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The Light of the World

The Light of the World

Last updated on: December 7, 2014 at 8:46 pm by Nancy Rockwell

The Light of the World 2014-12-07T20:46:57-04:00 Nancy Rockwell

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What is the crying at Jordan?

Who hears, O God, the prophecy?

Dark is the season, dark our hearts

and shut to mystery.

(– words by Carol Christopher Drake, in old Irish Advent hymn)

There was once a man whose name was John. These words begin the tale of the prophet in the wilderness, in the gospel of John. And then the writer plunges us into a confounding saga, of light that is at the center of the world, light that is coming into the world, light that is the source of the world, and light no one has seen or known. This is the light John proclaims and awaits, calling people to prepare themselves to be its lamps, by a cleansing ritual in the river Jordan in which they become sisters and brothers to everyone else who walks into that water. This is a wild, celestial journey, through light that is dappled by deep shadows.

John’s Voice names every shadow, following the light that transfixes him in a perilous journey. And his sure knowing of Jesus as the light is written in every gospel, in the story of the memorable moment when Jesus stepped into the Jordan and asked to be baptized as one with the brothers and sisters – now his family.

The fourth gospel goes on to say that John’s sureness about Jesus was not shared by all his people, ‘his own’, to whom he has precious links of prayers and sacred stories, genetics and the identity food, language and the streets of home give us all. Then the writer assures us that all who receive him, and believe in his name, are given the power to be children of God.

The tragic, mistaken reading, far too often heard, is that only those who believe in his name can be considered children of God. But even John the Baptist had his doubts, writing to Jesus from his prison cell asking, Are you the one, or shall we look for another? The assertion of a triumphant piety, the declaration of His Name, ignores the fourth gospel’s equal challenge, that there is no shared piety that can make us receptive to the shimmering light of God – just look at how his ‘own’ people did not know him: no church, no prayer, no culture – and no name, can provide an opening in us to the light. Yet the light, among us still, can make of us a creative brightness, a flame of truth.

Who then shall stir in this darkness,

prepare for joy in the winter night.

Mortal in darkness we lie down

Blindhearted, seeing no light.

In the other gospels, John demands acts of mercy, a sharing of worldly goods, as preparation for the light, which is always looking for an open spirit. Blindheartedness, according to the one who first called Jesus the Lamb, is the refusal of compassion to anyone, for we are all brothers and sisters, one kind, by the grace of our kindness and one kind, by the grace of creation, the light from which we are all made.

The fourth gospel paints a mystery in a brief tale about light. In it I recognize the journey I am on in this life, in which time is neither sequential nor cyclical, but is marked by moments of grace in which we see and receive, know and are known, name and find in ourselves a new name: Child of God.

Lord, give us grace to awake us,

to see the branch that begins to bloom;

in great humility is hid

All heaven in a little room.

The tree in the house. Candles in windows. The pile of yet-to-be-wrapped gifts. And among them two washable velour size 2T boy’s outfits I wandered through Targets to find today, for a boy I have never met, about whom I know only that he has lead poisoning and his single mom cannot afford to buy presents for him, so the church has him and his siblings as a Christmas project to help us prepare room in ourselves for the Christ Child to be born. Last week I had dinner and an evening with childhood friends, a space we make in our lives every December, glad to be alive, sharing news, living in hope of another year. Next week I will bake. The year grows darker, the days icier, the cat goes out for shorter and shorter adventures, and reproaches me when it is too long before I invite her back in.

Is this what it means to be a Child of God? Am I free from fear? Am I open to everyone? Will the earth itself change, will the rough places become a plain? I confess, I do not pray for the mountains to become low, nor for the valleys to be lifted up. Will I be, at last, content with my life, if I dissent even from the beloved vision of glory?

Will a moment of recognition at the manger be enough for me? Was it enough for the shepherds? Perhaps, being a Child of God means continuing to walk in shadow and in light, rejoicing in moments of grace and seeing, the remembered ones, the new, unnamed ones, the ones I trust lie ahead.

As I face the winter, I hear the shaggy, camel-skin clad man named John, calling from his wilderness, urging me to prepare. And inside my heart I sing:

Come, Gate, from Eden to Heaven,

Come Gate and Garden, at once at hand,

Opening now to Bethlehem,

That leads to Jerusalem.

________________________________________________________

Illustrations:

1. John the Baptist. 1800 painting by Ivanovich. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.

2. Baby Jesus in the Hay. Google Images.

3. The Washington National Cathedral, Light Show at Night. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.

4. Sheep in Paradise . 549 CE. Basilica of Sant Apollinare in Classe, Ravenna, Italy. Vanderbilt Divinity School Library, Art in the Christian Tradition.

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