a light in the darkness

I want to tell you a story about a woman. A woman whose story falls within a series of stories in the Bible that are set with a theme. The theme is that of light shining in the darkness, and not being perceived as light. It is a theme of light being found in the everyday, mundane moments of life – moments we miss when we are consumed with our own importance. This light in the world can look a lot like a wanderer in the desert crying out for justice, for change, for repentance. But the light is not that wanderer. This light shows up when we feel as though we have been seen and known by some greater Being. It can be as frivolous as wine at a wedding or as daring as calling out inequity in a church. The light shines on and on, moving like the wind, revealing evil that wants to remain hidden, and exposing rotting filth so that it may be cleansed. The real beauty is that this light isn’t too precious – coming only to those who are pious – no, this light moves with and within the unworthy, receiving from the stranger, revealing itself to the doubter, and meeting with the fair-weather friend. Floating in the beams of this light-shining-in-the-darkness we find dignity and true honour. This light illuminates, but never forces; it offers real life, but only with an outstretched hand. It asks the questions we’ve been longing to be asked.

Onto this stage, set with good guys and bad guys, right and wrong, comes a woman. Forcibly thrust into the midst of a great crowd, she is pushed and prodded and unceremoniously made to stand before them all. All the nakedness of her shame is on display and the guilt of her situation surrounds her like a filthy robe. I don’t know much about the specific details of this woman’s story – possibly purposeful on the part of the storyteller, to allow her to be a stand-in for all women – for all who have found themselves powerless and ashamed. She had few options even before this spectacle. If she, by some stroke of luck and great privilege, had managed to avoid sexual assault in her vulnerable years, her options might have included marriage, perhaps even to a good man who treated her well. And if she remained in good health, bore children, and avoided being lusted after by her neighbour’s husband, she might even have been able to live with some level of dignity. At least until her husband died or suffered a workplace accident where he lost a limb or succumbed to one of the many diseases that ran rampant in the towns. Perhaps, even then, she might be able to support herself if she was an enterprising woman, as long as she didn’t have any children to care for. But within all of those rare possibilities for one woman’s survival, a hundred women have fallen between the cracks. The crevices and pitfalls for fully half the human race, not considered even as valuable as livestock, were (and are) vast and deep. The cracks in our societal norms are significantly better than two thousand years ago, and yet the stats on sexual assault are unbelievably high, even with the realities of under-reporting. And we still live in a world where the colour of a woman’s skin affects her statistical chances of being assaulted. Life as a human who is considered to be less than human is still undeniably hard and incredibly unfair.

The woman in this story is every one of us who has been misjudged, misunderstood, and overlooked. No one saw her until they could use her as a pawn – make an example of her bad choices. She was invisible as long as she was in need. But when those wielding privilege and power needed an object lesson, suddenly they could see her. Perhaps she welcomed the band of smug, well-dressed, powerful men as they dragged her off to the temple. Perhaps she believed she would have to vacate her own body just one more time as they used her for their own satisfaction – putting her on display to highlight their piety and superior holiness.

In and around and through the crowd, a light shone. It came mingled with the smells of sweat and livestock dung. It clung resiliently to the animal hide clothing and wicker baskets full of wares. It floated on the dust kicked up by sandals and calloused feet alike. And above it all, it floated by on wispy clouds against an orange and green sky.

When the crowds of popular thought and belief draw conclusions about our right to live – when their reasoning seems sound and we wait only for the pain that precedes a release from the torment of living invisible and un-human, the light that shines in the darkness is exactly what is needed. This light flips the script. It refuses to abide within “progressive understanding” or “traditional values” that ignore the hurting and oppress the vulnerable. Light can be like that. It doesn’t just inhabit the spaces on the right or left, or even the center. Light is indiscriminate in its coming. It enters wherever there is an open door, window, or even a broken chink in the brick wall. And light – this light shining in the darkness – can reveal hidden things. Darkness covers truth. It minimizes, dehumanizes, drowns out all but its own agenda. Darkness offers one lens. It dresses itself up as truth, with drooling tongue and snarling teeth just out of sight.

The woman is accused. She has been caught in the shortcomings of her very own life. She does not deny her guilt. Maybe she even agrees with her accusers. She has failed and fallen. The law says she should be killed. Who is she to argue with the law? She peers into the lens worn faithfully by the powerful and righteous men. She sees what they see. She is without hope. Condemned. Guilty. Even if they are only using her to make a point, still she is guilty. Even if they have all the privilege and she has none. Guilty.

But slowly, tenderly, the light begins to reveal a new lens. It is as fragile as words written in sand – easily wiped away. These kinds of words couldn’t be used in court. The light isn’t playing that game. The holy men respect grand gestures of power, not fading letters in dirt. The light has shown up to a NASCAR race on a skateboard. But slowly, the light reveals a new lens – a new way to measure. The idea that there is more than one way of seeing a situation is a shock. The men wanted to talk about the woman’s sin. The light revealed this desire as their sin. Judgement. Condemnation. Accusation. They can not convict her without incriminating themselves. One by one, they leave.

There must have still been crowds. Animals, smells, and dust would have pervaded the scene. But all we see is the woman. The woman and the light shining in the darkness. She knows the truth of her failure. She feels something a little different than shame. She knows the light can still shine on the truths of her own misdeeds. Real ones that she regrets. Especially the ways she has lived in cycles of self-betrayal. The self-betrayal began as a means of survival. But she knows she has fallen into a habit, choosing the familiar instead of the good.

The light imparts a final gift.

“Stop living like that.”

It is meant as a gift – this light revealing one more thing – telling her, “You deserve to live in a way that doesn’t betray yourself. Even if the rest of the world doesn’t think you are worth the effort, I do. And I require you to believe it too.”