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Ephesians 5.6-14

"Let no one deceive you with empty words, for because of these things the wrath of God comes on those who are disobedient. Therefore do not be associated with them. For once you were darkness, but now in the Lord you are light. Live as children of light— for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true. Try to find out what is pleasing to the Lord. Take no part in the unfruitful works of darkness, but instead expose them. For it is shameful even to mention what such people do secretly; but everything exposed by the light becomes visible, for everything that becomes visible is light. Therefore it says, “Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

As a child and then adolescent, I had a real problem with God's wrath and the notion of obedience. As one of seven children, life often seemed to me to be a litany of "dos" and "don'ts" - from relentless daily chores to taking care of the littles or being one of the elder children who "should know better." Consequences for not fulfilling one's family duties did not always seem fair, and being perfectly obedient (aka "responsible") seemed an unreasonable expectation.

My mom always told us that hell was not a place but "separation from God." And I thought well, if God is just going to get mad at me for not following his arbitrary rules, then I am not so sure I like him all that much.

Ah, grasshopper! As I aged, and fell away from faith and church, and then returned, I realized that I had misunderstood obedience all along. My mother was right - pain, hell, suffering IS separation from God. Because there is darkness and there is light and turning to the light is to turn to God - and vice versa. The "obedience" that I found so infuriating was, as we know, a gift and an opening - an invitation to spiritual and real-world discipline. Not punishment, but an invitation. Not blind power but a challenge: to seek the light of God and Christ even when darkness is upon us or, perhaps, even when we have found our way into darkness all by ourselves.

I have said to anyone who will listen that Advent is my favorite season. I think I love it because I am deeply moved by the notion of light in the darkness - not only the ability of even the tiniest light to overcome darkness, but the very beauty that such light casts: the campfire, the candle, the single streetlight, the moon, the lit window on a dark street, the "fairy lights" on Christmas trees - these beckon and comfort us precisely because they are surrounded by darkness.

And so, too, do our lives sway in this dance between turning towards God and turning away; from being secure in God's love and wondering if God is there at all; from being grounded in faith and having our faith tested and tried. This passage from Ephesians reminds us to "Live as children of light— for the fruit of the light is found in all that is good and right and true."

Advent is a time of waiting and also a time of awakening - awakening to God's promise of love and light and redemption that is always right in front of us and around us, even and especially in the darkness.

"Sleeper, awake! Rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.”

John 12.35-36

Jesus said to them, “The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness may not overtake you. If you walk in the darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light.” After Jesus had said this, he departed and hid from them.

I knew the church building of my childhood like the back of my hand. My father was a pastor and so both my parents spent full Sunday mornings at post-church coffee hours and elders’ meetings and potlucks. I attended for as long as I could but spent most of my time exploring the building. The church was filled with backstage wooden staircases, hidden closets, and doorways, invisible to the untrained eye. I loved to roam around in that church. One of my favorite places was a triangular closet, wedged beneath a stairway—a storage place for holiday decorations. It was completely dark. And quiet. I loved to crawl in there after service and listen to the gentle footsteps coming down for coffee hour and the muffled voices hovering above my head. I sat in that womb-like space and felt tucked into the church, wrapped in sweet darkness and the voices of my church family.

The darkness was not scary, it was safe and sweet. I needed it. I was sometimes overwhelmed by all the people, all the ideas, all the chatting. I needed that quiet darkness to help me come home to myself.

Jesus said “The light is with you for a little longer. Walk while you have the light, so that the darkness does not overtake you. If you walk in darkness, you do not know where you are going. While you have the light, believe in the light, so that you may become children of light”

Jesus does not speak about Darkness as a moral negative or with judgement. I think Western thinking can lead us (or maybe just me!) too quickly into binary thinking: darkness = scary, or bad, or far from God. But if we carry this bias into the text, I think we miss what Jesus may be saying. Jesus is speaking practically. In darkness you can’t see clearly-- you need something to guide you, something to orient you. As Jesus prepares his friends for his departure, he is acknowledging a reality, a human experience—there will be uncertainly, there will be unknowns, there will be change, there will be darkness. So he tells his friends to cherish the light, to memorize the light, to hold the light near so that when the unknowns find them, they will have comfort, a guide, and courage. I think Jesus’ call to his friends is a call to us all: become children of light—become students of seeing in the dark, become people who can remember what matters most in times of not knowing or of uncertainty, become friends with darkness, or at least acquaintances.

There are times we are meant to live in clarity, and times we are meant to live in ambiguity; but the paradox is lovely—sometimes it is in the ambiguity, in the seasons of not knowing, in the darkness--when one’s truth shines through with brilliant clarity. Just as we need to cherish the “light,” when the light is with us, maybe too we can cherish the darkness, when darkness is with us. Maybe there are moments we need to crawl into the dark, unknown, triangular closets of life and listen for the voices of love, coming from on high and coming from deep within.

Psalm 119:105-106

Your word is a lantern to my feet* and a light upon my path.

I have sworn and am determined* to keep your righteous judgments.

Who holds the lantern? Who is the light? The obvious answer is God, right? We hold the lantern, and God is the light. And there’s mercy and comfort in that. All I have to do is hold this lantern right here and walk the path that God is guiding me down. So easy, right? So simple. And yet, I have so many follow up questions. There is no mention of whether the path is curved or straight, hilly or flat, scattered with jagged rocks and rough branches or clean and freshly paved. There’s no mention of who I may meet along my path. Who journeys with me? Who is on an opposite path which may appear more brightly lit and easier somehow? How do I know this path, my path, is actually the right one for me? Is there one single right path or are there multiple out there, equally fruitful and enticing? And so on and so forth.

These verses from scripture remind me of one of the most profound things I have been taught during my medical residency training. A faculty member once told me that the best clinician has to learn how to live with uncertainty. The clinician uses her medical knowledge to bring her to a certain point along the winding path to diagnosis, then faith takes over; she may never ascertain the exact etiology of the patient’s disease but in using her best medical judgment she is less likely to do harm to the patient. In trusting in the facts of the case, her intelligence and her instincts, the clinician is likelier to get closer to the truth of the matter, the heart of the thing.

During these days of early sunsets and winter chill, of science deniers and alternative facts, of so much research and information pouring in at all times, in this time of Advent, I find it so difficult to just hold the lantern and focus on the light to guide me. I’m only human after all, and prone to distraction, jealousy and resentment – easily angered and hounded by fear. Am I doing the right thing, thinking the right thing, being the right thing are among the circuitous thoughts that plague my brain during this global pandemic. Oftentimes, I begin work before daylight and leave well after nightfall, and am in a flurry of panic during every moment in between wondering if anything I’m doing is making any difference, if I know anything at all. And I’m a pediatrics resident! Not always in an ICU or surrounded by the very sick and dying, which makes me feel slightly ridiculous to be so overwhelmed.

So, the thing I love the most about this passage is that it gives a narrative solution to my distress and grief. There is no mention of the difficulty or ease of the path, because instead I am reminded to center myself and trust in God. Trusting in God and walking my path is how I keep my ever-renewing vow to honor God’s judgments. I am reminded that all I need is my lantern, The Light, and my vow. I am called to see all that can be done if I am faithful, steadfast and true. Trusting in God is the only way to travel to the place the lies just beyond fear, resentment, anger, jealousy and distraction which will always be there along my path. Trusting in God is how I illuminate my best self. My comfort is to understand that God is always there as my guiding light as I journey forward one step at a time.