We Have Seen a Great Light

I was thinking recently of Pope Benedict's Jesus of Nazareth: The Infancy Narratives where he explains how Jesus is born outside of Bethlehem, and similarly crucified outside the walls of Jerusalem. "He who was crucified outside the city (cf. Heb 13:12) also came into the world outside the city" (p. 66). Right from the start, all the way until death, there has always been a rejection of Christ.

These words were in my head again last night, a very low-key feast of the presentation. We were go-go-go with cranky kids right up until it was their bed time. So as we sat there, pjs on, for some reason I couldn't help but think of the feast day and the utter lack of excitement, or even knowledge, all around in the surrounding town. I deeply yearned for last year.

Last year we attended the Mass of the Extraordinary Form (Latin) in Saskatoon on Feb. 2. It began with a seemingly endless set of blessings (in reality only 5). Then, as the EF Mass often does, it dragged us into what was truly taking place. Each prayer, action, and gesture, along with a dynamic homily, unveiled a new mystery, a mystery involving light. Then, for the first time in my life, I truly began to understand what the presentation is all about. Becca and I were deeply touched, as we took our candles home. It was profoundly faith-filling, and a causation of what liturgy is intended to do.

So we sat there last night, and as I stared at some candles lit in our living room I pined for more of those enriching moments. Why are they so few and far between? Why did we have sit in that (finally) quiet house of ours, left to reflect on the feast day, but with no offering of a liturgy nearby? No heavenly movements to lead us through this mystery? No priest? A dark and empty church across town? Where is this light?

I wondered about this. But surely our priest is not to blame. I know if he was around he would've offered Mass. Not an EF Mass mind you, complete with blessings and processions and all, but a Mass nonetheless. But then I wondered further, suppose he did, would still anyone care? Would people come out to receive the light? Would they seek to be pulled into a great mystery? Knowing our town, I quickly realized that most would not. Not in this town. Not in the town over either. Nope. It's just as when Christ came. No room in the inn for Him. No room in the town.

Still though, I brought Joseph to see the candles before bed. He was very wide-eyed and attentive. He asked to hold one of them. I explained to him that Jesus is the light of the world, and that it was a very special day. He very carefully repeated my words: "Jesus is the light of the world." He held that candle proudly. It was all so great. Off we then scooted to bed. A profound mystery indeed. Yet seemingly so simple now that I see how easily Joseph grasped it. "Jesus is the light of the world... just like this candle lights this room." A light made clearer by liturgy, yes, but somehow understood by a three year old. And yet too many in the world don't care.

But the wonderful thing about light is that it only take for one person to keep the candle burning. One person to hold off the complete darkness. One person to bring the light to others, and to others still. It doesn't matter the size of the person. An adult. A teacher. A person... Joseph's size.

Somehow someway, we must keep that light burning in our home, in this town. Somehow, someway, it must be passed on. A profound mystery. Yet unveiled to the littlest among us.

Yes Joseph, this is a great light.