In the middle of the New Mexico desert, astronomers fume about the "light pollution" from all the sprawling cities that are gradually snaking out across the land. Even on the darkest moonless nights, the stars that used to gleam and twinkle so brilliantly look faded and dim. We who dwell in the middle of cities and suburbs rarely glance heavenward at night anymore - at least not to see stars. The lights that now illumine our nights as brightly as our days read "McDonald's," "Holiday Inn," "Casino Open," and "Twenty-Four Hour Service."

In the glare of all these high-powered night lights, it is hard to remember just how dark and frightening the hours between sunset and sunrise used to be for our ancestors. Light, whether natural or artificial, was a precious commodity. Perhaps the only place where people still tune the rhythms of their lives to the lights in the sky are those who dwell above the Arctic Circle. Despite the modern convenience of the light switch, there is no ignoring the fact that the daylight hours all but disappear for several months. In Tromso, Norway, this period of darkness is called morketida. From mid-November to mid-January, the sun does not rise above the horizon. In fact, from August until mid-November, residents can count on losing 10 to 15 minutes of light each day until the depths of the winter solstice. At best, those high above the Arctic Circle may look forward to only two or three hours of indirect or half-light around midday for nearly two months.

Yet while the stars that light the sky during this morketida period may shine for long periods, they are not enough to dispel the gloom that pervades the streets and can easily poison the soul. Those of us who curse "light pollution" for dimming our stars are disgusted, not at losing light, but at losing a beautiful, heavenly starscape to ponder. Stars are both too distant and too overwhelming to offer us any real nighttime comfort or vision.

During our own periods of morketida, we don't really need more stars - we need more common lights or lamps to light our everyday paths on this earth. Whether in literature, academe, Hollywood or the firmament, stars inspire us, they dazzle us, they entice us to dream. But a star won't keep you from stubbing your toe on a stone as you wander down a dark and lonely road.

In Matthew's text this week, Jesus urges us to serve as lamps for one another, not stars that only dazzle and inspire. Jesus calls us to be lights for the world, not exploding supernovas. Alas, there seem to be a lot more Christians who want to be stars than are willing to be lamps.