The Rev’d Deacon Samuel Vaught
Christ Church, New Haven, Conn.
The Second Sunday after the Epiphany
January 19, 2020
“I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.”
In the name of God: Father, Son, and Holy Spirit. Amen.
Well, it’s winter in New Haven—for at least this weekend. And while January has been surprisingly kind to us so far, we know what this time of year means for us here in the Northeast—cold mornings, gray days, and those dark, dark nights. I will never forget my first winter in New Haven, in 2016/2017, when I moved here to live in Saint Hilda’s House. It was the kind of winter that made spring feel like a surprise—a genuine miracle—when it finally arrived. Growing up in the Midwest, I was used to the cold, and the snow, but what I was not prepared for was the dark—those dark evenings here on the other side of the time zone from Indiana, where the sun had already gone to sleep by the time I would leave IRIS at five in the afternoon and walk back home here to 84 Broadway. Light had never felt more precious to me than it did that winter. And to be honest, after three more New Haven winters, the onset of the dark still catches me off guard, and spring still feels like a miracle.
With so much of its history in the northern hemisphere, it’s no accident that the Church focuses a lot on light at this time of year—we need it. Advent, with its wreath of lights, giving way to candlelit Christmas Eve masses, giving way to Epiphany, to the bright, shining star that led the wise men to Jesus’ home. In two weeks we’ll bless candles and celebrate the Presentation of the infant Jesus in the temple in Jerusalem—Candlemas—falling nearly halfway between the darkest day of the year and the first day of spring. At all times of year, but especially now, the Church proclaims light in the darkness.
To the world at this dark time of year comes a light— a light to this city, a light to this region, a light to the nations. At this dark time of year comes Jesus. Jesus comes as an Israelite, out of Israel—from God’s chosen people, from the people who are called as a whole to be a light to the nations. We know from Isaiah’s prophecy, and from the entire Old Testament, of Israel’s call to be this light. “You are my servant, Israel, in whom I will be glorified,” God tells his people. And as Christians, followers of the Messiah of Israel, we proclaim that in Jesus, this light from God’s people has shined, has shined for all people, for all nations, for every person in this dark world. Isaiah continues, “It is too light a thing that you should be my servant to raise up the tribes of Jacob and to restore the survivors of Israel; I will give you as a light to the nations, that my salvation may reach to the end of the earth.” Yes, Jesus comes for his people Israel, but he comes also for the Gentiles—for those in the northern hemisphere and those in the southern. For those in the east and for those in the west.
And in the Gospel of John, right at the beginning, John the Baptist, like one who has stayed up all night just to get a glimpse of the dawn, like a watchman for the morning, points him out to us—points us to this light: “Here is the Lamb of God who takes away the sin of the world!” And again the next day, “Look, here is the Lamb of God!” Here is your light, wintry Israel. Here is your light, wintry world.
But it’s a funny kind of light, isn’t it? Not quite what we would have expected the light to the nations to look like—surprising, like that distant and miraculous spring. The disciples of John who heard him point this Jesus out go and follow, to see what he’s all about. “Rabbi, where are you staying?” they ask him. “Come and see” is all they get. No itinerary, no manifesto, no agenda. Just an invitation—an invitation to come, and see, and stay with him. One of them, Andrew, brings along his brother Simon, soon to be Peter. And when they get up the next day, it’s time to go—to Galilee, to a wedding where strange things will happen with water and wine. And then to Jerusalem, to a life on the road. “Rabbi, where are you staying?” Not in one place, seems to be the answer. “Come and see.”
So they do. They come and see this light, always on the move, never still, showing up in the most unexpected places. Befriending sinners, eating with tax collectors and prostitutes, touching lepers, conversing with Gentiles—Samaritans, even—at a well. They come and they see this light break rules—like heal on the Sabbath—do mind-blowing things—like feed five thousand people with just some bread and some fish. They hear this light speak in funny ways—I am the good shepherd, I am the bread of life, I am the vine, and you are the branches. They witness this light that cannot be contained, that refuses to let all the things the world cares too much about—like propriety, or class, or ethnic distinction, or even the rule of law—get in its way to send out light and warmth and truth to the darkest, coldest corners of this wintry world. They witness this light stretch out its arms on a cross, to draw the whole world to itself. To give itself completely, so that there may be no more darkness.
On you too, this light has shined. To this winter morning, to this city, to this very place, the light of Jesus Christ has come. And the thing about this light—it’s likely just as unexpected, likely just as unusual, likely just as offensive or scandalous here as it was in Galilee all those years ago. For you see, the light of Jesus has a way of showing up where we least expect it. Like in the face of a neighbor living on the street, whom we’d rather ignore. Or in a conversation with that stranger who’s been quite literally taking a stand for peace every Sunday for years on the other of this east wall. Or in that tired and frustrated commuter behind you at the stop light, about to lose their patience. Light in the line at the Community Soup Kitchen, in fellowship over a hot meal. Light in a circle of people, supporting one another through addiction and recovery. Light in a word of scripture that you suddenly hear differently or for the very first time when the lector reads it. In a hug or a handshake at the peace. In a small piece of bread in your hand and a small sip of wine on your lips. Light. All around you, even in the January darkness. Light. Inside you. In your body, on your skin, in your eyes.
“Rabbi, where are you staying?” we might ask him ourselves. “Come and see.” Come and see where our Lord might be calling you outside of these walls. When mass is over, when the business of the annual meeting is adjourned, when the lunch dishes have been cleared away, come, or go, rather, and see. See where he is staying in your life, where he is staying in your neighborhood, where he has set up shop. Light a candle. Follow the star. Find that light in the darkness. Find it and shine it on someone who needs it. Let it shine on you.
We’re probably in for another of those dark and gloomy New Haven winters. And while spring is coming in the future, no matter how unbelievable that sounds, light has dawned today. A light to the nations. A light to this city. Won’t you come and see? Amen.