Out of darkness into light

The Reverend Paul Roberts Abernathy, Rector

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.[1]

Twenty-seven hundred years ago, Isaiah, spoke to a captive people, prophesying that a king from the ancestral line of David would come to the rescue, a “Wonderful Counselor, Mighty God, Everlasting Father, Prince of Peace.” (I almost hear that great air for bass and chorus from Handel’s Messiah!) This ideal ruler would declare liberty, dispelling the deep darkness of captivity. Isaiah’s prophetic announcement opened a new chapter in the continuous creation story, evoking the first words of the vox Deus at creation’s dawn: “Let there be light!”[2]

Eight hundred years later, Matthew boldly claimed this prophecy was realized in the inauguration of Jesus’ ministry, who, Matthew wrote: “left Nazareth…to fulfill what Isaiah spoke…‘the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, (on them) light has dawned.’”[3]

So it is the church proclaims the meaning of Christmas: out of darkness into light. So, we sing:

Silent night, holy night, Son of God, love’s pure light

radiant beams from thy holy face, with the dawn of redeeming grace,

Jesus, Lord, at thy birth.[4]

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There is a sentimental place in my soul that loves this language. Yet, too, there is a cynical place in my soul that begs the question: Do I always long for light? No. Do I sometimes desire darkness? Yes.

Many are the kinds of darkness I have known and know still.

The darkness of once hopeful dreams, childhood-like imaginings of tomorrows of endless possibility now encrusted in disappointment’s dust, the residue of life’s difficulties and defeats.

            The darkness where I live not by example, but by excuse, justifying the person I have allowed myself to become. The shadows where I hide, claiming responsibility for little and accountability for less, as long as there is (and there always is) something or someone else to blame. If only my parents had done this and not done that, if only circumstances or chance or, yes, perhaps, too, I confess, some of my choices had been different, I would have turned out better. More trusting and secure. Less angry and afraid.

            The darkness of being “stuck” in life’s proverbial rut. But, at least, it’s familiar, thus, in an uncertain, anxiety-laden world, bearing the promise of few surprises. Still, the cost in despair is great.

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If any of us ever cleaves to darkness, fearing to come out into light, let us, this night, take heart. When the shepherds heard the angelic announcement of Messiah’s birth, witnessing the light of God’s glory, they were not happy, but terrified.[5] Yet note what they did next. “Let’s go see what has been made known to us,” hastening to Bethlehem to behold a baby – an incarnate, in flesh sign of new life and renewed hope. Then they returned to the fields and their flocks, but with a difference. Terror had been replaced by joy as they “glorified and praised God for all they had heard and seen.”

Going and seeing can make a difference for us. In us.

How often have I been called out of darkness? How often I have been called! By a loving, patient Pontheolla. By persistent friends. By sage counselors and wise therapists. By my own inner voice of undying hope that longs to live in the light.

Still, each time I must say, “Let me go and see this thing that has been made known to me.” A new approach to an old problem. A need for heightened honesty with myself, deepened acceptance of myself, greater trust in love shown and shared with me that takes me just as I am, yet invites from me a more courageous vulnerability, thus calls me to become a larger self. And then, beholding it, going back to life as I know it, but with a difference. Less terrified. More able to rejoice for having seen in my own flesh a more genuine humanity and authentic personality, a life of greater integrity.

At times, we walk in darkness, which is an integral, inescapable part of the human condition. The announcement of light by whatever or whoever calls us out of the shadows is also part of human experience. How we respond is ours to choose.

May we follow the lead not of the shepherds, but of the Shepherd whose birth we celebrate this night; the one who in his self-giving living and self-sacrificial dying shows us the pathway to truest light.