Light Out Of Darkness

Given by James Covington on December 14th, 2004

I find as I grow older that I like the darkness less. At my age, that reaction is probably not an anomaly. The darkness of death is not so distant anymore, once you turn 60, so I prefer to be in the light. I am more annoyed now when I awake in the morning only to see the darkness as deep out my window as when I went to sleep. And the ephemeral blaze of sunset at 4:30 in the afternoon? Give me a break! Day has passed so quickly, it seems. I prefer to be in the daylight.

Yet, for a while, I admit I also treasure the darkness. I love its solitude. I love the sleep the darkness invites me to fall into. And ironically and poetically, in my darkest moments I have learned the most profound lessons. The darkness represents the fallow period when the light is hidden away. It is the promise, like the coming of the babe at Christmas, that light will come again, will come out of the very darkness—but this is the tricky part. The darkness in our culture is too often pushed away, but it is the darkness that gives way to light, and then light, to darkness. It is the way of the world, the rhythm of nature. We must learn to praise the darkness as well as the light. For there is a kind of experience that the darkness brings that I treasure. Darkness invites introspection. Darkness leads to the depths of the self sometimes. Through the darkness we find the light.

When I was in my late twenties I became very despairing about my vocation as a minister. I had become deeply disenchanted about a number of things, but especially my ministry. It was one of the darkest periods of my life. I felt so anguished in my soul. I talked about it with my closest friends. I kept a journal by my bedside where I would write copiously about my doubts and feelings, especially my fear and anger. I pursued psychotherapy and there I talked nonstop about my confusion, my distaste for Southern Baptist fundamentalism and what other vocation I could choose. In time, however, the darkness lifted. I finally made a decision to leave the ministry and I felt liberated. I was transformed, actually–transformed by the light of consciousness. Out of the darkness, came light. Or perhaps, it was the darkness that led me to the light.

But the darkness can also represent the demonic in human nature. Certainly there is much darkness in the world today—terror everywhere and genocide in Sudan; war in Iraq and poverty and hunger abound. There are days when I feel so overwhelmed and depressed by the darkness! . Human history is filled with days and centuries of darkness. Alas, I wish it did not have to be. Yet, out of the darkness always comes new creation. We have to believe that, don’t we? As A. Powell Davies once said, “with all our fears and failing, humankind has yet somehow managed to put the brightest of our festivals in the darkest part of the year.

For example, I saw light in the darkness just this week when I learned that moderate scholars of Islam are fighting to restore their beloved faith to its roots of compassion and to reclaim it from the extremists who have hijacked their faith in the name of the darkness of death. There it is—a flicker of light in the darkness of death.

Sometimes we can remain in darkness too long. Perhaps one feels safer in the darkness. Often times, because of medical or clinical reasons, we have no choice. In those cases, one definitely needs medical help. But often we do have choice. Our instinct is to move toward the light—our language, our common expressions, move us there. We say, “Ah, she is the light of my life.” We say, “The light of the Spirit.” We say, “It was like seeing the light of day.” And on and on.

It is significant that various religious traditions have rituals of light this time of year. Of course decorative lights abound everywhere—trees and windows, rooftops and tall buildings. I love the lights, especially on a clear night in the city. Then, there is the Christian tradition and the light of the star; those of the Jewish faith light the menorah; the celebration of light in the Hindu religion is called Divali; Kwanzaa is a celebration of African culture and community in which the seven candles of kinara are lit. The Winter Solstice is celebrated by many who are more earth-centered in their religious life, and that is the time of the turning of the darkness toward the light.

But when I am honest, I know that the light and the darkness are one, absolutely and irrevocably entwined. I stated earlier that in my darkest moments I have learned the most profound lessons. How have I learned the most profound lessons? Usually through pain of loss and longing for connection and purpose. From what source does my truest compassion flow? Ironically, sometimes from despair and loss.

Two weeks ago, Suzanne and I sat with our friend, Rob, at his hospital bed. Rob was dying from lung cancer. He was in constant pain. I had the honor of officiating his wedding three years ago. He has two small children now, one only three months old. Suzanne and I reached out to him, touched his shoulder, and held his hand and found ourselves weeping, simply loving this sweet human being who was dying. I was angry. I wanted to shake my fists at God and heaven and demand to know the reason for life’s unfairness. I wanted to make it right. But we were only able to be with him, in tears. Maybe, I thought, that was the best thing I could offer. Not advice, not even prayers, but just our tears and our love. Oh, how precious and brief the light of life can be! Rob died two days later on Thanksgiving day.

And sometimes the darkness comes seemingly from nowhere. Pema Chodren, a Buddhist nun, speaks of “feeding the ghost.” Unreasonableness comes out of the blue, she says. Out of nowhere we suddenly feel sad. Or we’re furious, and we don’t know why—but we want to strike back at something or someone. In her tradition, we don’t try to push these feelings away, but we develop a relationship with them as a spiritual practice. She suggests that you have a ceremony in which you offer a torma—or a little cake—to these ghosts. You could even put it out each morning. That sudden unreasonableness that comes out of nowhere is called the don, she says—it wakes you up, and being with the don has the power to purify you.

We Unitarian Universalists are not easily led into the shadow side of our personalities. No, we try to talk ourselves out of these unreasonable feelings. If anything, we are a reasonable people. You know the old joke. A Unitarian Universalist dies and rises up toward the Pearly Gates. He comes to a sign pointing in two different directions: one says, “This Way to Heaven,” and the other says, “This Way to a Discussion About Heaven.” He, of course, follows the second path.

Well, if that were me nowadays, I think I would choose the first sign. I have had enough discussion about the questions. Just let me sit in heaven for a while. Or just let me sit in the darkness and listen to the silence.

I remember the time when I was called to the home of a woman who told me that she needed spiritual guidance. She was highly intelligent, a very well-educated professional. After a few introductory pleasantries, she began to seek my advice about her search for deeper meaning. She had a stack of books about two feet high, as I remember, and she began asking me about various titles. “What do you think of this one?” “What about this author? Do you know his work?” I grew quiet. My answer surprised her, I think. I said, “The answers are not in these books. You have all the answers already. Put the books away and listen to the voice within.” We must become listeners in the darkness, sometimes—listeners who have nothing to say.

It’s counter-intuitive to invite the demons into your consciousness, to even give them cakes—but that is the practice that will allow you to turn again to the light, knowing that the darkness led you there. Do not forsake the darkness, and the darkness will reward you richly. I know that with myself, when I try to escape the darkness—and I do—when I pray to be released, I may only be led deeper. The words of Jeremiah speak their truth. Jeremiah 13:16 reads: “When you look for light, he turns it into gloom, and makes it deep darkness.”

When I do a memorial service for someone, I always explicitly say that the individual is dead—not that “he has gone to a better place,” or “she passed away,” nor any of the other euphemisms, but rather, she is dead. That is the truth that must be registered, that must be taken in, before we can go on to celebrate that person’s life.

Parker Palmer, a Quaker educator, writes of the death of his father: “A few years ago, my father died. He was more than a good man, and the months following his death were a long, hard winter for me. But in the midst of that ice and loss, I came into a certain clarity that I lacked when he was alive. I saw something that had been concealed when the luxuriance of his love surrounded me—saw how I had relied on him to help me cushion life’s harder blows. When he could no longer do that, my first thought was, “Now I must do it for myself.” But as time went on, I saw a deeper truth: it never was my father absorbing those blows but a larger and deeper grace that he taught me to rely on.” The darkness of death took Palmer to the illumination of truth, lent him grace.

In the darkness that envelopes us now, in the midst of a winter that chills us to the bone, our hearts may turn wintry, and we may think the wind and the cold will never stop. But the season will balance out, and spring will come again, and grace will return.

Our yearning is the very force that draws us to the Holy. Our yearning makes the Holy necessary. Did I say “Holy?” When I speak of Holy I mean the essence of love that flows through all things and dispels the indifference of the universe and pierces the darkness with divine light.

Did I say “divine?” To my poetic mind, “divine” represents that which is whole and pure—the wholeness of truth and the purity of thought that will pierce the conscience like light from the sun.

Do we want love at the very center of our lives? We say we do. Well then, we must treasure our longing. Perhaps, we must fall in love with love itself. We must find beauty in our yearning. But how can we bear it? In our reaching is our receiving. In our receiving is the love, the peace, we seek. But, we must reach first!

In his play called “J.B.”, one of my favorites of all time, Archibald MacLeish helps us to find the light in the darkness.

“J.B.” is a modern takeoff of Job. It’s about a contemporary man who loses everything he has, and he struggles to find meaning in the midst of such hopelessness. Perhaps one could call it a mid-life crisis. At the end of the play J.B.’s wife, Sarah, returns, to give him a breath of hope.

“It’s too dark to see,” he says.

Sarah replies, “Then blow on the coal of the heart, my darling.”

J.B. asks, “The coal of the heart?”

And Sarah speaks out: “It’s all the light now. Blow on the coal of the heart. The candles in church are out. The lights have gone out in the sky. Blow on the coal of the heart and … we’ll see where we are…”

Like Sarah, I ask you this morning to blow on the coal of your heart:

In the midst of the darkness of commercialization, blow the mysterious spirit of Hanukkah and Christmas back into flame, just like the children did earlier in the service this morning.

In the midst of grief and sadness and the darkness of despair, blow the enduring spirit of hope back into flame.

In the midst of hate and fear and uncertainty, blow the sustaining spirit of love back into flame.

Carry that burning coal of love wherever you go. Let it always be glowing in the darkness. Let it always show you the way. Feed it. Nourish it. Let it burn bright and warm within you.

Blow on the coal of the heart, my dear, dear companions along the way, and you will see that light out of darkness will come.

Amen.