All the powers in the universe are already ours. It is we who have put our hands before our eyes and cry that it is dark. --Swami Vivekananda (a quotation that popped up in my Facebook feed this morning)
My week has been repeatedly infused with discourse about light. And whenever that happens--that consistent messaging about topic or theme--I think it's worth paying attention to.
I generally think of Advent (not Lent) as the season that presents us with the "darkest before the dawn" lesson, in order to instill the messages of anticipation and hope the holiday incurs. Jesus' birth, at least for the purposes of aligning Christian practices with the pre-existing pagan rituals around winter solstice, occurs just at that time of year where we have the shortest span of sunlight in the day. And things were dark in Judea in the era of Classical Antiquity. In the macrocosm, King Herod, according to the reputation that has survived him, presents as a bloodthirsty tyrant, obsessed with his own power, and, according to one historian whose identity I did not bother to ascertain, was "prepared to commit any crime in order to gratify his unbounded ambition." I wonder if Herod also wore spray tan, a terrible hair piece, and looked like a fat, hideous orange . . . Anyway, dark times-- with no reasonable expectation that things would be different anytime soon. On a microcosmic level, a thirteen or fourteen year old Jewish girl, Mary of Nazareth, was pregnant and, as far as anyone could tell, not by the man to whom she was betrothed. Thanks to the misogynistic Mosaic laws of the time, Joseph was entitled to a public stoning of Mary for this bitter humiliation, but decided it more suited his interests to quietly separate from her. Incidentally, this life-saving mercy is Joseph's first demonstration of the agape form of love for which his "foster" son would later be famous. And then executed. Moreover, as an outcome of meditation or hallucination, Joseph decides to not abandon Mary, but stick it out and be a father to this child he knows is not his. If these biblical renderings stick in historical truth, Jesus is literally born from selfless love, sacrifice, faith, and trust in the goodness of people. At the solstice, the earth turns enough to shift the light/dark balance--and an increasing light pours forth into our days. Faith has a fascinating way of manifesting solutions. Love begets light to combat the darkness of fear.
In today's Gospel reading (and, full disclosure, I did not go to mass today), Jesus encounters a Samaritan woman at a well. Jesus, a Jewish man, has two points of superiority over this woman, yet he asks a service of her--"give me a drink." She is baffled by his approach and tells him so. In order to convince her of his sincerity and his loving acceptance, Jesus allows the woman to know he sees her--in the light of all her marital flaws--and still believes she can be of vital service to him. He sees she has something to offer. His friends are baffled by this encounter as well -- something along the lines of, "Bro--what are you talking to this bitch for?" Indeed, it was this mindset of non-judgment and inclusivity that earned this man an uncomfortable perch on a wooden cross in the ensuing months. I like to think of this woman experiencing a dark time. Jesus perceives real loss, real pain. We do not get the sordid backstory of this woman's failed romantic/domestic ventures, but she does not seem to be beaming with pride with her honest admission, "I have no husband." Jesus neither criticizes her status, nor minimizes her precarious social position. He simply states the truth as he understands it: "You are right . . . you have had five husbands, and the one you have now is not your husband." No scolding. No interrogation. No threat to publicly shame or punish her. Nothing but a statement of truth and a pause to make space for her next contribution to the conversation. The darkness this woman harbors is met with the light of Jesus' acceptance of her as she is. And the only thing she can imagine is that he must be a prophet--divinely inspired and protected. How else could he be so . . . kind?
Today, as my secret society newcomer and I progressed through her "moral inventory" of fears and relationship pathologies, she slumped in her chair and said through falling tears, "I'm afraid that I don't like myself." I grabbed her hands and said sternly across the table: "You DON'T like yourself. That's a fact. There's nothing to be afraid of. There's only the work of correcting that self-destructive position. Let's get to it." Here's the truth that Jesus understands in his conversation with the woman at the well: she's an imperfect human being with her own mistakes and fears to count. She's been judged by society, I'm sure. But there's no need of that. She's judged herself far longer and way more harshly than anyone else ever could. Imagine how freeing it was for the Samaritan woman to understand that she wasn't fooling anyone. That people could know the truth about her and still want to speak to her. To hear from her. Still ask her to be in service to the world. Still find her useful. In having her admit her shame, Jesus forces the woman to acknowledge her own lovability. There's nothing more freeing--more light and life giving than that.
May I share a light of honesty and empathy with others today. May the love light I shine be powered by acceptance and gratitude for what IS. May the gifts I receive include illuminating perspective and shame-destroying connection.
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