Mama God, Papa God
Stefan Czernecki, illustrator

If you were with me at eight o’clock tonight, the sun would still be with us. This is the miracle of living on the Northern curve of the globe. And if you were with me tonight, when the sun yet shone, I would ask you to think about light. I would bid you to just sit still for a moment with a candle cradled in your hand –or with the sun still streaming through the window, warming a spot on the floor. I would try to work up the courage to chant, “Breath in. Breathe out….In the hand of God, I rest.” I would ask you to touch a flame to your candle, smell the flash of sulfur, and feel the smoke waft towards you. Or perhaps you would extend a hand into the sun’s beam. (Do you remember when you could watch the sun dust? Did you ever believe they were fairies? That you could catch them in cupped palms?) Welcome light. Welcome the Light. Receive its scent, its warmth, its reality.

If you were with me tonight I would ask you to remember. To remember how the bedrock of our family tale is formed out of stories spun around light. Light is, in fact, the very first line of our story: In the beginning was there was light, and God separated the light from the darkness. And there was morning and there was evening, the first day. We are creatures of the light, birthed out of darkness into daylight, moving out of the primordial ooze into the clear light of day, dwelling not beneath the weighty depths of the sea or in the nocturnal caves of sightless wonders, but people of the day. Most of us rise to the light, and lie down in the darkness. Our circadian rhythms work this way. Even those of us who love the long midnight hours still cherish the gift of a sunny Seattle day. Light is in our DNA. We are birthed out of light.

Light continues through our stories: the curve of a rainbow when the dark days are over… broken jars and flashes of fire in the night, defeating our enemies…glowing coals cleansing our tongues; the shimmer of visiting angels who give us hope for a continued future, a continue family, with more tales to tell. And then, our great story of light: And the people living in darkness saw a great light, and we beheld his glory, glory as only begotten of our creator, full of grace, full of truth. The Light walked among us, sometimes hazy, sometimes clear; sometimes seen through a mirror darkly, sometimes so bright that we’ve had to hide our faces. He, our long ago brother, told tales of light: lamps not hidden under bushels (oh, NO! I’m gonna let it shine.)…eager partygoers waiting with lanterns for the guest of honor…a light shining on a hill.

Then our stories turns, and there is something else on a hill, an untimely darkness. The sun, our constant marker of day is obliterated unexpectedly, frighteningly. It sudden snuffing of the light is nothing short of a cataclysmic act. It is finished. Our light is literally and figuratively put out. For a few long quavering breaths it is gone.

Our story begins with light separated from darkness. It is our destiny, our purpose, our intended reality. So again the light comes, and it pushes the darkness back into its proper yingandyang place. And the light shines, pouring out of a grave, knocking guards on their asses. Morning light. Angel light. Easter light.

The stories of light pour on. A man of great darkness sees the light and is blinded on the road, then transformed to light-singer, light-preacher, light-bearer. Light breaks through dank prison walls, setting those well-sung captives free. I’ve set you up as a light to all the nations. …a city should be shinning on a hill…light of heaven, find your way to me.

This story, it is a never ending story. We find ourselves in it. We have the distinct privilege, the awesome responsibility, the unfortunately reality of adding to it. It is our foundation, it helps us orient ourselves, it is a great tell to which we add our layers. What are your stories of light? (Don’t worry if dark stories arrive first–one always follows the other.) What rises up in you, you morning person, you night owl? How does it sit with you, this idea of light? How does it jive, differ, converge, depart? Your story is a valid story. It’s a necessary story –herstory, history.

If you were with me tonight I would ask you to let your stories sing. To let them roll out of your heart, off of your tongue, to let them sit upright and noticeable on your mind.

We are the people living sometimes in light, often in darkness. We have seen…or wish we’d seen…or hope we’ll see…a great light. Lean towards it. Find it. Uncover it. Invite it. Touch fire to it. Bring light. Spin light. Find light. Cry light, bright and full liquid tears.

If you were with me tonight, I would talk about light. And things would crop up in you, wonders and disagreements, and disappointments, and thanksgivings. You would not tell them to me, or at least not many of them. So give them to yourself tonight, these things in your world that somehow whisper “light.” Let them be part of the story we find ourselves in, as people born in the light.