Sometimes I look up at the night sky and wonder how incredible it is that I am witnessing the same stars as the entirety of the human race (give or take a few). The same stars that were too many to count for Abram were the same stars that silently witnessed the transfiguration of Jesus as were they the stars that led Harriet Tubman to freedom.

Star-gazing is a helpful grounding practice for me to remember that darkness and light are not new phenomena. They have been with us long before there was an us to speak of. But the history of darkness does not obscure the feeling that darkness is overwhelming and encroaching on us at an accelerated pace. It is because of this impending darkness that the theme that most resonated with me in this week’s lectionary readings is what I desire most in this moment: light. 

In the first reading, YHWH tells Abram to look up at the innumerable specks of light dotting a pitch black canvas. It was by the measure of stars that YHWH would fulfill YHWH’s promise to him. Abram was so moved by the promise of abundant light that he laid out a choice offering before the Lord. He was moved to bring his very best to the altar and in a state of deep “terrifying darkness” that light returned to him. 

In the Psalm reading, the psalmist repeatedly refers to YHWH as “my light,” praising YHWH while pleading that YHWH’s presence be made known. I wonder if the psalmist, like Abram, was calling out from a terrifying darkness, trusting and believing that he would see the goodness of God. And then in the Gospel reading, Jesus gets cloaked in “dazzling white” while he is on the mountaintop praying with his disciples. The disciples had fallen into a deep sleep only to be startled awake by the brilliance and glory of Jesus.

No different than in Scripture, light serves as both allegorical and literal reflections of the world that we inhabit. This month, for example, in the northern hemisphere, many await the March equinox, which marks the beginning of Spring and the day that brings an equal distribution of hours of sunlight and darkness. But what is springtime for the disinherited and the marginalized? What is sunshine to the broken-hearted?

In the fall of 1962, Black American writer and poet James Baldwin delivered a lecture to the New York City Community Church entitled “The Artist’s Struggle For Integrity.” He was writing soon after the country watched with bated breath as James Meredith, escorted by Federal Marshalls, became the first Black student to enroll at the University of Mississippi after deadly riots erupted across campus. In his masterful lecture/essay from the series of uncollected writings entitled The Cross of Redemption, Baldwin addresses the need for artists to speak up with integrity in the midst of chaos.

Baldwin writes, “You must remember that most people live in almost total darkness…you are responsible to those people to lighten…This force which you didn’t ask for, and this destiny which, you must accept, is also your responsibility. And if you survive it, if you don’t cheat, if you don’t lie, it is not only your glory, your achievement, it is almost our only hope…” (55).

As a child preacher in the 1930s in Harlem, New York, Baldwin was no stranger to the themes and motifs of light and darkness in Scripture. But I would argue that it was his sensibility as a poet that enabled him not only to face the darkness, but to boldly call for light. His plea for the artist echoes the psalmist’s plea for God: “Hear me when I cry aloud, be gracious to me and answer me!” 

Why does God reveal Godself in the midst of darkness? Both Abram and the disciples are befallen by a deep, all-encompassing darkness before God’s glory is revealed to them. What does that mean about the conditions for light?

As a seminarian and a community organizer, I think often about the conditions for liberation. What will it take for things to truly change and not simply, as Baldwin writes, to seem to have changed? What these readings offer us is not a formula for producing light, but an invitation to becoming it.

For centuries mystics have gone into nature to seek the Divine. Whether it be up a mountain, out into the desert, or into the wilderness, seekers have long sought refuge in the quiet of the elements. That might not be possible especially if, like me, you live right in the middle of a city. Even still, this practice acknowledges that no matter where you go, we are covered by the same sun and the same night sky.

• Find a place where you can be in silence, preferably outdoors. Slow your breathing.
• As you close your eyes or lower gaze, recognize where in your body you might feel unsettled. Acknowledge the sensation and its location but try not to control it. 
• Extend that recognition to your friends and family and where they might be suffering or experiencing pain. Acknowledge it as you continue to deeply breathe in and out slowly. 
• Extend this awareness to your broader community, maybe your town or your city. And then to the entire world. Include all beings, human and non-human. 
• Before you move from each awareness, repeat the Psalm: “You are my light and my salvation.” 
• As you conclude your meditation, pray Psalm 27 as your own prayer.

Reflection Questions

• What are the needs in my community?
• Who in my community is already committed to meeting those needs? 
• What gifts, talents, or privileges can I offer to support them in those efforts?