From Darkness Into Light
January 27, 2008
Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
We don’t often read all of the lectionary passages for a given Sunday, because most of the time the messages are too disparate to bring together in a coherent way in the time we set aside for such. It remains to be seen whether this will be coherent or not, but as I read these four texts over the past few days and considered them in light of some of the present concerns that press in on us here at Clarendon, I was struck by some remarkable connections.
First, the text from Isaiah, with its celebratory reminder that on us a light has shone, rang wonderfully true to me. Oh, to be sure, there’s darkness a plenty these days. Some of us feel it in our bones, deep in our personal lives. Others look out upon the wider world and see wars and rumors of wars, economic uncertainty, and perceive a great darkness.
Nevertheless, I’m not dwelling in darkness this morning.
In a few moments we will gather as a congregation and break bread together. In and of itself, that is a sign of great light and hope. That we will do so in a beautifully restored space downstairs witnesses further to that light and hope. That we will do so a week after a goodly number of us filled 250 bags with groceries for our less fortunate neighbors magnifies that light and hope. That we followed up that service with a wonderful time of breaking bread together focuses us further on light and hope. That the next day, National Capital Presbytery endorsed the overture our session presented asking for a decisive change in our denomination’s constitutional standards for ordination makes me say, with Isaiah, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.”
And let God’s people say, “Amen.”
Of course, none of this is a final word. The restoration of our space is not complete. We face some difficult challenges as a congregation in the days ahead. The hungry have not been filled nor the social and economic structures that leave so many in hunger addressed. The day of welcome for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people of faith has not arrived in the broader church or culture. So the words of light and hope are tempered somewhat.
But here I turn to the psalmist for comfort.
During my own darkest days of depression and hopelessness, the words of Psalm 27 have always been a balm.
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” it begins. And then, in the words that have often sustained me, this song of hope ends with this:
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
be strong, and let your heart take courage;
wait for the Lord!
We need such words of light and hope for we can count on challenges and difficulties that seem to fill our days with darkness and despair.
Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth reminds us the divisions in the body are nothing new under the sun. Just like the earliest Christians, we will struggle to be of one mind – whether we’re talking about the church catholic, our own denomination, or even our own small family here.
Paul exhorts the church, saying, “Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.”
A most honest rejoinder might be simply, “yeah, right.”
We are some 2,000 years into the “Jesus movement” now, and the days of one mind and purpose among the disciples are no doubt far fewer than the days of division, distrust, and dysfunction among us. So how can we proclaim words of light and hope when we, ourselves, so often experience and exhibit darkness and despair?
This is where the gospel is urgent and decisive, for each of us and for the world.
Consider Matthew’s account of the call of the first disciples. To begin with, Jesus is preaching metanoia – repentance, a turning away from the ways of the world to a way as yet unknown, the way of discipleship, of following Jesus. Breaking with a tradition that had disciples seek out their masters, Jesus goes out seeking followers. As John’s gospel puts it, “you did not seek me, but I sought you and called you.”
And whom does he call? What are the background qualifications of these first disciples? Rank or station? Wealth or power? Advanced degrees? Good voices?
Truly, it seems the only qualification is the willingness to follow, to abandon the security of the known for an opportunity … an opportunity for what, exactly?
To fish for people? Fairly obscure job description.
Elsewhere in the gospel account, Jesus tells would-be disciples that they must be willing to sell what they own and give the proceeds to the poor, they must become like the least, they must be willing to take up the cross.
Fairly obscure, still, but not very, how to put this … invitational?
Paul recognizes the challenge in his letter to the Corinthians. “This idea of crosses? Looks pretty silly in the eyes of the world. ‘Fools!’ they call us.”
And, well, why not? While the cross has long since become for us a sign of piety or religiosity, for contemporaries of Jesus or Paul it was a sign of imperial power and cruelty – a form of execution reserved for those who threatened the rule of Rome.
To lift high the cross and proclaim it as power was bound to look like the most foolish of all possible gestures – like truth and reconciliation in post-apartheid South Africa; like the formation of Solidarity in communist Poland in 1980; like the Montgomery bus boycott in 1955; like Gandhi’s march to the sea; like witnessing for peace in the midst of war; like lovers getting married when the church and state refuse to recognize their union; like going to seminary when the church refuses to affirm your calling; like planting a seed in the frozen ground; like bringing a baby into the world.
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by loving beyond reason even when it looks foolish or, worse, uncool?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by giving beyond reason and forgiving beyond any expectation, even when it looks like we may be taken advantage of, we may “lose” in the eyes of the world?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by living with utter abandon lives of making peace, doing justice, loving kindly even when it feels like we’re risking our security, our financial well being, our social status?
Why would we follow such a one as this? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God protection from all such risks? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God that we not suffer? That we not stumble or fall? That we not be weak and foolish?
What sort of God is it who responds to our suffering not by ending it but rather by entering into it with us? What sort of God is it who responds to our weakness not by giving us extraordinary powers but rather by becoming weak as well?
And, moreover, what sort of God is it who, seeing the weakness, suffering and poverty of the world, asks of us that we join in solidarity with those who are weak, suffering and poor? That we follow God precisely into the midst of the brokenness of the world?
As Joe Roos wrote recently in Sojourners, “this is the foolishness of the cross. All of us know pain and grief and disappointment in our lives. Our human wisdom wants a God who will heal us and make us feel better. The foolishness of the cross is a God who enters into our pain and bears our pain with us. […] And even more foolishly, this very same God expects us to do the same with each other: to enter into each other’s pain, to bear each other’s burdens and those of the world around us.”
This is our calling a church; indeed, this is what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ – not an institution in search of success but a community passionately living compassionately in the world. This is the way of Jesus; it is the way from darkness into light. Amen.
Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 4-9; 1 Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
We don’t often read all of the lectionary passages for a given Sunday, because most of the time the messages are too disparate to bring together in a coherent way in the time we set aside for such. It remains to be seen whether this will be coherent or not, but as I read these four texts over the past few days and considered them in light of some of the present concerns that press in on us here at Clarendon, I was struck by some remarkable connections.
First, the text from Isaiah, with its celebratory reminder that on us a light has shone, rang wonderfully true to me. Oh, to be sure, there’s darkness a plenty these days. Some of us feel it in our bones, deep in our personal lives. Others look out upon the wider world and see wars and rumors of wars, economic uncertainty, and perceive a great darkness.
Nevertheless, I’m not dwelling in darkness this morning.
In a few moments we will gather as a congregation and break bread together. In and of itself, that is a sign of great light and hope. That we will do so in a beautifully restored space downstairs witnesses further to that light and hope. That we will do so a week after a goodly number of us filled 250 bags with groceries for our less fortunate neighbors magnifies that light and hope. That we followed up that service with a wonderful time of breaking bread together focuses us further on light and hope. That the next day, National Capital Presbytery endorsed the overture our session presented asking for a decisive change in our denomination’s constitutional standards for ordination makes me say, with Isaiah, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.”
And let God’s people say, “Amen.”
Of course, none of this is a final word. The restoration of our space is not complete. We face some difficult challenges as a congregation in the days ahead. The hungry have not been filled nor the social and economic structures that leave so many in hunger addressed. The day of welcome for gay, lesbian, bisexual and transgendered people of faith has not arrived in the broader church or culture. So the words of light and hope are tempered somewhat.
But here I turn to the psalmist for comfort.
During my own darkest days of depression and hopelessness, the words of Psalm 27 have always been a balm.
“The Lord is my light and my salvation; whom shall I fear?” it begins. And then, in the words that have often sustained me, this song of hope ends with this:
I believe that I shall see the goodness of the Lord
in the land of the living.
Wait for the Lord;
be strong, and let your heart take courage;
wait for the Lord!
We need such words of light and hope for we can count on challenges and difficulties that seem to fill our days with darkness and despair.
Paul’s letter to the church at Corinth reminds us the divisions in the body are nothing new under the sun. Just like the earliest Christians, we will struggle to be of one mind – whether we’re talking about the church catholic, our own denomination, or even our own small family here.
Paul exhorts the church, saying, “Now I appeal to you, brothers and sisters, by the name of our Lord Jesus Christ, that all of you be in agreement and that there be no divisions among you, but that you be united in the same mind and the same purpose.”
A most honest rejoinder might be simply, “yeah, right.”
We are some 2,000 years into the “Jesus movement” now, and the days of one mind and purpose among the disciples are no doubt far fewer than the days of division, distrust, and dysfunction among us. So how can we proclaim words of light and hope when we, ourselves, so often experience and exhibit darkness and despair?
This is where the gospel is urgent and decisive, for each of us and for the world.
Consider Matthew’s account of the call of the first disciples. To begin with, Jesus is preaching metanoia – repentance, a turning away from the ways of the world to a way as yet unknown, the way of discipleship, of following Jesus. Breaking with a tradition that had disciples seek out their masters, Jesus goes out seeking followers. As John’s gospel puts it, “you did not seek me, but I sought you and called you.”
And whom does he call? What are the background qualifications of these first disciples? Rank or station? Wealth or power? Advanced degrees? Good voices?
Truly, it seems the only qualification is the willingness to follow, to abandon the security of the known for an opportunity … an opportunity for what, exactly?
To fish for people? Fairly obscure job description.
Elsewhere in the gospel account, Jesus tells would-be disciples that they must be willing to sell what they own and give the proceeds to the poor, they must become like the least, they must be willing to take up the cross.
Fairly obscure, still, but not very, how to put this … invitational?
Paul recognizes the challenge in his letter to the Corinthians. “This idea of crosses? Looks pretty silly in the eyes of the world. ‘Fools!’ they call us.”
And, well, why not? While the cross has long since become for us a sign of piety or religiosity, for contemporaries of Jesus or Paul it was a sign of imperial power and cruelty – a form of execution reserved for those who threatened the rule of Rome.
To lift high the cross and proclaim it as power was bound to look like the most foolish of all possible gestures – like truth and reconciliation in post-apartheid South Africa; like the formation of Solidarity in communist Poland in 1980; like the Montgomery bus boycott in 1955; like Gandhi’s march to the sea; like witnessing for peace in the midst of war; like lovers getting married when the church and state refuse to recognize their union; like going to seminary when the church refuses to affirm your calling; like planting a seed in the frozen ground; like bringing a baby into the world.
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by loving beyond reason even when it looks foolish or, worse, uncool?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by giving beyond reason and forgiving beyond any expectation, even when it looks like we may be taken advantage of, we may “lose” in the eyes of the world?
Jesus says, “follow me.”
Do we respond by living with utter abandon lives of making peace, doing justice, loving kindly even when it feels like we’re risking our security, our financial well being, our social status?
Why would we follow such a one as this? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God protection from all such risks? Wouldn’t we rather ask of God that we not suffer? That we not stumble or fall? That we not be weak and foolish?
What sort of God is it who responds to our suffering not by ending it but rather by entering into it with us? What sort of God is it who responds to our weakness not by giving us extraordinary powers but rather by becoming weak as well?
And, moreover, what sort of God is it who, seeing the weakness, suffering and poverty of the world, asks of us that we join in solidarity with those who are weak, suffering and poor? That we follow God precisely into the midst of the brokenness of the world?
As Joe Roos wrote recently in Sojourners, “this is the foolishness of the cross. All of us know pain and grief and disappointment in our lives. Our human wisdom wants a God who will heal us and make us feel better. The foolishness of the cross is a God who enters into our pain and bears our pain with us. […] And even more foolishly, this very same God expects us to do the same with each other: to enter into each other’s pain, to bear each other’s burdens and those of the world around us.”
This is our calling a church; indeed, this is what it means to be the church of Jesus Christ – not an institution in search of success but a community passionately living compassionately in the world. This is the way of Jesus; it is the way from darkness into light. Amen.
posted by David Ensign at
12:56 PM
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