I stopped off in Austin on my way to Dallas a few months ago for coffee and to change shoes. I was in one of those super upscale shopping centers with the kind of brands that only have brick and mortar stores in places like Austin, Paris, and San Francisco. Manhattan is too pedestrian for those kinds of places now. So I was sitting on my back bumper changing from church shoes to Chacos, when a woman stepped out of the back door of a taco place and asked me, “You got a light?”
I’ve always been jealous of smoker culture and the way they share the light. It’s a conversation starter and community builder. It also causes cancer and heart disease, but you get the point. My first thought was, does my car have one of those cigarette lighters (like my dad’s 84 Tercel) where you push the thing in and wait for it to turn orange and then you light your cig. But of course then I remembered that my car was from this millennia. All those cigarette lighters have been replaced with USB ports. I go through all this in my head as she asks the question and I’m staring back at my car and she’s giving me the head nod of, “Well…?” I say, “No. Sorry.” She shakes her head and says, “Ugh. Yuppies.” And as she walked away I thought I heard her say, “It’s impossible find a light these days.” The light is hard to find.
My first Christmas Eve at Woodland I discovered a strange liturgy that had become tradition. There was a script that kinda followed along with the birth stories of Jesus in the gospels, but they were tweaked to sound more pleasing to the Texas baptist ear. There were a bunch of candles on the communion table. But, they weren’t just white liturgical candles. They were dark red pillar candles. Candles like your grandma would have out that smell like cinnamon and dump glitter all over the place. There were a couple of black candles too, which gave off a peculiar occult vibe for Christmas Eve. Each reader would read a passage about a character in the nativity scene and then light a candle. After they would read they walked down from the pulpit to the communion table where they would light one of those cinnamon candles. But, to light the candles they would use one of those clickers, you know? Like you use on your grill. And you know how those are. They never light on the first try… or the second. It’s multiple click, click, clicks. Every time. Read. Click, click, click. Every click is like a nail into my head. But then came a dramatic turn in the liturgy. After they read about the shepherds all the candles had been lit. So now they start snuffing out the candles. Because I guess the story of the nativity didn’t have enough death in it. Shepherds— snuffed. Joseph— snuffed. Angels— snuffed. The light is not only hard to find, it’s hard to keep lit.
1 John says that God is light and in God there is no darkness at all. The light and dark metaphor is important in 1 John just as it is in the gospel of John. These writings may not come from the same author, but they do seem to share a community. And they share similar theologies. I asked Harry if we could read the whole book of 1 John and he said, “How about 5 verses.” 1 John 2 says, “Beloved, I’m not writing you a new commandment… but one you’ve had from the beginning.” Whoever loves a sister or brother lives in the light. This entire letter really is a theological reflection upon the new commandment Jesus gives the disciples in John 13. Around the table Jesus said, “I give you a new commandment, that you love one another. Just as I have loved you, you also should love one another… everyone will know that you are my disciples, if you have love for one another.”
That’s why we light candles. That’s why we have acolytes bring in the light to begin worship. Sure, light can be a troubling metaphor for God, especially in a culture so profoundly under the sway of white supremacy. But, that’s all the more reason to give it more definition. Paul Tillich reminds us that symbols are something we participate in and they “cannot be replaced at will; they must be interpreted as long as they are alive.” I’m told the Episcopalian priest and theologian Robert Farrar Capon once gave a series of lectures here. I don’t remember which means I was either in the nursery or kicking around on the floor asking when the sermon was going to be over. Capon teaches us that, “The language of theology is a pack of foxhounds, and the theologian is the master of the hunt. [Her] job is to feed, water, and exercise [the] dogs so that they will be in peak condition for the hunting of the Divine Fox— and to keep them… from biting defenseless Christians.” How many people have been bitten by bad theology? There’s a whole generation of people my age generating conversation about spiritual abuse. God is light, yes. But, many have been burned.
The symbol of God as light was rooted in pre-Christian thought. God as light was closely related to the worship of the sun in some ancient cultures. The sun’s light allowed for the conditions of life and yet we have no effect on the sun. The Greeks drew from this the idea of God’s impassibility— that is, nothing can be added to God. God is perfect and therefore, in their minds, cannot be effected in any real way. Early church theologian Athanasius said God is in need of nothing and self-sufficient. So when God was said to be light this made God a reality beyond our world whose glare effects us, but upon whom we can have no effect.
This view of God made sense back then. But the story of Jesus throws a big question mark on that image of God that is beyond and unaffected by us. After all, Jesus wept. Relational affection isn’t a weakness at all, but a strength. Love is a risk God takes and invites us to take to.
Perhaps instead of impassible or a God that could be corrupted by relating with us, we could use family systems theory to rethink this. Perhaps, it’s not that God is unaffected by our relationship. On the contrary, God is involved in the system… in our communities. Isn’t that the story of incarnation— God coming to be with us… in our lives… in our mess? But God is a non-anxious presence. The Spirit models and directs us. God is light— whose warmth creates the conditions for life and even the condition for our relationships to flourish. So that light becomes a warmth we share with each other when we love each other as Christ first loved us.
Light isn’t meant to be a stumbling block to our theological pursuit of the Divine Fox. We live in a light polluted world. The closest thing to stars we see in Dallas are the planes landing at Love Field. But, to throw out the image before it’s done with us might be to hand the image over to those who would do more harm with it. Think about the world in which the image comes to us— a pre-light switch world. For a world lit only by fire, light was a critical element of survival.
When we talk about God as light now, we’re talking about the means of feeling the warmth of care that comes from the heart of God. We’re talking about light that brings new insight. We’re talking about a means of seeing. Light helps us see our differences and embrace it. We’re talking about that which doesn’t wash out color but brings its vivifying diversity to life.
As a kid, with my dad preaching and mom in the choir I sat on the front row down here in worship. I sat next to Steve McCord. Steve had Down syndrome. Steve wasn’t supposed to live past six months. He was 40 years old. He wasn’t supposed to walk. He was an eagle scout. He wasn’t supposed to be able to read. But, each Sunday he picked up the hymnal in the front row, held it 3 inches from his face, and sang with the heart of Pavarotti… at least I think that’s how God heard it. And every Sunday he brought the light. He was… maybe… the first acolyte of Royal Lane? He got the lighter from the library each week and lit the candles on the altar.
And as much as the light he carried was a symbol of God’s presence among us, he himself was a symbol of resilience and hope. He was a walking sacrament— a living symbol of God’s light.
The invitation of 1 John is to walk as children of the light. This means accepting our identity as the beloved of God and recognizing that same beloved-ness in our neighbors. Now, the entire reason this letter needed to be written is because of how these early Christians were treating each other. If they were acting like children of light, then we wouldn’t have this letter at all. Instead, they’re like us. They needed to be reminded of that new commandment— love one another as you have first been loved. Sure sometimes in church life the sparks will fly, sometimes the acolytes trip and leave burn marks on the sanctuary carpet. Sometimes the clickers won’t click and the christ candle won’t light. Sometimes we say things in meetings we don’t mean. Sometimes the light is impossible to find.
Over 70 years you make a lot of history. Sure, there’s stuff to confess (or own up to), but there’s so much to celebrate. If you really think about it, this church has overcome a lot. Some of you church historians remember the fire over in the building that is now Vickrey Hall. Tornados have wreaked havoc. Flooding has wrecked the children’s building and youth basement. And now just like after that fire, you’re probably wondering what now? But, throughout 70 years you’ve led our baptist movement. You ordained women as ministers and deacons and said goodbye to a denomination that refused to ordain those whom God calls. You’ve thrived through being excommunicated by state baptists who are more interested in the state of baptists than faithfulness to Christ. You’ve celebrated the inclusion of LGBTQ Christians and been advocates for equity. It’s cost you to carry the light. To actually love as you have been loved by God, it turns out, is difficult in this world.
Ted Ferris once said, “The palace of my dreams has collapsed and I’m building a cathedral out of the debris.” Royal Lane is a cathedral of debris— a church built upon dust and ash graced with the light of God… a place where broken or excluded people are welcomed, fed, and healed. This is a place we learn to dream again.
This is where we reenact the stories of scripture— where their stories become ours. We walk with Abraham and Sarah coming to the end of their life and finding new life. We mutter along with the Israelites finding in the wilderness. While it’s still dark we witness the stone rolling away from the tomb. This is a place we remember: just when we think the story is over we find a new beginning. I know one man whose dream of being a pastor was shattered by the cultured shame of a divorce. But, here his call was blessed. I know a woman whose dream of being a pastor collapsed but you called her unanimously to this place. God is light, and there’s a radiance illuminating this place today. The light shines in the darkness and the darkness cannot overcome it.
A rabbi once asked his students about the dawn. “When can you tell that day is breaking?” One student suggested it’s when you look down the road and see an animal and there is enough light to tell whether it’s a fox or a dog. “No,” the rabbi replied, “that’s not the right answer.” Another student says it’s when you look at an orchard and can tell the difference between an apple tree and a pear tree. The teacher shook his head. The students, in frustration, shout, “Then tell us, when can you tell that day has dawned.” The rabbi replied, “Day breaks when you look at a person and know that that person is your brother or sister. Until you can do that, no matter what time of day it is, it is always night.”
No one else can carry this light for you. This is the call of the church— to be a light… you must keep it. You must allow the radiance of Christ to light up the faces around you… so that they might be seen and that we each might be known. And in the seeing and sharing we become more and more of who we are meant to be. Because as the light allows us to see more and more of the spectrum of God’s creation, we become less afraid of the difference and more awed at the wonder.