Early in the morning, while it was still dark in the chapel of
San Eduardo, I saw an image of a stained-glass window on the wall. We have
slept on this floor for 15 years every spring in this small Ecuadorian town,
but I had never seen this. The image was made from light coming from
ventilation cutouts in the concrete wall in the shape of a flower, casting a
Rosetta image on the opposite wall. The light was haloed as it moved and
faded with the coming dawn in the middle of the world. Everything feels
hallowed when we have hearts wide-open in the midst of a concrete chapel off a dirt
road. In moments such as these, when we remember we are on holy ground,
no cathedral is more adorned. In such light, beauty rises from within as truth
brushes past and carries us to hope.
I wonder if it was a vision of light on stone that carried Mary
Magdalene through the Easter Morning events. The story of the
Resurrection begins with the words, “while it was still dark." The light
has not yet risen on Jerusalem on the Sabbath, as Mary heads out with grief as
her guide to carry her to the body. And
that is when light and shadow begin their dance like stained glass on
concrete. A sliver of light is enough for her to see the stone rolled
away and to run to Peter and John. As they run back to the tomb in a race
with the murky light of dawn, they see enough to know Jesus is gone. Mary
stands alone and tries to see through tears and shadows. The light is surely
breaking through as she sees now angels and linen on the floor. Then,
even as she cannot make out what she is seeing, she hears Jesus calling
her. Then the true light of hope fills her from within, and she reaches
for Jesus.
I laid my sister’s ashes inside the altar at the A-Frame Chapel
as lent began. The next Wednesday night, I led a Eucharist with the same
words and motions I have used every week for 20 years. As I lifted the round unleavened bread, I
recited the last prayer, “…And at the last day bring us with all your saints
into the joy of your eternal kingdom." As I raised the host, there was a beautiful
light with depth filling the center. I
almost couldn't break it; I just stood there drawn into it. It had
something to do with the silver paten, the lighting in the room, the angle I
was holding it and the space that grief opens in us. I wrote that night
that I couldn’t make out what the light was, maybe a lion, but even though it
was unclear, I longed for it. The next Sunday, without talking with one
another, The Rev. Dr. Scott Owings preached to us about a vision and said,
“Imagine walking into church at night. The candles are the only source of light. Rest
your eyes upon the host and it begins to send out rays of light that enter you and flood your soul, cleansing
you. The
rays soak
into your body.”
I asked him where the image came from and if he saw a shape
in the light. He said he just felt it. Even murky and shadowed light like that
first week of Lent carry rays of hope in grief. Those rays are enough to
bring all of us to the garden while it is still dark, ready to anoint a body,
but hopeful enough when we see a sliver of light on rock or bread to run to find
answers.
The next weeks of Lent were busy with the group of 31 preparing for
Ecuador and readying the clinic. After seeing more than 900 patients, the
clinic closed, and we traveled to the 800-year-old town of Cuenca. It was
Dr. Keith Hagan’s last trip where he and Carole have served faithfully building
the clinic operations. Early on the Sabbath, Michael, Don, Tara and
I walked with Keith on his final morning, as communion was ending in the
Cathedral.
We approached the altar as the remaining host was being placed in
a tabernacle cross. Just as we were grieving Keith’s leaving Ecuador,
there it was. In the golden cross holding the host, the light I had
glimpsed at the altar and which Scott envisioned was shining. It looked like a
lion’s mane.
That light is always there, it is just that sometimes we have to
walk through Lent, death and letting go to behold it.
We have seen the light. And when we let light flood our
stone hearts we can feel hope pouring into grief itself. The stone has rolled
and all those we love who have died live on in love and the memory of
God. All we grieve is full of light. Feel the light shining this
morning as surely as it shone on Mary. Imagine as she left the tomb, the
morning light pouring over her and turning her tears into prisms. Let us see radiant light like angels standing with linens. Let us
feel the fullness of light that danced the first morning of creation, that
shines in the darkness and that will lead us home. “There is light even in death," Easter
preaches. A sliver of light can cast stained glass on poor concrete
walls, turn bread into a heavenly host and cut through our darkness enough to
see we are bathed in the light of love. It means that we can live in hope,
dedicated to justice and truth, knowing the light will never leave us. The light is ours for the beholding and
allows us to make our song even at our own Easter morning, “Alleluia, Alleluia,
Alleluia.”
