There is, in this congregation, a running conversation as to what to call this structural wonder that rises above my head. Is it a dome? Or is it a lantern? The answer, of course, is both/and, depending on your perspective. It is a modern dome - the 1960s version of those elegant Byzantine basilicas that grace much of Europe, reminiscent of glittery mosaics and luminous paintings proclaiming the powerful promises of God. But functionally, architecturally, it is also a lantern, transparently receiving and then sending forth the light of God's creative and healing Spirit. In either case, it is beautiful; it is unique to this space, and it defines who we are called to be in this community and in God's world.
Almost fifty years ago the forebears of this congregation made the decision to build a church on a hill - actually on the slight rise of ground called Bradley Hills. They then proceeded to build a building that would be a beacon of light in the neighborhood, not hidden under a bushel, but set on a hill for all the world to see. Last year, the session decided to recommit to that identity. They voted to install high-powered lights facing out toward the street, and then put them on a timer, so that every evening between 8 and 11 this colorful prism will burn brightly, as beacon, as witness, as invitation to receive the love of God. Yes, this lantern is a powerful physical symbol of who we are. The question must always be raised, however: How accurately does this physical symbol reflect the spiritual health and vitality of this congregation?
I have always resisted preaching the Gospel of Matthew, and this morning I am reminded why. This is not "Christianity Lite" - a low calorie version of the faith that can somehow remove some of the weight of the gospel. No, this morning's passage, particularly when coupled with Isaiah's political and provocative prophecy, is the real thing: a full course, full-bodied text that fills and transforms all of who we are. This is not gourmet food set out on fine china with attractive presentation. This is the oatmeal, the vegetable soup, the soul food of the Christian faith. And it reminds us of the powerful privilege, the awesome responsibility of being Christ's disciples in the world.
According to Genesis, light was the very first work of creation - God's basic, elemental gift of salvation. As the years have unfolded within the Jewish tradition, the first five books of scripture, the Torah, have come to be considered the light of God's truth. The Gospel of John takes this image one step further by making clear that Jesus is the light of the world - the Torah personified and embodied - God's salvation in flesh and blood. But Matthew goes all the way. He brings all of this home with a practical, terrifying, wonderful suggestion. He says that you - I - we are the light of the world. Not maybe! Not some day! But now! You - I - we are the light of the world. We are the salvation of God in the daily rhythm of creation.
Now, this light that we are needs to be understood in a couple of ways. First, and most importantly of all, this light comes from the outside in. It is God's light first and our light second. Physicists tell us that the diffusion of light in the world is caused by the reflection of the rays of the sun off particles in the air, off the clouds, off the earth. If it weren't for this dispersion of light, there would only be the sun and darkness. But because of the miracle of how light works, each particle of matter becomes a miniature sun. Likewise, in the Christian faith, the light of God's love is dispersed and reflected off each one of us, so that we become miniature gods in the world.
When our two new windows were being designed, the artist made it clear that the beauty of the windows would be dependent upon the whim of the light - the sun hitting the color and angle of the glass and dispersing it into our midst. And so the message, the power of these windows cannot be controlled. They are dependent upon the light, upon the mercurial glow of God, to create that which is new and fresh at every moment of each day. And so it is with us. When we are angled and colored just right, then we are transparent to the grace and glory of the Creator.
Some of you know that I carry a glass oil lamp with me almost everywhere I go: to session meetings, to spiritual retreats, to confirmation class sessions, to daybreak devotions. This lamp is, to me, a concrete reminder of God's presence and power in our midst. In the mundane business of our life together, we light this lamp first to remind ourselves who we are and whose we are. Lately, this lamp has been smoking terribly, filling the room with an unpleasant odor and clouding up the glass of the lantern. God has become dysfunctional, or so I thought. That is until Mike Werner suggested that I trim the wick, a necessary discipline of oil lamp ownership that I had never been taught. Well, now that the wick is trimmed, my lamp doesn't smell or smoke, it uses fuel much more efficiently, and the glass is clear and clean, allowing God to shine sharply, warmly in our midst. Ah, yes, the dysfunction wasn't with God. It was with me.
The disciplines of the Christian faith are the ways we trim our wicks and polish the glass of our lives. Developing habits of prayer, study, silence, stewardship, and service - these are the ways we become transparent, ready to receive and return the light of the God who burns inside us, in the well-trimmed wicks of our souls. It is then that we can move to a deeper level of understanding - realizing that though light comes from the outside in, it only serves its purpose if it burns brightly and pervasively from the inside out.
The painter Rembrandt, a strong and committed Christian, used light to reflect his spiritual understandings. Some of his most powerful characters appear to emanate light from within themselves, embracing those around them with warmth and energy. Even in his sketches, like Christ Preaching, the inner radiance of Christ gives definition to the sick, to the children, and to all the others who gather around him. In contrast to this, in Rembrandt's painting Descent from the Cross, there is no inner light anywhere. A lone torch in the distance casts lifeless shadows of death on Christ's tortured body, showing a dead world without the life and light of God. And so it is with us. The light within us, which is the power and grace of God, is life for and to the world. And without the God in us shining in the good deeds of our lives, the world will surely die.
During the last blizzard, our family had the opportunity to build a blazing fire, and then sit back and enjoy it. I have learned over the years that it takes work to get a fire just right: the wood needs to be carried and stacked a certain way with just enough air circulating around it. And of course, the damper has to be open. But once the fire is going, it is wonderful just to sit back and enjoy - to relax, to nap, to sink into the rhythm of the dancing flames. The danger is to relax too much, for then the flames die down, the fire turns to embers, the embers turn to smoke, and the fire dies out.
Several years ago, this congregation entered into a remarkable period of revitalization. With the capital campaign, the vision task force, several years of restructuring, the assimilation of the forty percent of you who are new in the last seven years, the blossoming of dozens of new programs in the area of education and mission, God - and you - have built a strong and vigorous fire in this special place. And the light of these flames has been wonderful to behold. But we must be careful, my friends, that we don't sit too long just enjoying the blaze, for the fire will surely die down. The session and the members of Task Force 2000 believe that it is now time to stoke our fire with fresh wood, to give some vigorous pumps with the bellows of our lives to ensure that the dancing flames of our life together will not turn to embers.
Friends, church is like a warm and comfortable fire for many of us - helping us to reflect and enjoy God's gift of life. But it is now time to trim the wick, to polish the glass, to fuel the flames so that our fire, our light will burn brightly, for years to come, not only for ourselves, but for that world out there which God calls us to serve.
May it be so - for you and for me. Amen.