4th
Sunday after the Epiphany/The Presentation; Yr. A, February 2, 2014
Malachi
3:1-4;
Psalm 84; Hebrews 2:14-18; Luke 2:22-40
Sermon
preached at St. Stephen’s Episcopal Church
When I was younger
I was afraid of the dark, maybe you were too.
I delivered the morning paper and there was one part of my route that
took me through a customer’s backyard and down a wooded path into an apartment
complex. There weren’t any street lights
on that dead end, and the path through the dark was always filled with cobwebs
from some spider’s work during the night.
I walked quickly through that blackness, heart beating furiously, half expecting
some hidden menace to jump out and grab me.
I was always relieved to see the light in the parking areas ahead as I
walked out of the trees. A sigh, a
slower step. I’d made it … again.
I
looked at that darkness as something to be overcome, something to get through,
something to be endured. I didn’t want
to dally, or spend time there, because its contents were clouded and
unpredictable. I couldn’t see much
beyond my next step. I was used to
living in the light, where I didn’t have to worry about stumbling over hidden
roots or stones. I could see far enough
into the future to plan my next steps. I
was always happy to come out of the darkness.
Now,
things are different. I still walk in
the morning with my dog. I relish the
still dark winter mornings, when I am alone on the streets. I cringe at porch lights and streetlights
that interfere with my vision of the starry winter sky. I enjoy the way the dark wraps around me like
a blanket, and the way I can hear my own footsteps falling in with the rhythm
of my breathing. In the dark, I can
discover myself. In the dark I can
dream. The dark and I have become
friends.
Until
the advent of the electric light, darkness set the boundaries of the day. People might have read by candlelight or
lamplight after sundown, but the light was dim and oil was expensive. Often families went to bed early to conserve
food and fuel. When the sun went down,
the day was over. No one stayed out
partying until 1 or 2 or 3 am. Farmers
spent the winter keeping their animals and repairing equipment, planning for
the spring planting. Winter, in a strange
way, was a time of looking forward, a time to renew and rejuvenate. The dark days of winter, as harsh as they
could be, were a blessing for those who were warm and safe in their homes. I think that’s what I feel on my morning
walks, a contemplative peace, a time to connect with the divine dreamer.
As
an American culture we’ve forgotten that. We tend to think that darkness is emptiness,
when it’s actually fullness. Black is
the sum of all colors combined. Open
your watercolor set and try it. 70% of the
universe is composed of dark energy …
energy that is way beyond the visible spectrum.
25% of the universe is composed of dark matter … matter that can only be detected by its effects on other
ordinary matter. Only 5% of the universe
is actually made up of what we usually think of as matter.[1] Stuff like water, rocks, trees, animals,
planets, stardust. That means 95% of the
universe is dark; 95% is full of mystery.
Darkness has been around a whole lot longer than light. In creation, God spoke light into the
formless dark void that had existed in the universe since the beginning of time.
In the Old Testament, the older
something is, the more it’s honored. Do
we honor the darkness anymore?
No,
we fight it. We do our best to fit more
and more activity into a finite amount of light. We put lights in our stadiums so we can play night
games. Remember when we all had to come
inside when the streetlights came on? We
put headlights on cars so we can travel after dark. Casinos don’t have any windows, so no one
inside can gauge the passing of time by the natural light of the day. We use booklights so we can read in bed when
a partner or spouse wants to sleep. When
the days are shortest, we put some of the hardest demands on ourselves. During one of the weeks with the shortest
days, our young people just took mid-terms and Regents exams. Even Adam and Eve had time to walk in the
garden with God every day, and they
had the whole garden to take care of by themselves!
When
do we take time to settle into the darkness?
As the days begin to lengthen again, and I see the Maxfield Parrish blue
beginning to make an appearance in the sky at the end of my walk … I am aware
that our sabbatical time is approaching. We applied for a Lily grant last year, and we
didn’t get it. Though that was
disappointing, it didn’t cancel our sabbatical.
On June 23rd it will begin.
In these dark days of winter, when the earth is renewing itself … and we
are being reminded of Christ’s incarnation on earth … it might be good for us
to think about our parish renewal wishes.
I’ve
been thinking and praying about how I want to spend that time. I have several position papers to write for
my CPE program, and I have not done the reading required to do that work. So reading and writing will be on the
docket. I am looking forward to some
dedicated retreat time alone, and some time with Nancy, to refuel myself and
add new life to our relationship. I want
music to be a part of every day. If I
can do those things, I will return renewed and refreshed, with much to share
with you all.
What
would renew you? What hopes and dreams
might you have for that time? As a
congregation, you may want to make some plans.
I don’t think you need to rush to fill the time, but it might be good to
know what you hope to get out of it. How
might we want to begin it, and how should we come back together? How can I share what I’ve learned, and how
will you share with me? I expect that
many of you will take time away for vacation as you normally do, but to abandon
our weekly practice of coming together for common worship on Sundays would not
be good for anyone. These dark days give
us time.
It’s
because of the dark, that we can appreciate the light. The gift of sun that God gave us in creation,
and the gift of a Son that was given in Jesus.
Both are signs of hope in the world and in our lives. Today we bless candles, instruments of light
in the midst of darkness. Some of these candles will remain here to be used in
our worship as reminders of Christ’s presence with us as a gathered
community. Others you may take home with
you … symbols of Christ going out into the world and into your homes where
Christ also lives, to remind you that the very light of Christ burns within
you, a flame of divine love. Light and
dark, two sides of the same coin, both of God.
Rest and work. Contemplation and
action. Dream and grace. Let us take the time to honor the darkness
with God’s light in our hearts.
Amen.
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