The people living in
snow have seen fresh grass, or even just blacktop! That would be good news for us right
now! The cabin fever of being stuck
inside, the worry about the pipes that might break or the huge heating bill that’s
surely on its way, the discomfort and fatigue of snow-shoveling, the very real
concern for those lack shelter… we know it will end, even if not soon
enough. Isaiah uses the image of people walking
in darkness, fumbling, uncertain, scared.
This oracle may well have been written to one-time residents of the
Northern Kingdom, conquered by Assyria, whose walking may have included death
marches. Defiled and denied their human
dignity, those walking in darkness could be Israelites, naked but for shackles,
forced to walk to their death, paraded not as God’s precious children, but as
the spoils of war.
When
Matthew quotes this, he renders a term our translators of Isaiah give us as ‘darkness’
in a different way, a way that makes clear the ultimate source of darkness on
the earth: we live in the shadow of death.
Death and all its gruesome attendants can seem to tower over us, to
block out the light we know animates the world and leaving us helpless,
impotent, shackled. What is proclaimed powerfully
by Isaiah is that this shall not be forever.
The world was not created to be this way, and God will have His way, the
world will be righted. The shackles will
be smashed; anguish will take flight in the face of light. Light will shine once more.
Matthew
personalizes this as he freely quotes it.
He concentrates our attention on the place names, and invites us to
recognize those as the places where Jesus walked. Jesus came, and light arose. Death is no longer blocking out the light
because the light has lovingly arisen to shine over us. And how has that happened? How has the relief come to our fearful
darkness? It’s this man, wandering from
town to town, preaching a strange message: “Repent, for the kingdom of heaven
is at hand.” This is the man whose
coming wrought a transformation as complete as night to day, from conquered
captivity to joyous freedom. This is Jesus,
the Light of the World, and he leaves his throne on high because he knew we
were starving for his radiance, dying of darkness, he comes down to dwell in
this messy world with us, to encounter us face to face, to enlighten us, to
hold out a hand and say: “Come, follow me.”
And they
do come, these four at least. They come
without hesitation, they come without question.
They leave their boats, their nets, their families and come. In doing this, they’re leaving behind their
whole livelihood. These were people who
relied on catching and selling fish to live.
These were people with real responsibilities for and bonds of affection with
their families, the source of their life.
They are prepared to leave behind the lives they know and what sustains
them, because this wandering preacher says, “Come.”
Could
they have told you why yet? Could they
have put it into words? Personally, I
doubt it. They have little faith, Jesus
will say. They need much teaching from
him. They’re not going to do much
fishing for men or women throughout most of the gospel. This is their time to be with Jesus, to
learn. But while it will take their minds
a while to catch up, there seems to be something in their gut that knows, that knows that there’s a way out
from under the shadow of death, precariously kept daily one day further off by
successfully catching fish, that knows the true life is found with this
wandering preacher, who is the Light of the World that casts out darkness.
We need
to know that. We need to feel that in
our bones, that whether our bones are still growing or are groaning as they
weaken: we are not in the shadow of death.
The light has arisen and the light has a name and a face. The light longs to be in relationship with
us, comes to us as gift and seeks embrace, and says “Come.”
Come, we
can follow him, the Light of the World, and with him, we can fish. There’s a wonderful video, “Fishers of Men,”
some of you may have seen, which uses that image to encourage young men to
discern a vocation to the priesthood.
And that’s vital to the Church’s mission. The ways in which sacramental ministry can
focus that Light that is Christ into the darknesses of the world are many and
varied and brilliant. It was working in
the dark place of a prison that I first forcefully felt that call. The inmates I was working with were brutally
honest with me about their needs, the darknesses they inhabited and their faces
pressed on my mind as I heard that still small voice whispering, “Come after
me, bring them the light that sustains you, and do it as a sacramental minister
of my church.”
The priesthood
is drawing closer now for me, just thirteen weeks till Bishop’s hands will
configure me to fish for men and women, to beckon them into relationship with this
light, in this sacramental way, and that’s terribly exciting. But it can’t exhaust what it means to be
fishers. It can’t just be certain of the
young men of this parish to whom Jesus is saying “Come. Fish.”
It’s to all
of us. The Light of the world that Jesus
is, brings joy to our hearts and illumines our path. Light helps us to see. It should help us to see a waiting world with
needs, needs that can only fully be responded to with the Good News of Christ’s
gospel. Only together can we shed that
light into every recess of our world. We’ll
each have things to leave behind in order to do that. We all have a long way to go. But we’re not walking in darkness. Our light has arisen, and bids us come.
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