It would be very easy to exclude people: to make some feel welcome and others not, to feed some and turn others away, to bless some and curse others. Like any human being charged with such a daunting task and awesome responsibility, I run that risk each and every day.
Whenever I am tempted to lock up God’s house, to gate God’s table, or to refuse God’s blessing, I am confronted with The Question. The memory of my own exclusion, separation, and alienation, and that of my ancestors in flesh, faith, and spirit jolts me. These memories, painful as they may be, remind me of Jesus’ mission in this world: to bring the love of God to those who seek it; to show the way to God to those who want to follow; and to extend the covenant of promise and salvation to all God’s people.
A long time ago, I was asked a question I could not answer: would you have died for your faith or denied it by passing? I have struggled with this question ever since. It has shaped my life and directed my ministry. It grounds my theology and informs my ethics, provoking me to listen to the voices from the edge and pay attention to the fringe. It is at the heart of this book. Thirty-five years later, The Question still holds me accountable. I hope it always will. In the life, death, and resurrection that surrounds me everyday, I am beginning to glimpse my answer.
One
It was born on a winter day . . .
The Light of Darkness | CLEVELAND, OHIO, 2003
the Light
of Darkness
I am a fool for holiday lights. I love the candles of Advent, Hanukkah, winter solstice, Christmas, and Kwanza. I enjoy seeing holiday lights as I drive through various communities, noting the diversity as I move from one neighborhood to another. I also like festive downtown office buildings and department store windows. And I even appreciate what some people call “tacky” Christmas displays—the bigger, the better, I say, setting aside for the season my concern over energy conservation.
I am particularly fond of a suburban home in Mahwah, New Jersey, with a decorated pond and a singing Elvis on the roof. But my all-time favorite was an unassuming cottage located across the street from a Fraternal Order of Police Hall in Cuyahoga Heights, Ohio. This cottage was so well lit that it could be seen for miles, even from the freeway. As we neared the house, there were literally dozens of people crossing the street, walking up the driveway, and paying two dollars apiece to ooh and ahh at the array of thousands of sparkling lights in all shapes, sizes, and colors. Among the various displays were an American flag, a jack-in-the-box, and a gingerbread house. There were numerous Christmas trees, choirs, snowmen, and Care Bears. There was a crèche complete with the holy family, attending shepherds, barn animals, and angels by the dozen. And of course, there was Santa Claus and his playful elves and reindeer. The entire display was constructed of twinkling, multicolored holiday lights. Christmas carols were blasting out of stereo speakers, and volunteers collected money for local charities.
As we walked away, I asked myself, what makes folks go to all of this effort and expense? Moreover, I wondered, what makes people like me travel a distance in the cold of the night to witness such extravagant displays of holiday cheer? The answer is quite simple. We need light. During the bleak midwinter, we human beings develop a craving for light. When the sun retires, we light candles and turn on artificial lights; when the trees are a leafless brown, we bring fresh evergreens inside; when the cold wind blows, we drown out its howling with music; when the harvest is over and the fields are bare, we feast; when the days are short, we party long into the night. No wonder we overindulge at the holidays; we’re trying to compensate for the dark and barren days of the winter season.
I love decorating my own home for the holidays. I look forward to putting candles in the windows and lighting the Advent wreath. I like the ritual of picking out and cutting down the “perfect” tree that is never perfect when we get it home. I enjoy the challenge of stringing lights on the tree, only to realize that at least half of them don’t light up when they are plugged into the socket. I love hanging the ornaments, especially the shiny red bulbs with gold crochet made by my grandmother. And I really relish the moment when we turn off the other lights and turn on the tree lights. If left to my own devices, I will play Christmas music on the stereo and sit and look at the tree for hours upon hours as it twinkles in the surrounding darkness.
One of the best things about my job as a parish priest is that I get to help decorate a really big house—God’s house—and then periodically sneak in for a private glimpse of several trees lighting up the darkness. I usually get the inspiration for my Christmas sermon during these private moments.
One year, on the day before Christmas Eve, I wandered into the church to turn on the lights and stare at the trees. As fate would have it, when I plugged in the lights, I found that one of the trees had fallen over. Unsuccessful in my attempt to upright the tree by myself, I went into the men’s shelter and recruited a helper. My plan to fix one Christmas tree turned into a few hours of readjusting all the trees, moving some sanctuary benches, and having a lengthy conversation about the real meaning of Christmas. Unfortunately, I came home perplexed about what I would say in my Christmas Eve sermon.
After dinner that evening, still in search of a Christmas sermon, I decided that I needed to buy additional lights to hang on the bushes in front of our house. I jumped in my car and with Christmas music blasting on the radio drove to the drug store. I ran into the store, bought a half a dozen boxes of lights, practically threw my money at the sales clerk, leaped back into my car, and drove home. After hanging the new lights, I plugged them in, and they didn’t work. I had purchased several boxes of defective lights. I tore the lights off the bushes, threw them in a bag, and drove back to the store, only to find a young man locking the door. “We are closed,” he said. “Come back tomorrow.” “I can’t come back tomorrow. Tomorrow is Christmas Eve. I’ve got to work and I just bought these defective lights, and I simply want to exchange them. Please let me in. It will take me just a minute.” As the aggravated clerk shook his head and I was about to burst into tears, the store manager walked by, recognized my panic-stricken face, looked at the lights in my hands, and opened the door. “Come on in,” he said with a tired smile. “Let’s get you some working lights.” This kind man actually took the time to open the boxes and test the lights. As they twinkled, my face lit up like a Christmas tree, and I started to weep like a child. Embarrassed by my unexplainable behavior, I thanked the generous store manager and apologized to the disbelieving store clerk. I went home, hung the lights and climbed into bed—still without a Christmas sermon.
The next morning I got up, turned on the Christmas tree, sat down in front of it, and opened my Bible to the passage that is read in the dark every Christmas Eve just around midnight. “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness did not overcome it” (John 1:5). As I read those words from John’s gospel, I realized what was going on inside of me. I was trying to overcome my own darkness. I was doing my best to dispel the dark shadows of night from my own life.
I don’t like the dark. In fact, I’ve always been a little afraid of the dark, fearful of the bad and scary things that go bump in the night. I love going to the movies, but I don’t like sitting in a dark theater waiting for the film to begin, and I can’t stand watching the credits roll on a dark screen at the end of the movie. I enjoy dining by candlelight at home, but I don’t especially like dark bars or dimly lit restaurants. I don’t like sleeping in pitch darkness, driving down dark streets, or walking in dark woods. I didn’t like trick-or-treating as a child because you had to walk around