Five years ago, I had emergency surgery.  On a Sunday night, the retina in my left eye detached.  And in an instant, I lost 90% of my vision in that one eye.  I called my eye doctor here in town.  He said, “Be in my office at 8 am tomorrow.”  I was.  And by 8:30 am, I was on my way to Methodist Hospital in Rochester.  A few hours later, I was in surgery.  

After a couple of days, I was back at the surgeon’s office to have my bandage removed.  The doctor lowered the lights in the room, turned on a lamp by the far wall, and then carefully unwrapped my eye.  He said, “Now very slowly, open your eye and tell me what you see.”  When I did, I panicked a bit.  “It’s all gray…and foggy…I can’t make anything out…it’s like a gray cloud…or a wall,” I said, obviously sounding worried.  The surgeon smiled and said, “That’s perfect.  That’s what it’s supposed to look like.  It will take some time, but the gray will fade, and things will come into focus again.”  

And he was right.  Things began to come into focus.  Even by the end of that appointment, my sight had slightly improved.  The doctor made me look at the eye chart and tell him what I could see.  You know those eye charts on the wall with all the letters?  I could make out the first letter…the big, “E.”  That was it.  It was very foggy…and it was crooked.  But I could see it.

In that moment, I realized how grateful I was for light… especially for light when things feel dark.  Light that guides us.  Light that provides clarity.  Light that brings us home.  I imagine you might know what I’m talking about:  

• It’s the porch light that’s left on when you come home late. 
• It’s the nightlight in the hallway.
• It’s the first pale light of morning after a long and restless night.

That is the kind of light this season of Lent has been moving us toward.

This is week 5 of our sermon series called “Shadow.”  And this week, this is exactly where we find ourselves. We are not at Easter yet. We are not pretending every shadow has disappeared. We are not skipping over pain, grief, uncertainty, or fear. But we are beginning to see more clearly. We are beginning to turn our faces toward the promise that has been there all along. And resurrection is beginning to come into focus.  It may be a little foggy and crooked…but it’s out there.

Jesus says in John, “I have come as light into the world, so that everyone who believes in me should not remain in the darkness.”

Notice his words, “to not remain in the darkness.”

Jesus does not say that people never experience darkness. He doesn’t say faithful people never go through hard seasons. He doesn’t say that his followers are somehow exempt from grief, depression, loss, diagnosis, disappointment, betrayal, or fear.

But he says we do not have to remain there.

That matters.

Because some of us know what it feels like to spend time in the dark. Some of us know what it feels like to carry around burdens that nobody else can see. Some of us know what it feels like to smile in public and worry in private. Some of us know what it feels like to wonder how long a hard season will last, or whether joy will ever feel natural again.

And into that reality…into our very real world…into that shadow, Jesus says, “I have come as light.”

Jesus comes as light.

That is one of the gifts of the Christian faith. We are not asked to pretend life is brighter than it is. We are invited to trust that Christ is present even when the light is faint, and our vision of the way forward is still foggy…and unclear.

That is why Paul’s words in Romans matter so much. He says, “If the Spirit of him who raised Jesus from the dead dwells in you, he…will give life to your mortal bodies also through his Spirit that dwells in you.”

Paul is saying that the resurrection life of Jesus is already at work in us. The Spirit of God is not waiting until one day, far off in the future, to begin making all things new. The Spirit is already breathing life into tired hearts, weary minds, burdened souls, and fragile communities.

In other words, Easter is coming, yes. But Easter power is already leaking into the present.

And we are reminded:  Death does not get the last word. Sin does not get the last word. Fear does not get the last word.  Shadow does not get the last word.

No.  Because of Jesus, light, life, and love get the last word.

And we need that reminder, because sometimes it feels as though the world around us is auditioning for the role of “most exhausting place ever.”

There is always something. Another crisis. Another conflict. Another headline. Another reason to be discouraged. Sometimes even our own lives feel like that. You finally get through one thing, and then something else breaks. The car makes a sound it shouldn’t make. The furnace decides this is the perfect time to stop working. Your body starts doing strange things that it never used to do. You reach the age where standing up too fast has consequences.

And yet, even there, the Spirit of God is at work.

I think of a good friend who experienced just about the worst thing imaginable:  About 15 months ago, the sudden death of his wife.  I met him for dinner a few weeks after her funeral… to check in…to see how he’s doing…how he’s surviving.  He said it was the little things…the small things that were getting him through:

• A friend who called at just the right time. 
• The lyric to a song that stayed with him all week. 
• A laugh he did not expect. 
• A moment of prayer that did not fix everything but helped him breathe again.

Later, he said, “I think God kept me alive that year in teaspoons.”

I love that image. God kept me alive in teaspoons.  In tiny doses.

Sometimes that is how light comes. Not as a floodlight. Not all at once. But just enough for the next step. Enough for the next breath. Enough to remind you that you are not abandoned.

And that is what “turning toward the light” really is.  It is choosing, again and again, to turn toward Christ.

Sometimes that turning is dramatic. Sometimes it happens in a crisis. Sometimes it looks like a life changed all at once.

But more often, I think it looks like the ordinary habits of faith.

• You show up for worship even when you feel a little tired.
• You sing even if your voice is shaky.
• You pray even if your prayer is mostly silent.
• You open the Bible even if you only have the energy for a verse or two.
• You call a friend.
• You ask for help.
• You forgive a little.
• You hope a little.
• You trust that the Spirit is still at work.

That is turning toward the light.

There is a reason sunflowers fascinate people. They actually orient themselves toward the sun. They turn in its direction. I think that is a pretty good image for the Christian life. We are not the source of the light. We do not manufacture resurrection. We do not save ourselves by trying harder. We turn toward the One who is already shining.

And that turning changes us.

Paul says the Spirit dwells in you. Think about that. It dwells. It makes a home in you. The very Spirit who raised Jesus from the dead is at work in you.

So when you are tired, or grieving, or anxious…you are not alone.

When you are trying to keep your family together, keep your faith together, keep your own heart together, you are not alone.

Friends, the Spirit of God dwells in you.

And because of that, hope is not just wishful thinking. Hope is not crossing your fingers and trying to stay upbeat. Christian hope is confidence in God’s character. Christian hope says, “I do not know exactly how this will unfold, but I know who holds me. I know who has claimed me. I know who walked out of the tomb. And I know that what God begins, God will finish.”

God’s grace, you see, is stubborn.  It is a stubborn refusal to let us go. God is stubborn in love. Stubborn in mercy. Stubborn in resurrection. And thank God for that.

So as Lent nears its end, hear this good news. You do not have to remain in the dark. You do not have to be ruled by the shadow. The bandages will come off, the gray cloud will fade, and you will see fully.  

So turn toward the light.  Turn toward the One who still speaks hope.

And maybe this week, that turning begins in small ways. Small, teaspoon like ways.  Maybe it begins with oneprayer. One act of courage. One moment of honesty. One quiet decision to trust that the light will return…that the shadow will fade…that love will win, and that Jesus…Jesus…will have the final word. 

Thanks be to God!

Amen.