As I was praying with these readings this week, I found myself really drawn into the idea of darkness that we see in the first reding from Isaiah. There is something really unsettling about darkness. It’s not just the fact that we have trouble seeing in the dark, it’s more so that we lose our sense of where we are when things are cloaked in darkness. In those moments, even those more familiar spaces feel strange and we feel out of place. It’s disorienting. We find ourselves moving more slowly. We second guess every step, we’re extra cautious. And I think that’s why Scripture so often uses darkness not to as a punishment, but really more as an indication of when we maybe aren’t as close to God as we should be.
(Now, that doesn’t necessarily apply to everyone’s experience of darkness and I want to acknowledge that there are some situations with mental health, for instance, where it goes a bit deeper than just something spiritual.)
But despite that, when we look at darkness through that spiritual lens, I think for many of us, we may not realize how much darkness we’ve learned to live with. That experience doesn’t always come on dramatically; instead, most of the time, we settle into it quietly. It comes through fatigue and distraction. It is a slow drifting away from what really matters. Half the time, I don’t think we even notice it all at once. We just sort of adjust to it.
That’s exactly what Isaiah is talking about today. He’s pointing out the experience of the people of Israel. When we look at their story, their life as a community had been hard for a long time. They had been invaded, their homeland desecrated. They had experienced great loss, uncertainty, and doubt about what was to come. And instead of promising a quick fix, what does the Lord offer them? He promises to give them light. He’s not necessarily offering answers or explanations. He simply wants to give light, something that lets them see again, something that helps them find their way.
We see that promise become real in the Gospel. Notice, Jesus begins His ministry not in a place of comfort or control; He’s not specifically dealing with the rich and the powerful or even the religious leaders of the day. Where does He start? In Galilee. A place with these ordinary towns and ordinary people. And the first thing He does is invite them closer. He tells them to repent, to turn away from their old ways, to embrace something new. He tells them that the Kingdom is near, that God isn’t far off anymore. He’s actually right there with them!
Then He calls his first disciples – Peter, Andrew, James, and John. And when He does that, He doesn’t share with them exactly what’s going to happen; He doesn’t offer them the end game; He doesn’t even give them a plan for how this is going to work. He gives them Himself and He invites them with a simple phrase: “Follow me.” And somehow, that’s enough for them to drop what they are doing and go. They don’t even know what they’re getting themselves into. They don’t even know what they’re really looking for. But they do know one thing…something is different about this guy. There is something special about Jesus and they respond with faith. They’re responding to a Presence.
That same Presence is why we’re here. We didn’t come to Mass today just to hear a reading or say familiar prayers. We came because Jesus has called us here. In fact, in one of the Eucharistic Prayers we use at Mass, the Church asks the Lord to “listen graciously to the prayers of this family whom you have summoned before you.” Jesus is still drawing close to us. He continues to step into our lives and wants to be with us and dwell in our hearts. He still meets us right where we are.
Sometimes we think we need to have everything figured out before we come to Him, we think we can’t even approach Him if our lives resemble anything close to a dumpster fire. We think that our lives have to be neatly put in order. The truth is, the Lord asks us to come worthily, in the state of grace, but He doesn’t ask us to come pretending that we have it all together. We can still be struggling with things. Do we really think the Apostles had their lives together before Jesus called them? Of course not…and yet He called them anyway. The same happens to us whenever we come to Mass, when Jesus gives us His very self.
The Eucharist is how He comes to us. It’s nourishment for those who desire to live in the light and are willing to keep turning back to Him even when we fall. When we receive the Eucharist, the Light doesn’t stay at a distance. He comes to us…quietly, humbly, mysteriously. Under the appearance of bread and wine. We don’t necessarily know how that happens, we can’t fully comprehend it. And yet, the Eucharist is the same Jesus who walked through Galilee, who called sinners and saints alike, who brought healing, hope, restoration.
Today, when we receive the Eucharist, don’t rush that moment. Don’t let it be something where we just go through the motions. Let the Creator of the Universe, let the One who gave His life for us…let Him meet you there. Ask Him to shine His light on one place in your life that feels tired, or confused, or dim. Not every place that needs attention. Just one place. Start with one.
We have to remember that light doesn’t overwhelm; it guides, it slowly illumines. And if we let the Lord do that work in us, we will find ourselves walking differently when we leave Mass today. Because the Light of the World does not stay on the altar. We consume Him, He becomes part of us, and He goes with us so that we can go out and share that light with others.
Photo: Michel Stockman. Used under Unsplash license.
Fr. Tom Pringle 