In times like these it is easy to sympathize with the sentiment expressed in Isaiah 60:2, which says, “For darkness shall cover the earth, and thick darkness the peoples.” It often feels as though we were swaddled in darkness, doesn’t it? As though we were groping about in a thick fog, waiting impatiently for the sun to rise and melt away the mist so we can see clearly again. At times it can be difficult to remember what the world even looks like when we can see clearly. Despair and cynicism begin to look like viable options.
This is true for individuals as much as it is for nations. As one who suffers from clinical depression, I can attest to the temptation to give up hope that the darkness will ever break. It always does, but when you’re in the midst of it that is easy to forget. Churches are susceptible to this kind of anguish as well. Look at how our membership has dwindled over the last few decades! Look at the state of our Sunday School! Why aren’t young families joining our fellowship the way they used to? Will we ever see a turnaround?
The people to whom the writer first addressed Isaiah 60 were in a similar boat, only more so. They had been devastated by war, conquest, and exile, and their return home had been an underwhelming venture at best. For them, the “thick darkness” had lasted for a couple of generations and longer. They probably resonated strongly with the morose picture the prophet offers in the first part of verse 2.
And they probably read the rest of his poem with a jaundiced eye. “Arise, shine; for your light has come,” they read sardonically, “and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you” (v. 1). Yeah, right. Pfft. It’s the same way many of us feel when some Pollyanna tells us that the glory days of our nation or church or sports team are ahead of, not behind them. Considering the polarization in our country, considering the decades of decline in attendance and positive energy, considering the last ten losing seasons in a row, what can we reasonably expect besides more of the same: deeper national divisions, dwindling church numbers, continuing debacles on the field and in the front office? It would take a miracle to turn these things around.
On Sunday we will observe Epiphany, and Epiphany is a sort of miracle. It’s the wholly unexpected coming of light into the heretofore impervious dark. In a time of division a leader arises who can bring healing and wholeness. A new family comes into the church and sparks something fresh and hopeful. A kid from the later rounds of the draft turns out to be a franchise-saver and one of the best players of all time. A nondescript child born into poverty in a time of oppression and military occupation turns out to be the Light of the World.
On Epiphany we remember the magi from Eastern lands who saw signs in the sky and traveled hundreds of miles to “bring gold and frankincense [and myrrh], and [to] proclaim the praise of the Lord” (v. 6). What did they see that so many others did not? Why did they choose hope instead of despair and perceive light when all seemed to lie in darkness? And more to the point, where are the wise men and women (and youth and children) in our time who can see the breaking of dawn that will end the dark night of our collective soul? Who are those who will bind up the nation’s wounds, bridge the chasms, offer tangible help to the poor, the marginalized, the addicted, the hopeless?
What will Epiphany bring? May we have the eyes to see the light of Christ and add our own guttering flames to his until a blaze shatters the dark and discloses the path to God.