By the REV. DR. CLAIR MCPHERSON
“Almighty God, give us grace to cast away the works of darkness,
and put on the armor of light.”
That is the first thing we say to God as we open the Church year with
the classic Collect for Light on 1 Advent. It is one of the ancient
Collects, going back at least to Gregory I (6-7th century) and probably
to the earliest Church.
It is fitting in every way that a prayer for Light should open Advent.
Because during that quietly joyful time, as we practice the sacred
art of waiting, we observe the passage of time by building up the light:
as both days and nights get darker, our worship spaces get brighter
and brighter, centering on the Wreath that grows in light, perceptibly,
week by week. The season is lovely, and deep inside we know it is lovely
because it tells us this: the darkness outside will never overcome
the light within.
Light, said Dionysius, is the best symbol in the naturalworld for
God. There is something primal, elemental about it, and the Church
has always understood that.
One of my strongest convictions is that modern science has reinforced,
rather than shattered, the foundations of the Judeo-Christian faith.
Nowhere is this more valid than in the case of light. We still do not
know exactly what it is—it remains a mystery—but twentieth-century
science uncovered new facts on the subject, showing us several stunning
things. For one thing, it is literally the speed limit: nothing can
travel faster than light and still exist (roughly 186,000 miles a second).
Science established this fact, that Light is “our one true constant,” the
paradigmatic phenomenon of the cosmos, the energy form by which others
are measured and understood.
This fact came as a surprise to the worldly mind, but Christianity
already knew all about Light being primary. Theology (as so often)
expressed it long ago. God’s first words were “let light
exist,” and everything else followed. That is, Light comes into
being, curiously, before the things we normally call “sources” of
light: the sun, the moon, start. In the beginning, there is only one
source of light. It is, according to Scripture, primary. Suspiciously
close to what Albert Einstein discovered about it. The same Einstein
who said that God does not play with dice.
Science then discovered that light is inherently paradoxical: it is
both an uninterrupted wave and a series of discreet particles. In other
words, it actually is, and it is not, continuous. It is two things
at once, a fact might seem nonsensical to the ordinary mind.
Such a thing is commonplace to the Christian consciousness, however.
Paradox is at the “dark and magical” heart of our faith,
as Graham Greene put it. We are used to notions such as God become
human, death leading to life, suffering being holy. We have wrestled
like Jacob with a Christ who is “true God of true God” yet
was “made human.” For light to be in two modes is scarcely
a stretch for us.
Light has expanded the secular imagination as well. In 1806, “long-distance
travel” meant something like “from New York to Hong Kong
(several thousand miles).” In 2006, it means “a light year
(or nearly 6 trillion miles).” The difference is—as we
now say—a quantum leap. For the secular imagination that is really
quite a new thought. The world suddenly seemed much smaller, the cosmos
much larger, than ever before.
For the Christian, for whom the infinite is an everyday reality and
the Eternal more real than This Minute, it is quite familiar. Light
years as a unit of travel simply make sense, given our God who,
as Gregory I says, can hold the cosmos in his palm (yes, Gregory said
it, eight centuries before Julian)
People used to guess at how we came to our ability to view light, with
some of the old theories seeming ludicrous now. Now we know it is a matter
of light striking a network of nerves in our eyes that are tuned to the
frequency we call (with circular reasoning) visible light. But there
is really more to light than that. There is plenty of light we cannot
see, just as there are sounds we cannot hear (but our humble dogs can).
Space is viewed by many as mostly empty darkness. But now we know that
it is far from empty but instead full of energy: strange and eerie energy
that most scientists call dark matter. We are miles—light years—from
understanding what that energy really is. It only looks dark because
our eyes cannot see it.
For centuries, we, as a human race, have been trying to understand darkness.
As we say in the Psalm, “Darknessis not dark to you, O Lord.”
The theme of Light victorious over dark is woven throughout our faith
tradition. It opens and closes Holy Scripture. It marks the Great Vigil
of Easter, the primary feats of Resurrection, when the Eucharistic
Bread is broken as the sun rises. It was a central part of Baptism,
as the candidates faced west, the direction of the setting sun, and
renounced evil, then turned to face the rising sun, and united with
Christ. And in very small ways, we have always intuited the sheer simplicity
of Light: to this day, no matter how modern the technology in our Church
buildings, we almost always light candles: the perfect symbol of living
light.
Fifth-grade children today are introduced to a vision of the world
where we are stardust, where space is curved, where there is neither
up nor
down, where time is space, where matter is in motion
and motion is ubiquitous. And where Light is absolute.
While it shatters common sense, it also affirms our faith. Such a world
is practically predicated by a faith that sees God as the circle whose
circumference is everywhere and whose center nowhere. We are God’s
children, not just God’s handiwork. Where God’s first words
were “let there be light.”
I have never been a great admirer of the last Book of the Bible, Revelation.
I believe it has done more harm than good. It was included as a vision
of the end times, of course. And that is something we--human beings,
that is--do indeed need. But for me, the best doctrine on the end times
in Scripture is already found in the opening words of the Fourth Gospel: “..and
the darkness could not comprehend it.” I take that as a statement
for all time, and a prediction. For that Gospel first postulates that
single pinpoint of light, shining in the darkness, and then lets it
spread. That is all the eschatology I need: in the beginning, God said
let there be light. And in the end, the cosmos washed with it. We cannot
even ask or imagine what wonders, beauties, and blessings we shall
see. But for now, remember one more word from Gregory. The Holy Spirit,
he reminds us, came as tongues of fire. So that we would be warmed
to our tasks. And to provide that Armor of Light we pray for.
When Christmas Hurts