A Fourth Church Sermon by Victoria G. Curtiss

January 4, 2009 | 6:30 p.m. Vespers

Track Lighting

Jocelyn C. Cadwallader
Pastoral Resident, Fourth Presbyterian Church

Psalm 146
John 1:1–18

Our lesson this evening comes from the first chapter of the Gospel of John, verses 1 to 18, but before we get into it, I want to give you a little bit of background for the Gospel of John.

This Gospel differs significantly from the others, Matthew, Mark, and Luke. It has characters and events that the other three don’t mention, and it lacks stories that are prominent in the others. For example, in the Gospel of John, Jesus delivers no Sermon on the Mount (or on the Plain), nor does he perform any exorcisms. He does not instruct the disciples to pray the Lord’s Prayer, and he doesn’t even institute the Lord’s Supper on the night of his betrayal and arrest. The language of this Gospel is rich in symbolism and subtle shades of meaning. Paradox and irony are common as is metaphor. John’s Gospel is often misunderstood, as the sayings of Jesus are not presented in short sayings or in parable, like the other Gospels. Rather, Jesus speaks in long, sometimes difficult monologues about himself in relation to God and about the need to believe in him.

By the time this Gospel was written, ideas about Jesus had changed. The community’s ideas about Jesus changed after his lifetime on earth, and John describes this development as the work of the Holy Spirit. The Gospel focuses on the belief that in Jesus God entered into human history to save human beings. The expression of this is embodied in the symbolism and paradoxes of this Gospel. Therefore, though it is certainly grounded in history, the Gospel of John is considered a “spiritual Gospel” rather than a theological or historical one.

The aim of the Gospel is stated near the very end of it, in chapter 20, verses 30 and 31: “Now Jesus did many other signs in the presence of his disciples, which are not written in this book. But these are written so that you may come to believe that Jesus is the Messiah, the Son of God, and that through believing you may have life in his name.”

This evening, we will not be looking at the long monologues or signs, but we will take a look at the very beginning of the Gospel, where we might find some language to articulate what it is that we are to come to believe in or, at the very least, relate to the first metaphor presented.

· · ·

Once, not too long ago, I took a trip to the Rocky Mountains in Colorado with some friends. I had never been to those mountains before, and I’m not sure I had ever been to that high of an elevation before—well, that high without being in a plane. It was wintertime, and the mountaintops were covered with snow. The wind would blow with such persistence and gusto; it was shocking how it would blow. The snow would blow up and swirl and rush across the surface of the ground, making it look like the ground was alive—like the surface of a rushing river—and the loose snow was in a hurry to get someplace else. Off the top of the mountain, the snow would gust off the tips of the peaks and join in with the clouds until you could almost not see the difference between the two, except for the light. The way the light looked through the snow was different than what it looked like through the cloud. Through the cloud in the brilliant blue sky, the light would shine and glisten, causing the brightest glare. The cloud was white in the middle, where it was thickest; around the edges, where the cloud was thinner, the most vibrant and electric rainbow colors shined brightly and blended together. I had never seen light through a cloud like that before. And the snow, in the light, lifted up off the mountain by the wind—it looked like millions of stars or millions of beautiful pieces of crystal shining brightly in the middle of the day, so close you could touch them and feel the light sting on your face as the wind continued to carry each flake along. When gazing upon the mountaintop, feeling the gusts of the wind, the only way to tell the difference between the snow from the cloud was the light that shone.

It was the light. It was the light that made the difference in being able to identify what was what. Just like light does in so many other parts of the world, not just on the top of a snowy mountain! In my kitchen, I have track lighting. I installed it when I moved in, removing the darker—some would say more beautiful—light fixture so that I could see better in the kitchen. And it makes a huge difference. There are so many expressions of light—sayings or idioms—that help us to understand one another, expressions such as “light up a life,” “traffic light,” “Can I get a light?” “light at the end of the tunnel,” “shed light on,” “this little light of mine,” “light the fire,” “information coming to light,” “spotlight,” “headlight,” “star-light, star-bright,” “candlelight,” and countless more. Light is not just about seeing better; it also has life-giving properties to it, too. I remember when I was in grade school, we had a science project where we raised eggs into chicks and used lights to nurture and warm the eggs into life. It’s the light—the light makes all the difference.

Our text this evening begins with the beginning: “In the beginning was the Word.” If you read along while I read, did you note the capital letter? The word Word is capitalized here so we can recognize that this isn’t talking about a word, as in an item in a sentence or the things we use to speak to articulate feelings, emotions, or thoughts. The “Word” describes that which was promised by God, the very being of God, the presence of God, the very one through whom all things came into being in.

The Gospel of John articulates that what has come into being in him—in Jesus that is—in the world was life. And the life was the light of all people, the true light, which enlightens all. The psalmist encourages us to praise and recognize God, the one who made the heavens and the earth, the sea and all that is in it, who executes justice for the oppressed and gives food to the hungry; the one who sets the prisoners free and opens the eyes of the blind; the one who watches over the stranger and upholds the orphans and widows. This Word, this light that shines in these ways, was in the beginning, and our understanding of this Word, as being with God and being God, came into being in Jesus, our light. And this light makes all the difference.

My favorite poet, Mary Oliver, has written a poem entitled “When I Am among the Trees.” In it, she says this of living light:

When I am among the trees, especially the willows and the honey locust, equally the beech the oaks and the pines, they give off such hints of gladness. I would almost say they save me, and daily.

I am so distant from the hope of myself, in which I have goodness, and discernment, and never hurry through the world but walk slowly and bow often.

Around me the trees stir in their leaves and call out, “Stay awhile.” The light flows from their branches.

And they call again. “It’s simple,” they say, “and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light, and to shine.”

That’s the thing about the light. God came into being, and the life was the light, and light makes all the difference. This light broke into the darkness like a single candle burning in a windowless room, like a shining star on a bleak midwinter night, like a brilliant smile that fills the very core of your being. And it fills us. It fills us, and we shine too. In the midst of a recession, in the midst of a war, in the midst of heartache and illness, we shine. We have the power to shine as brightly as the sun shining through the snowflakes on the top of the mountain, as clearly as the track lighting in my kitchen, as warmly as the nurturing lamps used to raise baby chicks.

Like it does with the tree branches in the poem, light flows through us—in our being, in our walking along the streets, in loving one another, in our everyday doings of the day at work, at school, at play. The light—the light that makes all the difference—fills us and shines through us. It is not something that is simply seen; it is something more alive than that. Alive like the snow blowing across the ground, like the flame dancing on a candlestick, like a spotlight exposing fear and belittling it, like the energy of an embracing and warm hug. The life of Jesus came into this world to shine the light of God among us. It is in and through this life, in and through our lives, that that light continues to shine. And so we bring food to the hungry, we care for one another and the widows and the orphans, and we seek justice and a peace that brings reconciliation.

Like the trees say in the poem, “It’s simple, and you too have come into the world to do this, to go easy, to be filled with light and to shine.”

Amen.