26 th January: 3 rd Sunday after Epiphany

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 (Isaiah 9. 2 (Matt. 4. 16)).

I remember once writing in the visitors’ book of a beautiful mediaeval church on the south coast of England and noting that in the comments box a previous contributor had written just one word—‘Dark.’ This seemed comically inadequate to describe an ancient sacred space, steeped in prayer and Christian worship, and such a haven of stillness, peace and quiet. True, the lighting was understated but this only added to the sense of history and mystery, of wonder and awe. I wondered what lay behind this succinct reflection.

Darkness is most often viewed negatively. In the depths of our winter it can be oppressive and hostile, closing in on us in an unfriendly and threatening manner. We put our clocks back an hour to somehow try and eke out a few more minutes of daylight and in the depths of the darkness we celebrate the great festival of Christmas, a ready-made excuse for countless strings of fairy-lights and many a candle! Epiphany and Candlemas pick up the theme and run with it.

In this age of light pollution we are perhaps somewhat protected from the experience of our forebears, for whom the darkness of winter was a tangible threat to their well-being in so many ways. And yet somehow the menace of darkness persists and as a metaphor for unwelcome and unhealthy forces it remains prevalent in our common parlance.

So, whether physical or metaphorical, if you are walking in darkness or living in a land of deep darkness, it is a cause of great rejoicing when you see a great light or light shines upon you. In our reading from Isaiah the darkness is the oppressive rule of the Assyrian invaders and light comes in the form of a liberation from ‘the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor’. And in Matthew’s gospel, seemingly as a fulfilment of Isaiah 9, Jesus goes to Galilee and proclaims the manifestation of the kingdom of heaven which sheds light on a wayward people in need of repentance, healing and salvation. Jesus will bring light through his message and his actions.

What’s more, Jesus has a strategy for dispelling the darkness, beginning with the recruitment of some followers. He called Simon (Peter) and Andrew, fishermen casting a net into the sea, and James and John, in their boat mending their nets. In some poetic way an allusion to the mission in which they were going to share—the evangelistic task of proclaiming the good news of the kingdom and fishing for people—and the healing (mending) ministry of curing every disease and every sickness among the people.

We stand in that tradition, disciples called by Jesus to help dispel the darkness. As we’ve already noted, darkness takes many forms and the kingdom of heaven sheds light in a variety of ways. What darkness are we engaging with and where is light most urgently or profoundly required?

I wonder if there might be a need, within both church life and public discourse, for new ways of thinking, of seeing, of dreaming—a reimagining of how things are and could be? This begins with me and is rooted in hope. It may be that we need the arts to inform us, to help us see things differently and break out of the constraints the status quo imposes. I have a post-card in my study which states rather boldly, ‘There is still art, there is still hope.’ We need help in seeing and believing that things can change and that it doesn’t have to be this way.

Many in the church seem resigned to its downward trajectory; weary, worn and sad, and left with the unenviable task of striving to do the same old things—but to do them better and somehow more effectively. Maybe we need to do different things!? Public life is marred by ‘fake news’ and a paucity of debate and vision, as glorified self-interest holds sway. In both cases, who will shine a light into this darkness, and how? It often feels like we are stood close up to an impressionist masterpiece confronted by a confused mass of colour and brush strokes. What we need to do is take a few steps back and then everything will become so much clearer, and we will see in a new way.

Poetry can certainly aid us in our strife. In On Hyndford Street, Van Morrison’s ode to his childhood, he speaks of the experience of ‘feeling wondrous and lit up inside, with a sense of everlasting life’. Without this sense of being ‘lit up inside’ it is difficult to imagine how we might share in dispelling the darkness. When the light inside is dimmed we become part of the problem; if we can only see difficulties, not possibilities, or limits and not potential then we are in the way. As bob Dylan put it:

Your old road is rapidly agein’,

Please get out of the new one

If you can't lend your hand

For the times they are a-changin’

What if all the remarkable achievements of the Christian faith and the church over 2,000 years are as nothing compared to what might yet be manifested in the future? What if, the best is yet to come? What if public life could be re-ordered in a more generous, kind and inclusive manner? Where will light shine and where is hope to be found in the darkness, however fragile? A hope spoken of so eloquently by Emily Dickinson in her poem Hope is the Thing with Feathers:

Hope is the thing with feathers

That perches in the soul,

And sings the tune without the words,

And never stops at all,

And sweetest in the gale is heard;

And sore must be the storm

That could abash the little bird

That kept so many warm.

I’ve heard it in the chillest land,

And on the strangest sea;

Yet, never, in extremity,

It asked a crumb of me. ¹

Both church and society may be found ‘in the chillest land’ and ‘on the strangest sea’ but ‘There is Still Art—There is Still Hope.’ New, exciting possibilities come into view as the light within helps to dispel the darkness without. We can respond afresh to the call of Jesus to share in the proclamation and work of the kingdom of heaven in unimagined ways and, hopefully, with unprecedented fruitfulness.