Light in the Darkness

We’ve had a gentle winter so far.  When I awoke this morning, it was a balmy 50°.  But eventually the temperatures will drop, the snow will fall, and the darkness will deepen...

I seem to be a little “light-sensitive.”  At some point each winter I start feeling a little blue. Mental health experts might diagnose my malady as “SAD” (Seasonal Affect Disorder) caused by insufficient exposure to light.  As I understand it, there’s only one sure-fire cure for SAD:  leave the colder latitudes and check into a sunny seaside bungalow!

Realistically, most of us have had to learn to cope by just waiting it out. What keeps us from falling into utter despair is the knowledge that it will get better – every year, without fail, winter’s darkness has given way to increasing light. In fact, the winter solstice – the shortest day of the year – is less than two weeks away. After that, each day will grow a little longer than the last. And finally, in the blink of an eye...  boom! It’ll be spring, and we’ll be basking once again in the sunny, warm light!  (And shortly thereafter complaining about the heat and humidity...)

But there’s another kind of darkness... the darkness of suffering. This kind of darkness is always near, whatever the season. It’s part of being human.

Let’s be honest – most of us lead blessed lives. Armored tanks don’t rumble down our streets. We have shoes on our feet and coats on our backs. When hungry, we eat our fill. Tonight we’ll sleep safely in our warm homes. When we get sick, we make an appointment with our doctor and she helps us get well. We usually even have enough resources left over to write a (tax deductible) check to the non-profit of our choice.  But life is not so for many, many people...

And yet nothing – not our wealth, our health, our skill, nor our well-ordered lives – nothing can completely shield us from suffering.

The Christian tradition is rumored to have an “explanation” for suffering. If so, I have yet to hear one that satisfies!  Certainly no one’s found a cure for it! But the Gospel does help us imagine a hopeful way to live...

In the Church, the Advent wreath is one sign of this hope. Each Sunday in Advent, even as the days grow shorter and darker, we light one more candle. Just one at first. Then another... then three... then four. Each week, the increasing light pushes the darkness back a little more.

What are we doing? Are we simply counting down the shopping days until Christmas?!

No!  The “great flaring forth” of the Advent wreath dramatically expresses the good news that the Light is coming into the world. Not just celestial sunlight, but the very Light of God... Jesus – whose birth we’ll celebrate on Christmas Day with every candle we can find ablaze!

There once was a man named John. John pointed to the Light. Standing out there in the darkness, even before a flicker of Light could be seen, John cried:  “Look, everyone!  God's coming!  Get ready!” John was so impressive that many assumed that he was the Light. But he said, “Not so!  The One... is coming after me!”

All Christians share the ministry of John the Baptist. Because we've experienced the risen One who has come into our world, we can muster the hope to point to the Light even when it can’t be seen... even when we ourselves are enshrouded in darkness.  We can cope and wait it out because we know the Light is near.

Paradoxically, as Jesus reminded us quite clearly, we don't simply point to Jesus as the Light who once came into the world, and will come again some day.  We are the light of the world too!  Right now!  Whenever we embody God's love, by word or deed, God's Light pours anew into the world, and pushes back the darkness.  This is one way in which the mystery of the Incarnation is experienced to this very day.

Sometimes my eyes don’t see so well, especially in the dark. So I need help. When I can’t see the Light, especially when I suffer, I need someone to point it out for me.  This helps me hang on in hope until I can see it for myself. And perhaps, on my better days, I can see the Light and point it out for you.  Together, we allow the Light to shine – this Season of Advent, and always.

Oh, Great Spirit!

Oh, Great Spirit, whose voice I hear in the wind,

Whose breath gives life to all the world…

Make me always ready to come to you

with clean hands and straight eyes,

so when life fades, as the fading sunset,

my spirit may come to you without shame.

(Chief Yellow Lark of the Lakota Sioux, 1887)

On a recent walk through a county park I noticed a sign near the gazebo that I had passed countless times before. This time I paused to read it, and learned that the mound of earth in front of me (which I had assumed to be a nifty bit of landscaping by the park service) had been constructed by Woodland Indians between 500 B.C.E. to 350 C.E.

I was stunned. In other words, sometime between Israel’s return from exile in Babylon and the rebuilding of the Temple in Jerusalem, and the Church’s gathering in Nicaea to grapple with the mystery of the humanity/divinity of Christ – within this very same slice of history – people were falling in love, giving birth, raising families, hunting elk, growing squash, crafting artwork, settling disputes, telling stories, and burying their dead… right here in my own neighborhood!

That day I had been ruminating over my upcoming sermon for All Saints’ Sunday. And so I wondered: “How do these Pre-Columbian Native Americans fit into the story?” We don’t read about the Adena in the Bible; the Hopewell aren’t included on any lists of saints! And still... while Jesus and his followers walked the deserts, oases and villages of Palestine, human beings also created in God’s image walked the forest trails and paddled the rivers in what is today my neck of the woods near the Ohio River!

Could it be that our traditional way of thinking about saints has been a bit parochial? The stories of the Christian tradition are sacred, and the stories of Jesus are the most sacred of all. They give our lives joy, meaning, and hope. But our stories aren’t the only sacred stories...

These thoughts steeped in my heart and mind as my father-in-law neared death. Lex had been a pilgrim soul – always searching, never fully at rest in body, mind, or spirit. Raised Lutheran in rural Indiana, he eventually found a home in a Unitarian Universalist congregation. His faith seemed most deeply rooted in Native American spirituality. Indeed, he spoke often and passionately of the Great Spirit, the divine breath that infuses all of creation.

As Lex weakened, each of his daughters held a hand as we invoked the Great Spirit in prayer. His labored breathing seemed to relax in response to the soothing balm of touch and voice. Moments later, his blue eyes opened wide, as if surprised and amazed. He gazed steadily to the left, then to the right. Then his eyes closed, his body quieted and soon became still. Falling into the embrace of the Great Spirit who had created and sustained him, Lex was finally at rest. His astonished gaze was his final witness in this world, leaving each of us who remained with a blessing.

There is an extraordinary moment recorded in the Book of Acts.  Paul and Barnabas are in Lystra (modern-day Turkey) to preach the Gospel to people who didn’t know Judaism from Jesus. To these people Paul makes one of the most remarkable declarations in all of Holy Scripture: “God has never been without witnesses!” He then acknowledges respectfully that the people of Lystra knew God long before he and Barnabas showed up – in the rains that fell, in the bounty of the harvest, in the joy in their hearts. Chief Yellow Lark of the Lakota Sioux and Lex of Wells County, Indiana experienced God in a similar way.

Could it be that a saint is a witness to the providential generosity of God? Or, to quote our baptismal liturgy, one who’s experienced “the gift of joy and wonder in all God’s works?” If so, then our concept of the “communion of saints” explodes into something far bigger and more gracious than we have heretofore imagined!  And isn’t this the good news that Jesus tried to show us, in both word and deed?

In a way, these may seem like strange thoughts for an Episcopal priest preparing – during this holy and solemn Season of Advent – for the yearly celebration of Jesus’ birth on Christmas Day. After all, the Christian doctrine of the Incarnation has been called "the scandal of particularity!"  And yet... what is the Incarnation but that most sacred story we tell of the time the Creator chose to become human so that the divine spark planted within all might be kindled?  I’ve heard this story for over a half-century, and it still surprises and amazes me.