 Okay, you talk about the encounter of two lights. What are you talking about, Father? I've never heard that before, so what do you mean by that? That Advent is the encounter of two lights? Yeah, I mean, there's a certain, we live in this realm of sort of paradoxes in a way, and not paradoxes, but like very beautiful overlappings. And so far as, like the prime example, we talk about three comings of Christ, right? Christ came in time once as an infant. He will come again at the end of time, again in person, we'll see him as a judge and to reconcile all things to himself. But he's also coming constantly to us within. Those who are baptized, God dwells within them. And Christ speaks of us as the light of the world. He speaks of his light, he is being the way the truth of life, he's the light of the world. He puts that light into us for the city set on a mountaintop that cannot be hidden. So there's this light of faith that is always inviting us to tread the pathways through what seemed to be darkness, to tread the pathways of the earth with hearts and eyes turned as it were beyond the horizon, not just to the horizon, but beyond the horizon to the ultimacy of the promise of everlasting life, the object of faith that we could live forever. So that's growing in us always as something of a light. Christ, when he's born in the flesh, is the light of the world and comes into the world as its light. I have a holy obsession with the prologue of John's gospel. It's my favorite section of the scripture. It's stunningly beautiful to pray with. There's a good reason we prayed at the end of Mass for some 800 years in the Latin Mass afterwards, after Trent the Tridentine, right? But there's something very rich about the light that is coming into the world. And as we kind of envision the pilgrimage toward Bethlehem as a journey of a heart to go meet a heart, or a journey of the believer now after the first birth of Christ in time, the spiritual pilgrimage toward the place and the setting of light's birth, we possess that same light. And so in some way, as we're attempting to remove the obstacles to the light and to press the darkness out by the life of virtue and prayer, the light in us is increasing in the midst of a very dark world. And you can sort of prayerfully envision Bethlehem each year, or Christmas, as this convergence of hearts lit of fire with faith living in grace. And from all corners of the world, metaphorically at Bethlehem, we converge. And the light of faith in us encounters he who has placed that light there first and perfects it every time we encounter him more fully. And we discover looking upon the light of Christ, oh, that's supposed to be in me. It's not there yet. It's here, but it's not full. I'm supposed to look like that. And now that I see you, now that I adore you, I worship you, I realize I've got a long way to go. But as I even confess that, I experience the light brightening in myself. And I begin to, if you'll stay with the metaphor, looking around the silent night in the darkness, I begin to notice like these other people who are also pilgrims and shepherds and villagers converging on this very quiet hidden scene a light in the darkness, that same light that cannot be overcome by the darkness as we hear in John's prologue. So there's this very wonderful invitation to go deeply and then to go out of ourselves and to see that as a convergence, a coalescence, and a communion that is, it's a pilgrimage of lights to the light, receiving, having already received the light now encountering the one who put it there and wants to brighten it and perfect it by a deeper encounter at Christmas. You just gave me a vision of like a mushroom cloud of light over Jerusalem, you know, about blowing away all the darkness of the world. That's awesome.