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Some years ago after a long semester, I went off dutifully for a week of silent retreat. I was exhausted and even a bit cranky. For days nothing seemed to be happening. Nothing the retreat director said seemed to make sense. I think I had a very bad case of acedia. You know what it's like- no energy, you feel like you're covered with a wet blanket, with a cinder block attached to each foot. Prayer seemed a quaint memory. I think I wanted to pray, but I couldn't seem to get going. The director suggested a favorite poem, a psalm, a favorite Gospel passage maybe- "Nah. I've heard all the stories before." And the antiphon running through my head was something like this: "So what. Big deal. Who cares." Acedia. A terrible case. God seemed distant, away on business. I made excuses for God. "After all God's got important stuff to take care of -- wars, famines, really poor suffering people. Who am I? Why should God be interested?"
It was only an eight-day retreat and time was running out. In a last-ditch effort, the director suggested I pray Psalm 62 backwards. "Backwards?" "Yeah, imagine Jesus is speaking the psalm to you." "O James, you are my James for you I long. For you my soul is thirsting; my body pines for you like a dry weary land without water. So I gaze on you in the sanctuary to see your strength and your glory. For your love is better than life; my lips will speak your praise." Blasphemous? Putting words in God's mouth? I don't think so, for the Lord came in on cat's feet, snuck in. Jesus spoke to me. I repeated the Psalm to Him, and He repeated it to me, back and forth. It began to sink in. It still is. And the dialogue continues. And it's what we've known all along-- that God makes the first move, that God loved us first, that our prayer, all that we do is simply response.
So how do we hear today's Gospel? Perhaps in the first moment as an exhortation, "You are the light of the world-- get to it." We've got work to do-- deeds of justice and holiness to perform to make his Kingdom come. That's true enough, but if the Lord Jesus himself calls us as a community and individually "light of the world," maybe there's something more going on.
You know Christmas was not that long ago, and we were singing, chanting like crazy-- to Christ the Light of the World. And even the author of today's Gospel only a chapter or so earlier has acclaimed Christ's bright presence by quoting Isaiah: "Land of Zebulun, land of Naphthali … the people who sat in darkness have seen a great light..for those who sat in the shadow of death a light has dawned." Christ our Light. We'll chant it again in a few more weeks at the Easter Vigil.
Well, this morning Jesus has reversed it all. "My love," he says, "you are the light of the World. My response, perhaps yours too, is "No, my love, my Lord, it is you who are my light, my salvation. You are the Light of the World; you have lighted up my darkness. You yourself have shown me the way through my darkness to light, to you who are my light. My Lord, you are the light of the world." But the Lord is insistent-- as persistent as a lover, and he says to us: "Yes and you are the light of the world, you are my light ." Can we hear this Gospel as a mutual exchange, a dialogue of love, lovers deferring to one another?
Still, it's a bit unmanageable, right? How we will be true our name, true to him? How do you feel? What's it like to be called "light of the world," when you know, I know the truth about myself-- my secret sins, my secret self? But Jesus insists, "You are the light of the world." And I want to respond, "You've got the wrong number;" for it's dark inside. But God is not daunted by our truth, our reality. God is not surprised. He sees our truth, our reality, and embraces it. For in the exquisite madness of his Incarnation, God has lost himself in love, he himself has become our truth, clothed in our flesh, in Christ Jesus our Lord, hidden in our midst, in our sinful flesh. Our reality is no surprise to him he lives in it, loves it unto death, dwells here hidden beneath our brokenness, and redeems it. He knows us through and through and still he names us light.
Perhaps our job is to let go of all the illusions we have about ourselves, illusions about who we should be, or how much progress I should have made in the spiritual life. "Rubbish," as Paul would say. Christ only wants my weakness, frail flesh where he can dwell and shine out of us. Love blazing out of our brokenness, our broken hearts if we let him in, if we refuse to get lost in self-absorption and bravely continue to do bright deeds of love. What do we have that we have not received? If we are light, it is because of Him; it is He who has made light shine out of our darkness.
We need to go to Mary for a moment, Mary, the perfect vessel, who let all God's glory shine through. How poets and scholars love to compare her to clear glass, for that is the essence of her beauty-- her transparency, her nothingness, what scares us to death, she embraces it, and so God could make his Light blaze out of her littleness and obscurity. We come to our nothingness by a route different than hers-- through our sins, our wounds, compulsions, addictions, peccadilloes, the stuff that embarrasses us, that we'd rather be rid of, whatever, the whole lot of it. If we dare to see our truth and humbly chose to give our nothingness to Him He will make lanterns out of our broken hearts.
I'm thinking of that image-- Faustina's vision: Jesus' heart with rays like searchlights gleaming out, you've all seen it. And those holy cards we grew up with His wounds were always shooting out rays of light. Of course. How else would the light get out? Our wounds, His wounds, what's broken, and cracked allow the light to shine out.
Are we tattered enough, frail, transparent enough to let his glory shine through our weakness. It's what he longs for so desperately-- our weakness, to transform it, make it glow with his tender mercy, and let his love blaze through us. It is He who has desired with deepest desire to share this feast with us this morning, coming to us on cat's feet, quietly; hidden in our nothingness, hidden again this morning in this broken bread.
C. Michael Dudash, Jesus Christ study #1, oil on linen, 10"x 8". Reflection by one of our monks.
