“May Christ the Light shine upon you and scatter the darkness in your path.” Those words were spoken by the pastor at the conclusion of the worship gathering today. Hearing them, I listened no further as my mind shifted to this past week. The darkness in the nation’s path. The darkness swarming up the Capitol steps, shoving and smashing. “Scatter the darkness in your path.” Yes, Lord, as I pointed to those who had yelled threats and had broken windows, doors and bodies. Scatter the darkness in our path.
Then the darkness metaphor began to break down for me. It is not darkness that is dangerous, I protested, to myself. In fact, I have befriended darkness. Darkness provides the time for birds and squirrels to quiet the chirping and chatter. Their sounds gradually settle and dissipate as dusk grows deeper. Darkness invites me to me to lean back, gaze at the stars and trace the moon’s path for as long as I can be patient. Darkness begs me to quiet my brain, to relax and sleep. Darkness, perhaps with a candle, invites me to center into prayer. Darkness is as holy as light. It is not darkness that is the danger.
I remember one night while backpacking on the AT when I woke up and crawled out of my tent to head for the camp privy. (The timing was poor planning on my part.) Surrounding me in the wooded area were a number of tents with tired hikers, like myself, who at dusk had settled into their tents to sleep. Now I had to cautiously weave my way in the direction of the privy path. Careful not to shine my flashlight onto any tents, I paid attention to landmarks the flashlight made visible. A large boulder. A fallen tree. The worn path.
When returning, I left the privy path at what I thought was the right spot, but I soon discovered I couldn’t find my tent among all the others. I slowly wandered around in the dark, trying not to wake anyone up by tripping over tent stakes. It seemed like an anxious eternity until finally with relief I recognized the faint, shadowy orange of my hiking buddy’s tent. Only then was I able to locate my smaller tent several yards beyond. No, it wasn’t the darkness that was the problem. The “danger,” mild though it was, was only caused by me. I had chosen to walk at night on unfamiliar, forested ground with potentially hidden roots, tent lines and rocks.
On our path of being human, what is hidden in our hearts can also trip us up and cause us to stumble. What is dangerous about our human hearts are those things we don’t want to see in ourselves, what we refuse to bring to light, the excuses, what we pretend to be “god” for us but can’t be. Those are the hidden heart things that make it easier for me to rush into blaming someone else. So do I really want Christ’s light to scatter the darkness of my path? Do I really want Christ’s light to shine into the closets of my hiding motives, attitudes, things done and left undone, things said and left unsaid? Only with hidden things acknowledged in myself can I then see more truthfully who Christ is calling me to be and the path Christ’s light is directing me toward.
And so the warning from what I saw happening at the Capitol this week is how easily any of us, myself included, can deceive ourselves. My pastor’s blessing as we departed worship is much needed—not that we be protected from others. We need an outpouring of Christ’s loving light to enter the closet corners within our hearts so that we can be set free to do justice, love mercy, and walk authentically and humbly with God. And that path is one that God intends for all humanity, transforming us heart by heart, and is a path contagious with its joy.
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