Isaiah 9:2-7
Rev. Dr. Deborah L. Clark
Nov. 27, 2022
“I just can’t see the light at the end of the tunnel,” she said. About a year ago, Bette Norton and I were talking about her Dad—all the care he needed, all the ways that care was impacted by COVID-19 and by grief at the loss of his beloved wife, Bette’s mom. Where is the light at the end of the tunnel when you are caring for someone whose life is increasingly constrained by age and health and loss? How do you keep going when the tunnel seems endless?
Neither of us had a satisfactory answer to those questions. As we talked, a different vision of the tunnel began to emerge. Every once in a while, on our journey through the tunnel, we encounter a crack in the concrete. Light breaks through. Slivers of light illuminate the shadowy tunnel and guide our journey. Slivers of light help us see love in the faces of those walking beside us. Slivers of light give us hope. What does it mean to treasure the light that shines through the cracks? Can we see those slivers as gifts from God?
Since that conversation, I’ve held on to the image—and expanded upon it. Cracks in the concrete are not the only source of light in the tunnels of our lives. Sometimes a friend comes along with a candle. Sometimes communities work together to create an entire system of candles along the side of the tunnel, and another system of candle lighters and candle tenders. Even as we long for light at the end of the tunnel, we are blessed by light in the midst of the tunnel.
In our scripture reading, the prophet Isaiah speaks to a people living in a land of deep shadows, surrounded by invading armies of stronger nations. Isaiah makes a promise: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Biblical scholar Christopher Seitz suggests that Isaiah is speaking in past tense to convey his certainty about a future event—a new king ascending to the throne or a savior to be born, a sunburst of light at the end of a long, winding tunnel of despair. I wonder, though, if Isaiah might also be pointing them to the light of hope that is already with them, shining through the cracks, shining in the rituals that shape their community, shining in the compassion of a neighbor. The ambiguity of Isaiah’s promise brings me back to Bette’s and my conversation: our shared human yearning for an end to the struggle, our awakening to the blessings of light breaking in along the way.
Last Sunday evening, I participated in the Framingham Interfaith Thanksgiving Service at Temple Beth Sholom. Instead of our typical sermon by the newest clergyperson in town, the heart of this year’s service was a message from Tiffany Lillie, Framingham Public Schools Assistant Superintendent for Equity, Diversity and Community Engagement. Her talk was followed by a panel discussion, with Rev. Dr. J. Anthony Lloyd from Greater Framingham Community Church and Rabbi Sam Blumberg from Temple Beth Am.
Tiffany spoke powerfully about the challenges facing our city, our schools, our teachers and students. She was in tears as she conveyed her deep love for the children she serves. She was passionate as she laid out daunting realities.
She quoted a recent public health statistic highlighting the disparity in life expectancy in different parts of our city. People in neighborhoods north of Route 9 live, on average, ten years longer than people in the neighborhoods near Harmony Grove Elementary School in south Framingham.
I was horrified. That is not okay—not in our city, not anywhere. There are many factors contributing to that disparity: access to health care, food insecurity, crowded conditions, racism, trauma from recent immigration, the number of trees. It is a complex problem, and that means there are no simple solutions.
Tiffany chose that statistic because it illuminates the challenges facing our schools. High quality public education that enables each child to reach their potential is essential to addressing the disparity. And the societal factors that create the disparity have a huge impact on our schools. How can children learn when they are hungry, worried about where they will sleep, traumatized or frightened?
As Tiffany spoke, I found myself thinking again about the tunnel—a tunnel of disparity so long and winding we can hardly imagine we will ever emerge into the promised sunburst of light.
Even with the stark statistics, Tiffany’s message was deeply hopeful. She told us about the 4thand 5th graders who emailed her with a power point presentation to share their ideas and ask for support. She talked about three students who wanted help forming a rainbow club. One of them was struggling with their gender identity; the other two simply wanted to support their friend. Light breaks through cracks in the tunnel.
Tiffany described the careful attention teachers and staff pay attention to the impact the outside world has on their students’ ability to learn. In the aftermath of the Club Q shooting in Colorado Springs, counselors were preparing to reach out to students in the Gender and Sexuality Alliances on Monday morning. Candles are being lit to guide the way.
Tiffany lifted up the power of community partnerships. “Whenever I call, you all come through,” she said. People from Greater Framingham and Plymouth Churches delivered groceries to vulnerable families during the pandemic. Jewish Family Services has partnered to develop a welcome center for new students. Through Open Spirit, we have provided life-changing mindfulness programs for students and staff, and we are training active bystanders of all ages. Community partners carry our light into the tunnel, refreshing and renewing candles held by teachers and staff and students.
As I listened to Tiffany’s daunting and inspiring words, I became dissatisfied with my tunnel metaphor. Tunnels are static. They aren’t alive. The challenges facing our schools and our city are constantly changing shape. They are alive, shaped by the ways our community is constantly changing.
I abandoned my metaphor for the rest of the service. The next day I began imagining other ways to envision this long, daunting journey through deep shadows. I invite you to join me exploring another metaphor. Imagine that we, as people who care about Framingham and our nation and our planet, are walking through a metaphorical rain forest. The light of the sun has enabled the abundant life in this forest to grow. The canopy is so dense it blocks the sunlight, leaving us walking in deep shade. We walk on paths others have carved through the forest. As new life has emerged, though, the way has become overgrown, even impassable. We are constantly challenged to find a new opening to create a new path. The way is windy and long, shadowy and sometimes treacherous. That’s not a bad thing; it is simply part of life.
Like the people in Isaiah’s time, we long for that sunburst of light at the end of this living tunnel, for clarity and simplicity and ease. Sometimes we are tempted to clearcut the forest, as so many are doing in real life right now, so the light will shine and we can see where we are going. In our better moments, when we dare to trust the light of God within and around us, we celebrate the gift of life in the midst of the forest.
Along this journey, we come upon small clearings. Here, an outcropping of rock that soaks in the sun. Over there, a spot where an ancient tree has fallen, letting in light and creating a nursery for new plants to thrive. These clearings are the rainforest version of cracks in the tunnel. We stop to absorb the light. If we’ve planned ahead, we pull out miniature solar panels from our backpacks to recharge our flashlights; we will need them when the shadows deepen. We send a team ahead to mark the path: wise people who know the history and the flora; strong people who move branches out of the way and create makeshift stairs from stones; kind people who notice a tripping hazard and create a path around it. We use an old-fashioned compass when GPS fails—pointing us in the direction of justice and love. We pace ourselves on this journey—recognizing the urgency of moving quickly and the reality that we are in this for the long haul. As we walk together, we help each other navigate the route; we help each other see beauty in the forest.
Take a moment to imagine yourself on this journey of transformation of our city and our schools and ourselves. What are the clearings where you can soak in the light of God’s love? How do you absorb the light to share it when the shadows are deep? Are you a solar-panel-carrier? A wise historian or botanist? A kind soul looking out for a vulnerable companion? A compass-bearer, a vision-holder? Who walks beside you? Who shines a light so you can see beauty around you?
Our theme for this Advent season is “Journey to Bethlehem.” We know, though, that the journey does not end at Bethlehem. A baby born in a stable is not the destination. The baby—Emmanuel, God-with-us—assures us that the light of God’s love is with us as the journey continues. The adult Jesus, with his healings and barrier-breaking meals, teaches us that the Realm of God is not a sunburst of light at some far-off end of the tunnel. The realm, the kin-dom, of God is breaking in right now, in the dark of the tunnel, amidst the shadows of the jungle, in the places of struggle in our lives. When we revel in the light of an unexpected clearing, when we absorb the light of love and share it with a stranger, when we do the hard work of opening a new way, we are the kin-dom of God breaking in. We are light shining in the shadows.
Let us walk this journey together, seeking and shining the light of hope. Amen.