A guest posting from my friend, Father Paul Gennett. See more at his church's website
here.
“O come, thou
Dayspring from on high, and cheer us by thy drawing
nigh; disperse the
gloomy clouds of night, and death’s dark shadow put
to flight …” Verse
6, Hymn #56, The Hymnal 1982
I spent more time in our sanctuary
this week. Just sitting in silence,
praying the names of the twenty
children and six adults killed at
Sandy Hook Elementary School last
Friday morning at 9:30 a.m. Yet
again I wonder how, in this time of hope
and holiness this season
desires to bring to our world, the darkness of
the human soul and
death shrouds our hearts. And then, God gave me light
for my heavy
heart.
Each time while sitting in prayer,
I noticed the light of the day
playfully pouring through the southeast
windows. One day, the blinding
brightness embracing our processional
cross. Another day, more subdued
shades of light flickered and danced
across the wooden pews. Another
day, the most brilliant array of colors
through the stained glass
window in the front. I just sat in silence as
the light shifted and
moved in its daily course, being open to the light
of God’s healing
and hope restored in this soul.
We
come to the shortest day of light in the year, the winter solstice
on
December 21. Then we begin again, moving slowly yet inexorably
toward
the sun’s bright rays and growing warmth in our days again. The
flow of
Advent to Christmas is much the same for me. I hear the darker
words of
the prophets of doom and judgment upon “the quick and the
dead,” being
held in that tension of St. Paul’s call to “Rejoice! I
say again,
Rejoice!” and to mother Mary’s radiant light glowing from
her womb of
God’s Spirit within her.
I have been blessed with an Advent
meditation appearing in my e-mail
each day written by the Reverend Brian
Taylor for the CREDO Institute.
I like what he writes on Day 13 about
tension we hold living in this
in-between time, ever seeking to be the
hope bearers and light
birthers to our world. He writes, “On a white
wall, the sun comes
through a window at a low angle. The patch of light
is separated by
the mullions on my window. Dancing gently in the light
are shadows of
leaves on the tree outside. This sight always stops me
and tugs at my
heart. Everything becomes very still, except for one
thing: the gently
shifting shadows and light.
This is
the gentle mood of this season, too. We are stopped, our
hearts are
tugged, by shadow and light, with the earlier night, the
longer shadows,
the softer light. In my part of the country on
Christmas Eve, we
light luminarias—votive candles imbedded in sand, inside a glowing
paper
bag, hundreds, if not thousands of them flickering in the dark
night,
lighting the way for the Holy Family as they seek
shelter.
One sees this same interplay of light and darkness in
the famous icon
of Christ Pantocrator, from the monastery of St.
Catherine at Mt.
Sinai. If you cover the right side of the image and
look at the left
side alone, he seems innocent, open, clear, seemingly
loving, and
completely present to the viewer. But if you cover the left
side and
look at the right side alone, it is quite another matter. He
seems
complex, dark, somewhat hidden, a tad frightening. But both are
Christ—
light and shadow. He loves and heals, but he also judges and
divides
with a sword. He says Blessed are they and Woe to them. If
Christ
doesn’t scare and confound us a little bit, I suspect we’re
leaving
something out.
We, too, are interplay of shadow
and light in this season. We gather
with family and friends around a
loving and abundant table, but
there’s someone we have never reconciled
with. We examine our hearts
to prepare a place for the Christ child to
be born, and discover it
hasn’t been tended in awhile; it’s got dust and
stains that are a
little too obvious for comfort. We enter the joy of
the holidays, but
a shadow crosses our soul as a loss is remembered, as
a sense of
emptiness returns.”
“O come, O come,
Emmanuel …”
In peace always, your servant in Christ,
Paul+
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