From this place we will exit into the world

Sometime in late January of 2010 I received an email invitation at work to attend a half hour meeting with management sometime in early to mid-February.

There were no details in the body of the invitation, the subject line was rather vague, something having to do with status or something similar.

I received the email with a sinking sense of dread.

I had been working for months with our team’s management discussing the reorganization of the department.

I knew arrangements would be made for some; others would stay where they were working; and others, well, others would receive a rather vague invitation asking that we meet sometime in early February to discuss status or some similar vagary of inexactitude promising to shake my life, my professional life, my personal life, to its very core.

And so for a number of weeks or days, I did what was easy to do.

I worked for a little bit with that invitation on my mind.

I would go to the gym with that invitation on my mind.

I would leave meals half-eaten with that invitation on my mind.

No matter what I did though, no matter how much I tried to avoid that truth, February was coming, that date with management would soon arrive.

And it did arrive.

On a rather sunny day in February, I was walked into an office.

I took my seat.

I was told that what is about to happen was not a reflection on your work but a part of the need for the business to respond to challenging times, etc. etc. etc.

Yada.

Yada.

Yada.

The fog crept in.

I sat there in that conference room knowing that I had failed.

I failed my wife as we would no longer be 50/50 partners.

I failed my children for I would no longer be able to provide for them as they were accustomed.

I failed myself.

I had no ego, I had no self.

I was very not, very not vaguely, not okay.

Following the meeting, I was walked to my desk to pick up my things and then walked to my car to ensure I left quietly and safely.

Funnily enough, the person walking me out was also the person who hired me.

I made some joke about that.

Some words to the effect of, “well, you brought me into this place and now you take me out…”

My joke fell flat.

I drove home.

I made some phone calls telling folks, friends, family, what happened.

I was surrounded by support and help.

And the next day, I woke up and put on my new armor, the armor of the unemployed, sweatpants, a sweatshirt, and red woolen socks for it was February and cold feet are never great, unemployed or otherwise.

I also made a phone call down to the local YMCA.

They managed our kids’ before and after school care program; I would be pulling them out from the program so that we could save money.

“Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.”

There are times in our lives where the light is dim.

It is a far-off rumor that the dawn is due to arrive yet now we are in darkness, the light edging over the valley, the brighter blue contrasts with the darkness of night but only just barely.

We are comforted by the routine knowing that the light shall come and yet the darkness of night surrounds us; we are adrift in the darkness.

And yet there is the prospect of light.

It lingers just over there.

Prospects and promises intertwine and weave different expectations and patterns of hopefulness not always superseded by the dread darkness can bring; the promise of the light while amidst the darkness can be just as unsettling as the darkness itself.

There are times when we will feel broken, utterly lost, the light is but a fading memory of how things used to be, and they will never be that way again?

What of light, when I face the prospect of no work in during an economic downturn?

What of light, when I have failed?

And yet sometimes, it is not the light that brings us back from dread, but the light that love illumines; for there is light in which we find our way and our truest selves, and then there is love, a total and trusting love that is light itself.

And in my case, I found the love that illumined the light in the weight of my sleeping daughter’s 5 year old head napping in my lap, the passion for pizza of my then eight year old son, and the understanding that a promise continues through the hardest of times, laughter and song still led the dance between my wife and I.

My routine changed from one of work to looking for work.

I would drop off the kids from school and on sunny days, I would walk down to school to pick up my daughter after morning kindergarten.

We would walk home, her telling me all about her day, the drawings she drew, the backward B’s she wrote in careful penmanship, all of the details.

And we would then return home, my morning routine of looking for jobs and trying to overcome that sinking feeling one feels when they are out of work, shifted to the care and feeding of my ravenous five-year-old daughter.

Following lunch we would put on a DVD of Curly Sue, a movie she favored at the time and would promptly fall asleep, napping in my lap.

She removed from me the nerves of not knowing where I and if I would ever find work again.

Her love, her trusting love, her ability to share with me her day and to be with me was far greater than such a small body could handle and I am sure was, in retrospect, partly God shining through; love bringing light to the darkness.

After nap time, it was time to pick up my son.

We would walk back downtown together, Victoria and I, and pick up Liam where he would ask if we might have pizza for dinner.

I remember this request because after him greeting me, Liam would always ask if we might have pizza together.

And on some days, the best days for my son, I would say yes and we’d stop by the dominos, order a pizza and pick out a movie at the Blockbuster nearby while we waited for the pizza to come out of the oven.

His sprint home afterwards, his gleeful race to get that pizza in his gullet was yet more evidence that there was joy in my life, a first grader’s joy evidencing the light that shines in our most down moments.

Finally, my wife would return home, I was well rested, well loved and we would share our slices while watching whatever Blockbuster movie the children chose.

In the midst of darkness, the brighter blue of a sunrise soon to come was realized and witnessed just over the horizon; evidence of the light found in the love of family.

There was no failure for I was loved.

Hope was revealed by the light that love provides.

And what started off as very hard days are now but a memory, a fond memory now that I eventually found work.

And I wonder about that time quite a bit.

And I wonder especially if these times, these times of pandemic, of declining church attendance, of growing disbelief in God and lessening faith in institutions, I wonder if we are now in a similar era of promise, of hope being the substance of things unseen.

Because it is easy now to reflect on the darkness, but in the darkness there are stars that pierce the night sky.

Though we might see a less full church, our faith still calls on us to look for the light.

When we walk into this sanctuary, we witness not just God’s love but memories of days gone by as well.

We remember the baptisms, the shifting of kneelers making that sliding sound as we move to kneel before God, the rustle just behind us as a child squirms during the sermon, the pancake suppers, the fundraisers, the community that proves this is a living breathing community of the faithful.

“Arise, shine; for your light has come, and the glory of the Lord has risen upon you.”

Friends, these are not easy days, instead they hurt.

They divide.

They bring anger and discord.

Things are not as they used to be; things are not as they should be.

And yet there is the light.

And the light is our light.

We are to shine.

We are to stand as the faithful do; looking to the horizon, perceiving the light in both small and big ways.

For when we shine, our faith stands out.

When we shine, we are the beacon of hope for those in need of hope; hope in Christ, hope in God, hope found in each other.

And that light begins in the darkness and overcomes the darkness.

It started small.

It started vulnerable.

It shone from a manger in a backwater town on the edge of empire and became our salvation.

That is the light.

That is how we are to shine.

We are to insinuate ourselves into the broader conversation, sharing this salvation story by shining light into the darkness, by building small things and making them great.

A child once napped on my lap and released my burdens.

A child once ran home to eat pizza and his joyful stomps along the sidewalk left a trail for me to find joy; beaconing footsteps by which to navigate my way home.

These are small things releasing great burdens.

Children serving as safe harbor.

And they are able to do so by the very blessing of God’s love shining upon us, bringing relief from our darkest sadness.

And that is the promise of this church.

We gather not just to worship this morning, but to shine Christ’s love on each other and the world.

We gather to serve as beacons for it is time to rise and share our light, a light afforded to us by God and God’s son, Jesus Christ.

It is in the smallness of the child where our ministry starts.

Magi crossed the deserts to witness the joy of our saviour’s birth and they brought him gifts of gold and frankincense and myrrh.

The magi were drawn to Bethlehem by the light of a star and found the light of God.

Small.

Vulnerable.

Cared for and surrounded by love.

And that love is light.

It is our light.

It is light that is meant to be shared and it inhabits each and every one of us.

For it is our light.

And it is God’s light shining through, breaking through the discord and division that so infects this world.

It is our light.

And we, most blessedly get to share that light with each other.

Let us live in the light.

For this is a place of shelter for the wounded, a source of wisdom for the seeking, and a place of light for everyone.

And when our own light seems to fade, when we are beset by tragedy or bad news, when we are small and vulnerable it is the light of our neighbor that will ease our darkest burdens.

It is the light of God that will shine through to those seemingly lost in darkness.

For God’s light, our light, will shine as brightly as the sun through these windows, as bright as the promise that God provides.

From this place we will exit into the world.

And in that world, we can share the light of Christ, the promise of salvation and God’s kingdom here on earth.

As vulnerable and as small as we may sometimes feel, we are forever as strong as that light God gives us, worthy of blessings from across the miles.

And so let us go.

Let us rise up for our light to shine.

And let it shine as a lighthouse, a beacon of safety in a tumultuous world.

Amen.