It was a Sunday afternoon, and the occasion was a concert the bell ringers were putting on. I cannot remember if there were bell ringers from other congregations here – there may have been – but I do remember it as being an important event. That it was a fine late winter’s day had not kept people away, and there was quite a crowd. The bell choir was arrayed in their usual formation, right down here on the floor level to the side of the pulpit, and they played magnificently. I had no role in this event, and for a change I was just a pew sitter enjoying the concert.

After some time, however, shafts of the late afternoon sun began to move through the Meetinghouse, sparkling on the brass bells as they lay on the tables, gleaming off the bells as they were raised to ring. Dust motes filtered through the air; together with the sublime music of the arrangements, they lent a bit of a mystical aura to the proceedings.

But after awhile, I noticed that one shaft of sunlight was moving upwards over Stan Warren, the Arnold Schwarzenneger of our bell choir, and the glare was beginning to make it difficult for him to read his music. I had had a similar experience officiating at a wedding here, and the result was that for a moment I had been blinded by a shaft of light which had broken through on an otherwise overcast day – the bride and groom had just disappeared from right in front of me! So I knew something had to be done, and so, quietly as I could, I raced up to the balcony, located the window through which that shaft of light was beaming into the Meetinghouse, and, not seeing a shade or any material at hand with which to block the light, I simply stood up on the pew and attempted as best I could do be a human pair of blinds. And it worked – my shadow allowed Stan to keep seeing his music and the concert continued right along.

Perhaps you can understand my confusion. As I understood my role as pastor and teacher here, one of the things you expect me to do is to shed light on our faith, to help illuminate the human predicament and God’s plan for our salvation, to uncover for you the Light of the World, Jesus Christ. But here it seemed I was doing just the opposite, not providing illumination, but blocking it, and yet, to good effect.

The Bible and our faith often speak in terms of light as a positive image of God and God’s wisdom. In Genesis 1 darkness covers the face of the deep, and then God creates light – and calls it “good” – a favorable descriptor not applied to the darkness. Last week, when we considered the Transfiguration of Jesus, the holiness of Jesus was indicated by the light streaming from his face and the dazzling brilliance of his white garments. In the first chapter of the Gospel of Jesus Christ according to John, Jesus is described as “the light of the world” – not, of course, as “the black hole of the universe”. And we sing songs such as “Immortal, Invisible, God Only Wise”, which speaks of God as “pure father of light”, hid from our eyes only by “the splendor of light.”

But there is also another strand of the biblical faith which reminds us that there is more to the story than this. In our reading from Exodus, God’s presence by day is indicated by a pillar of cloud. In the Gospel according to John, Jesus may be the light of the world, but he is a light shining in the darkness – the darkness does not overwhelm the light, but neither does the light eliminate the darkness. In our reading from the Acts of the Apostles, Peter carries with him the healing powers of Jesus – and it is when his shadow is cast on those who come to him for help that they are healed.

Rodney Clapp, writing in the Christian Century magazine last year, sees it this way:

“Just as we can hear God in a ‘still, small voice’, it appears that we can see God not only or especially in unmitigated, burning light, but in shaded and dappled light. In shadows God comes to us, and it is in those shadows that we can best see glimmers of glory, the soft glowings of truth and beauty that would be washed out and invisible in the searing light of the noonday summer sun.” (October 21, 2008, p.61).

Friends, do you hear the good news in this alternative portrait of the ways of our God? There are those who would assure us that it is, as a former candidate for the presidency campaigned, “morning in America again”, that we do indeed live in the best of all possible worlds, that the good times will roll once again, and soon. But there are many who have another view entirely of the times in which we live, who might characterize this as less of an idyllic summer’s day and more as a bleak midwinter of discontent. These might include those who have been laid off and have few possibilities for new employment; those who have seen the value of their retirement funds cut in half over the past year; those who fear they can no longer afford to send their children to college; those who have packed off a son or daughter to fight in one of the two wars this country has been mired in over these past eight years. And then there are those who sit at the bedside of a dying relative or at tea with a friend facing an unwanted divorce, or each day struggle with an addiction that would rob them of fullness of life.

Purveyors of the gospel of prosperity assure us that wealth, success, fine health; these are signs of God’s favor and God’s presence. It was that way, at first, for those magi long ago, who in their search for the King of Kings found themselves drawn to the neon lights of Jerusalem and Herod’s magnificent court -- but who eventually found the Light of the World in a shadow-filled stable in a rural backwater. And when that child grew up, the incarnate presence of God was found not in the cushioned pews of the Crystal Cathedral or the oak-paneled board rooms of Wall Street, but in the back-streets of poverty and amid the leper colony on the outskirts of town, with a woman banished from home-life because of a long illness and with a tax collector who got by through ripping off his neighbors, with all those who long for a sunny day of resurrection but whose daily lives are endured in the dim light of personal and communal suffering.

Perhaps, if let our eyes become adjusted to the darkness, we too might discern God’s presence among us even in these dim days – or, perhaps more accurately, especially in these days.

It may be that at the bedside of a dying parent we might at last see the responsibility and opportunity which rests on our shoulders to live a meaningful life, to take the few short years we are allotted and use them to make the world a better place for others, not just for ourselves.

It may be that the shock of being laid off may create a space in which one can reevaluate one’s goals and dreams and aspirations, enabling one to see that even if you win the rat race, you are still a rat, so maybe it is another race altogether that one ought to be running.

It may be that we will find that the still speaking God is still speaking, and that in these changed circumstances we at last might be open to listening to that word for our lives, here, now, in the shadows. -----------