the world to comfort and inspire and transform: stories of heroic individuals who offer assistance no matter what their condition in life; stories of victims who transform tragedy into triumph by transcending their own suffering to bring a message of hope or understanding to others; stories of the truly courageous who address not only the symptoms of human suffering but its systemic causes as well, ringing the bell of justice and equality in a world that prefers status quo to liberation.

Those who follow the Christian path or study its scriptures know that Jesus was born into a time very much like ours. Wars, crime, poverty, ethnic hatred and natural disasters all lurked in the shadows of his Epiphany. His life bore fruit in a ministry of healing and justice making and feeding and comforting.

Despite the light that Jesus embodied for his brothers and sisters in his own day, however, there is a frustrating “not yet” that lingers in our world today. The light of God’s reign may have appeared and inspired and transformed, but victims continue to walk among us: men, women and children with real faces and stories and wounds.

Perhaps recent days have diminished or even devastated your faith or joy or peace. Perhaps world events or private struggles have made you feel more like victim than victor. Perhaps regrets for past deeds or deep weariness are threatening to pull your faith to bits.

Nonetheless, the image of “alpine glow” can nourish our souls in such times, God’s grace rippling over the cold and bitter mountains of our lives, transforming what is ominous into something of beauty and majesty and inspiration, with a light that comes closer every moment, a light that wishes to embrace the whole of the world, crossing borders and boundaries and divisions.

It happened in days long ago, we are taught, that the Servant of God appeared in a small fishing village so that those dwelling in a world filled with darkness would know that the light of God was looking for them, to give them hope, and faith, and joy, and peace. Let us continue to spread that light in the world, and by so doing may we know and be the compassion of God for others. Amen.

The Rev. Thomas L. Blackstone, Ph.D., is a United Methodist pastor in Presque Isle and a brother in the Order of St. Luke. He may be reached through tlbphd@yahoo.com. Voices is a weekly commentary by five Maine columnists who explore issues affecting spirituality and religious life.