Genesis 1:1-5; Mark 1:4-11
It happened on Epiphany—the Christian holiday whose name means “awakening.” It was certainly an awakening—to truths we have known for a long time but may have been tempted to ignore.
On Wednesday, January 6th, I watched in horror as a mob stormed the Capitol. The images of angry men and women holding Confederate flags, American flags, and “Jesus saves” signs are seared in my mind. The more dangerous images are the ones of men and women in suits whose lies incited this threat to our democracy.
I felt—and I feel—a complicated swirl of emotions. Rage at those who care so little for our country that they put their political ambitions above the truth. Distress at the depth of the divide in our nation. Fear about what will happen in the next ten days.
Beneath the swirl of emotions is an unwelcome epiphany—awakening, or re-awakening, to how fragile our democracy is. Democracy depends on a shared understanding of truth and shared concern for the common good; it seems we don’t have either of those right now. Democracy relies on trust in our capacity to make thoughtful choices in the best interests of the nation, and that trust has been deeply shaken. The checks and balances enshrined in our constitution seem to have come perilously close to failing. Our democracy rests on so many assumptions that have been called into question. It is so fragile. That is an unwelcome and deeply disturbing epiphany.
Equally unwelcome and disturbing, for me, is the stark reminder of our human frailty. We so readily accept lies and half-truths if they support what we want to believe. We are so vulnerable to leaders who exploit our fears and twist them to serve their interests. When we have power, we are tempted to violate our own morals to hold onto it. We can be so greedy, so selfish. These truths about human nature are nothing new; they have been brought once again to the forefront.
How do we face these unwelcome epiphanies? Our scripture offers us guidance.
Mark wrote in a time of terrible national distress. The Jewish people had lived through generations of Roman rule—often harsh and unjust. There was dissension about how to live faithfully amidst the occupation. There were those who advocated armed uprising and those who gained wealth and power by collaborating with the Romans. Some believed the temple had been irrevocably sullied by association with the empire. Some left society to form austere communities hiding in the hills; others developed elaborate practices to affirm the holiness of everyday life. In Jesus’ time, the tension among these competing groups was palpable. By the time Mark wrote the story down, the situation had exploded. An armed rebellion in Galilee was put down by Rome in a brutal campaign marked by massive public crucifixions. Rome laid siege to Jerusalem, and in 68 CE destroyed the temple, the center of Jewish life.
It was a very different situation than the one we face today. The armed insurrection in Galilee was against an occupying power. There was no notion then of government by the will of the people. There wasn’t a global pandemic. Still there are striking resonances: grief as families face death of loved ones; rage and despair at abuse of power and the politics of collaboration; an awareness of the fragile nature of society and humanity.
In the midst of that tense time, John the Baptist called the people to a communal act of personal transformation. Jesus was in the crowd. He waded into the river. As he emerged, he heard a voice: You are my son—my child, my beloved.
There is a strain of Christian theology that interprets these words as setting Jesus apart from the rest of us—God’s one and only beloved child. I disagree. The voice, I believe, was speaking to all beloved children of God seeking hope and renewal, then and now. Jesus heard it, and devoted his life to amplifying the message so the rest of us can hear it.
In these disturbing days, it’s helpful to me to remember that Jesus heard those words in a time when the human capacity for greed and cruelty was on full display. “You are my beloved child. Each of these frail, struggling human beings is my beloved child.” How did he make sense of this profound affirmation of human goodness in light of all he saw around him?
Jesus went straight from the Jordan River into the wilderness, where he stayed for 40 days, struggling to understand what this affirmation meant for his life and his calling.
Our lectionary pairs this gospel reading with the story of creation. The voice proclaiming our belovedness is paired with the voice that declares the goodness of creation. As I read the opening lines of Genesis, which depict light as the first expression of God’s creation, I find myself thinking of Mussar, an ancient Jewish spiritual practice that starts from the conviction that at our center is light. We have been using Mussar at Open Spirit’s Monday morning meditation and Tuesday morning yoga and for the church’s noontime outdoor services. Its framework helps me make sense of what it means to be God’s beloved, God’s good creation, and how to live that affirmation in this troubling time.
At the heart of Mussar is a fascinating vision of human nature. The center of our soul, called neshama in Hebrew, is pure holy light. Around the neshama is nefesh, the part of our soul that contains our character traits, our spiritual qualities. Mussar philosophy identifies thirteen qualities: truth, courage, humility, order, nonjudgment, zeal, simplicity, equanimity, generosity, silence, gratitude, lovingkindness, and trust. The qualities themselves are neither good nor bad. When they are in alignment, they allow our inner light to shine for the world. When they are out of alignment, they create a fog that dims or even obscures our holy light.
The quality of silence, for example, opens the way for light to shine when it is used to enable deep listening and to empower other voices to speak. When it allows prejudice to go unchallenged, it blocks holy light. Zeal for justice creates a conduit for light, unless it is twisted into zealotry that refuses to acknowledge other perspectives. Courage saves lives; carried to an extreme it becomes foolhardiness. Humility can open us to learn from one another, or it can devolve into self-denigration.
Mussar groups meet weekly to focus on one quality, examining how that quality is in or out of alignment and what changes might allow their light to shine more fully. After 13 weeks, the groups begin again, recognizing that even our most developed qualities get squashed and distorted in the course of everyday living and need to be realigned.
I love the idea that nothing can destroy our inner holy light. What a profound affirmation of our goodness as part of God’s creation. What a powerful way of envisioning the baptismal assurance that we are God’s beloved. I also love the recognition that even when our inner qualities become so twisted that the light is obscured, the light is still there. The work of untangling and aligning and realigning is arduous and may take our whole lives. With every act of realignment, a little more light shines into the world. That gives me hope.
I’m pretty sure Jesus wasn’t using 19th century Mussar philosophy as he examined himself in the wilderness after his baptism. I imagine, though, that he was somehow working to realign his inner qualities, his priorities, his life, to allow the holy light in his soul to shine bright.
Today’s anthem introduced the theme for our Epiphany season: “home by another way.” The phrase comes from the story of the magi, who choose a different road home from the stable. Their choice reflects how they have been changed by their encounter with the Christ child; it also reflects their determination not to participate in King Herod’s treachery. As we begin to imagine where we go after this strange, hard year and this strange, hard week, we have an opportunity to go home by another way, to claim what we have learned and choose new paths.
The events of this past week remind us of the urgency of these times. We need to speak up, listen deeply, build relationships, advocate for justice. We need to act in ways that shine holy light into the shadows of pain and fear, hate and abuse of power.
The events of this week also remind us that we need to pay attention to what is happening inside us, with our nefesh, our inner qualities, so that our light does not get shrouded by fog. What gets in the way of your holy light? In your quest for a sense of calm amidst the storm, has the spiritual quality of equanimity become twisted into passivity? Has your commitment to speaking the truth as you know it blocked your listening to other perspectives? Have your efforts at nonjudgment led you to be silent in the face of injustice? All of us have inner qualities that have slipped out of alignment. What can you shift to realign them, to open a space for your holy light to shine?
It is easy to say, “Let your light shine.” It is hard to look deep within to see what might be getting in the way. It is hard work—and ultimately joyous work–to realign your inner qualities so your light can shine. It is hard work—and ultimately joyous work—to live out the promise of our baptisms, to join Jesus in a calling to proclaim God’s love through our words and our actions.
Listen to the voice from heaven. “You are my child, my beloved.” At the center of your being is holy light that cannot be snuffed out, holy light that the world needs. Let us commit ourselves to the life-long, joyous work of letting our light shine. Amen.