Walking in light

Clare L. Hickman

St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Ferndale

January 26, 2020—Epiphany 3A

Isaiah 9:1-4; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23

 

          “The people who walked in darkness, have seen a great light” (Isa 9:2). People who were not only (as we are) in the midst of a long winter, waiting for the days to get longer, the air to get warmer, and the sun to return and warm our skin and heart. These were people living in Zebulun and Naphtali, the northern tribes of Israel who not only intermarried with non-Jews but were also the buffer zone, the first line of conquest by the powerful Assyrians. These people lived with a kind of insecurity and danger that put them in desperate need of an in-breaking God.

          There are many people in this world, and even in this country, who are facing just that kind of risk. But even for those of us who are lucky enough not to, there are still countless ways to face isolation and peril. In any given group of people, as the “Same Old Song” podcasters note, there are those whose life would be completely upended (for instance) if their spouse read through their text messages. Or those whose medical records would make you realize you didn’t know the half of what their life was like.[i] Those who are fighting (winning, losing, holding their own) against addiction. Those whose bank account is kept afloat through smoke, mirrors and kite strings.

          All around us, or within us, there are people who walk in darkness, whether we know it or not. People struggling against hard things, impossible things. Things that are beyond their control, and things that are of their own making. But so, so often, things that they keep shrouded in secrecy. So that no-one else knows, no-one suspects, no-one (thankfully) judges. But … that also means that no-one can help.

          They walk, we walk, in darkness. Which is to say, lost and cut off from other people. Desperately hoping we can figure it out, can keep it hidden, can make it better (someday, somehow). But knowing, really, how unlikely that is.

          Isaiah, then, offers good news. Offers the promise that God’s dream for the world will free us all from such things. That we will no longer need to hide, or fear, or pretend, or be trapped in this secrecy and torment. The yoke across your shoulders, the rod of your oppression, will be broken!

          In the fullness of time, God promises, this liberation will be complete. Because it is God’s will, God’s great vision for the world. But in the meantime, God’s kingdom still breaks through into the world in surprising and quietly miraculous ways.

          We see it in today’s psalm, which is one of the psalms of consolation: all those beautiful images of God as our salvation, our strength, our refuge and our home. But this vision doesn’t come unadulterated. We are not told that we need not fear because there is nothing to fear. In fact, there are enemies rising up against us, there are evildoers all around us, and war is on every side. Why then, are we able to avoid being paralyzed by fear? Because God is with us, through it all.  

          We are beset on all sides by threats. We are trapped in the secret prisons of our lies and fears and weakness. And yet there is hope. There is rest to be found, if we can know that God is with us. If we can stop, and breathe that truth in: that God can somehow, miraculously, open doors God we had been banging against inside ourselves; can strengthen us when we were ready to give up; can give us courage to speak truth and break out of the habits that enslave us.

          It’s not necessarily an easy fix. As the psalm reminds us, the enemies are still at the gates and we still have to face them. And the light might show us the way through the tangle we have made of our lives, but we probably still have to untangle all kinds of things. Or at least be brave enough to admit that we are lost somehow.

          Nonetheless, there is a way through. There is a way to get back up and face it all, with God at our side. Knowing that this is our home (this knowledge of God’s abiding presence is our home), no matter what happens. And sensing, somehow, that this is what salvation looks and feels like. Even if it’s a little bit terrifying.

          I think of this, as I hear the stories of the calling of the disciples. Today we hear about Jesus inviting Simon Peter, Andrew, James and John, who all left their livelihoods and their families to join the life Jesus promised them.

          On the face of it, it was insane. Just the thing you’d want to talk your children out of, if they came to you with such a plan. Just the thing you’d need to think twice, three or a hundred times about before doing it yourself.

          And yet … and yet! I am reminded of the story of Lucy Kalanithi and her husband Paul, who decided to have a baby, even though they both knew he had a terminal cancer diagnosis and would likely die within a few years. She asked him, “What if having a child now makes it more painful to die (because of the even greater loss of leaving)?” And his response was, “Wouldn’t it be great if it did?”

          Wouldn’t it be great if our love were so vast that our vulnerability was almost unbearable? Wouldn’t it be amazing if our hearts opened wider, and that made our concern, our compassion so much deeper? Wouldn’t it be salvation, if we were permeable enough, and brave enough, to allow the pains of the world to enter us and cause us pain?

          More love. That’s what Jesus was inviting those disciples into. More love, and a whole lot less self-protective coating. And somehow, on the banks of the lake, they were able to see the presence of God in the life he offered. Were able to see the beauty and the wonder, just as Paul Kalanithi was able to see it. “Wouldn’t it be great if my heart got broken by love?”

          Wouldn’t it, though? Think how expansive you would be. Think how beautiful it would be to walk out of the lies or the fear or the pretending that’s been keeping you prisoner. And think of the strength that comes not from a carefully constructed fortress, nor from vanquishing every enemy or trouble, but by resting in the knowledge of the presence of God with you in it all.

          It’s insane. It’s terrifying. Then again, we are beset by enemies of all kinds, and walking in darkness already. Why not take the hand that Jesus stretches out to us, and dare to follow him into greater love and heartbreak? Maybe this is how God lifts up our heads above our enemies, as the psalm says. Because the love IS God’s dwelling, and the love is why we offer our gift with sounds of great gladness, singing and making music to the Lord (Ps 27:8-9). May this song of love and truth and courage and heartbreak be our song, this day and forever. Amen.

 

 

         


[i] “Same Old Song” podcast “Epiphany 3(A): Between Therapists,” released January 20, 2020.

Clare Hickman