Isaiah 9:1-4; Psalm 27:1, 5-13; I Corinthians 1:10-18; Matthew 4:12-23
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
One need only turn on the news, open the paper, or click a few keys on the keyboard to learn of the next disastrous event happening in the world. Unfortunately, the last couple of weeks has hit home to many of us in that same sense of disaster—the tornadoes that took the lives of nine people and left a path of destruction among which was my mother’s home, as well as countless other homes of other people’s mothers and fathers and brothers and sisters, cousins and aunts and uncles and friends. And then, two of our members lost family members to violent deaths—unexpected losses in unimaginable ways. The world can seem so dark at times.
Isaiah reminds us that “the people who walk in darkness have seen a great light” because even though “they have lived in a land of deep darkness, on them light has shined.” The psalmist reminds us that “the Lord is our light and our salvation.” In our gospel reading, Jesus fulfills what Isaiah has spoken, “The people who sat in great darkness have seen a great light, for those who sit in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.” The Bible does not sugar coat life in this world—instead we are always reminded that even in our suffering and grief, our doubts and misery, there is hope.
Last week when the tornadoes blew through central Alabama, I was listening to WSFA Live on my computer. I heard Josh or one of the weather guys say that the Selma Country Club had lost its roof and my heart immediately sank. There is only one other time that I remember feeling the kind of fear that bubbles up from the pit of your stomach and pushes out any calm or peace or even rational thought and that was when I witnessed Steve’s parent’s SUV plunge over a bridge on I-65. They survived that fall only by the grace of God but in the moment I witnessed it, my only thought was, “They are dead.” That was the same fear that gripped me last week.
At first, it didn’t dawn on me that my mother’s house was immediately in the path of the tornado that hit the country club. She lives past the greens, through the woods, and over the creek away from the club. Instead, my immediate concern went to Coralie, Steve’s mother, who lives one street over from the club on the north side. I called her and discovered that she was safe, her house had not been hit and she had no damage. While I was talking to her, my mother’s neighbor texted me a picture of her house in which the roof was flying off in the air. Though I had recovered some of my peace, that picture plunged me into a fresh pit of terror. I immediately hung up with Coralie and called my mother who answered with a bright and cheery, “Hello!” It was obvious she was not in Selma.
I asked mom where she was. “On the way to Mississippi,” was her reply. I asked her if she knew that there were tornados in the area and she said yes, she had driven through two warnings—and I couldn’t even fuss at her because I realized she knew nothing of what had happened to her and my father’s home of the last twenty plus years. Instead I asked her if she had her dogs with her—hoping against hope that she did but knowing the answer even before she told me she had left them at the house as her maid was going to stay with them for the weekend. That was when I had to tell her she needed to turn around and come home, that her house had been hit by a tornado.
Her dogs are ok. They were locked in the kitchen, the only room in the house that was completely undamaged. The closet under the stairs was also undamaged—which is where she goes whenever a tornado warning happens in Selma—so she would have been safe. But the devastation and destruction of the rest of the house was not good. The entire roof had been blown off as had the side porch—only a cross remained hanging on the wall. The chimney had fallen over—part of it lay in the backyard and the other part lay on the floor of the upstairs guest room which also sported a brand new skylight. Her canopy bed was holding up the ceiling on her side of the house. Several windows had blown out and though much of the upstairs was lost, a lot of the downstairs was salvageable. It was a mess and the initial shock of it, though devastating, was couched in what will never be a cliché, “A house can be replaced, a life cannot.”
Driving into Selma after so much destruction was like driving into a war zone. Parts of the town were in pristine condition as if no great weather event had even happened. And then, you got to the zone of destruction and began to wonder how no one was killed—every single house and tree in that zone was damaged. Trees lay across streets, fallen through roofs, on top of cars, and the wind had sheared off the tops of every two-story house and the peeks of the roofs of many single stories. It was a bit eerie as few people were moving. We brought chain saws, boards, drills, and tarps and were among the first to begin cutting trees in Old Town. Soon others arrived to help and by the end of the day Friday, the neighborhoods effected were filled with the sounds of tree removal and salvage.
Late Friday morning, as we were trying to move as much as we could out of the house, we began to hear honking from the bottom—the part of the neighborhood below mother’s house. There is one road and an alley that get into that part and both were clogged with trees making it impossible for any of the neighbors to get in or out. Several of the folks helping us immediately turned their attention to the street and started cutting away the trees that had fallen across the road. Pretty soon they had cleared a path and discovered that though there was some roof damage, most of the bottom neighbors were in pretty good shape. On Saturday, some of our crew went to help folks in other neighborhoods as well as neighbors of my mother. The same thing happened again on Sunday. Neighbors helping neighbors, strangers helping strangers. Churches and disaster response teams from out of town started arriving and the city became more and more filled with people—not because of Selma’s history but because of her need. She had been in darkness and now light had begun to fill her.
We are called to be light bearers in the world. We are not the light, but we carry the light of Christ into a dark and anxious world that has forgotten God’s abundance, concern, and joy for us. We think that what it means to be a light bearer is to do something—to have particular skills or gifts or resources—and that can be true, but what it really means is to be present. To show up. To share your life with another especially in their times of pain and doubt and misfortune.
One of our members told me he didn’t feel like he had really done anything even though he had come to Selma to help last weekend. He did a lot of lifting but simply his presence helped to lift some of the gloom from my shoulders. That is our call as bearers of the light—to show up and care for one another in all the ways we can. Maybe it is a text or email or Facebook message. Maybe it is cooking a meal for others. Maybe it is knocking on someone’s door to simply say I care about you. The truth is that as long as we allow the darkness to burden us, our lights can begin to dim. And the way to rekindle those lights are always through interpersonal ways.
John the Baptist has been arrested. Things look bleak—and because we already know the outcome for John the Baptist, we know how truly dark the world will become. And it is in this moment that Jesus chooses to kindle the light. He goes to the sea of Galilee, and begins to call disciples—people whom he sees something special in. He starts with fishermen, calling them to fish for people—spreading the light throughout Galilee by spreading Good News—not fear and anxiety. In the midst of darkness, Jesus kindles the light of the Good News of the kingdom.
Jesus’ response to darkness is to spread light—not simply by himself, but by engaging and encouraging others to become part of that mission. One person cannot clean up the tornado damage across Central AL, but many can. Yesterday, over a thousand people came to do the work of restoring Selma—a thousand points of light. Our presence—in big and small ways—scatters the darkness not because we are the light, but because we bear the light of Christ for all the world to see. Speak good news. Be good news. You are bearers of Christ’s light in this dark and broken world.