“Hidden Light”
“Hidden Light”
Luke 1
Luke 1
In the name of the Living God and the Christ who is with us. Amen.
As the new pastor at First Saint Paul’s, I’ve not only enjoyed getting to know its beautiful people, I’ve enjoyed getting to know this beautiful building. You’ll notice I didn’t call it “ornate”; nor “stunning”; nor “elaborate.” It’s admittedly rather plain and austere, compared with other church buildings in Chicago. Its beauty is in its simplicity: no stained-glass windows; no icons or statuary; no high marble altar or pulpit. The three Lutheran emphases of the Word, the Lord’s Supper, and Baptism receive clear, uncluttered focus.
But “perhaps the most intriguing aspect” of the church’s design is one that you might not even notice until it’s pointed out to you: there’s no direct natural light. There’s a row of windows hidden up above the chancel; and a window in the back, but the sun never shines directly through them onto the worshippers. “Hidden Light” was a notable feature of the architect Edward Dart’s church designs. One architectural historian commenting on our building put it this way: the hidden light sources “allow cascades of natural light to wash down the interior brick walls of sanctuaries, creating an ethereal feeling in the space.”[i]
I know it’s nighttime so you can’t see this—come back tomorrow morning at 10:00am and look again! But “Hidden Light” is not just an intriguing architectural design, it’s also a helpful way of understanding the mystery of Christmas.
Hidden Light. Light that’s there, real, cascading through, but not direct, face-to-face, in full exposed brightness. It’s light which needs the “eyes of our heart” enlightened to be seen. (Eph. 1.18-21)
When Christians celebrate Christmas, the Incarnation, “God with Us,” we recognize that God’s presence was a hidden presence upon this earth. God’s revelation of himself was veiled, so to speak. His light was “Hidden Light” among us, first in the crib, then in the cross; first in a tiny, helpless babe of Bethlehem, then in a tortured, naked, shame-filled man dying on a Roman instrument of execution. No one with worldly eyes would look at the obscure peasant girl’s baby; or Golgotha’s gasping, crying, dying criminal and say, “There’s God.” But those with eyes of faith can find God nowhere else.
We notice this in Luke’s gospel account. In the Christmas story, the Shepherd’s do experience “the glory of the Lord” cascading around them—which is why they were terrified. They had good reason! But for most of the rest of the gospel, until the Resurrection, the power and purposes of God are hidden in this man from Nazareth. Simeon will have to prophecy to us about him. Jesus’ parents have to go looking for him. John the Baptist has to point us to him. The disciples continually miss the mark, and all desert him in the end; the centurion standing at the foot of the cross has to tell us, “Surely this man was the son of God.” The rule and reign of God remained veiled during most of Jesus’ earthly ministry: God of God, Light of Light, true God of True God was wrapped in human flesh like the swaddling cloths of the manger; and indeed, wrapped in our own sin and suffering, as he hung upon the cross for our salvation.
“Hidden Light”: I think on some level we all know this, though we don’t always like to admit it. Certainly, if you look at the history or current events of our fallen world, we have to say it’s hard to see God. The very place of Jesus’ birth, above the Judean hills, the Angel’s proclaimed “peace on earth.” It’s certainly not peaceful there this evening, is it?
Or when we look at one another, even in the Christian Church and in Christian families, we know the light remains hidden in us. We still sin. We still hurt one another. Sometimes those we love most, we hurt the most. We know it’s not supposed to be that way; we’re not supposed to live this way; we’re supposed to live as Children of the light, but so often we fall far short of the glory the shepherds witnessed that Christmas night.
The light is hidden in our own suffering, and inevitable death, too, isn’t it? As we grow older, and our bodies and minds deteriorate, and the aches and pains increase, and the mobility decreases, it can be hard to believe that light is still with us, and within us. And when a loved one or dear friend passes, it grows harder still.
This is why faith is such an amazing thing-- Christmas faith; faith in Christ, who is, “the light no darkness can overcome.” (John 1.5) Our journey of faith follows the light even when we don’t fully see its brightness. We trust it’s there even when it’s not shining directly and clearly upon our earthly eyes.
The Holy Spirit leads us to believe the Light of Christ, though hidden, is truly present in the human words of scripture; and truly present under the bread and wine; and truly at work in three simple splashes of water at that font. And we follow the hidden light, through faith.
This is the faith of Mary, who took God at his word and believed the impossible would happen for her; within her, through her; and of Joseph, who never once is directly quoted in the Bible—we have none of his words recorded—but Joseph’s actions of care and obedience speak volumes about the hidden light he followed.
But One day the light will no longer be hidden. St. Paul writes, “We see now as in a glass dimly; then we will see face to face.” (1 Cor. 13.12) One day, we’ll stand in the brightness of the presence of God—unveiled, unquestioned, unending. As great of glory that cascaded over the Shepherds that dark Judean night, even greater will it be for us—but only this time with no fear…only love. This is because the babe of Bethlehem would defeat the dark forces of sin and death, finally at his resurrection. Not even a cold, dark tomb could hold back this light. The disciples beheld the risen Christ in his glory; and so will we one day.
Until then we follow the hidden light, trusting that God is with us, Immanuel, in every darkness. Come soon Lord Jesus. Amen.
[i] “Perhaps the most intriguing aspect of Dart’s church designs are hidden light sources, which allow cascades of natural light to wash down the interior brick walls of sanctuaries, creating an ethereal feeling in the space. At First St. Paul’s in Chicago, the hidden clerestory windows on the rear portion of the half-cylinder-like tower portion light the altar area from above.” Matt Seymour, chicagomodern.wordpress.com/2012/02/17/churches-for-changing-times/