Carrying The Light

Orthodox Easter In Romania

The renowned twentieth-century Trappist monk Thomas Merton tells a story that has lingered with me for several years:

In the old days, on Easter night, the Russian peasants used to carry the blessed fire home from church. The light would scatter and travel in all directions through the darkness, and the desolation of the night would be pierced and dispelled as lamps came on in the windows of the farmhouses, one by one.

There is much to contemplate in his lovely story. First of all, the light of Easter shines brightly enough to pierce the desolation of the night. The darkness is pierced and dispelled. Imagine a light bright enough to penetrate the night and provide light enough to show the way home. Imagine the faithfulness of these peasants to carry the light all the way home.    

Second, even as it scatters in all directions—different people, different churches and homes, different communities—the light continues to shine brightly. It scatters, it spreads, but it keeps giving light. Soon the whole village is lit. Soon the surrounding neighborhood delights to see the light. Soon the fear of desolation begins to lift.

Third, this blessed light of the Resurrection, carried by each individual from the church, is carefully sheltered on the walk home. We imagine then it is cared for inside the home too, encouraged to burn evermore brightly, lighting every corner of the house.  

Fourth, from each window it shines visibly, signaling how this home finds light. No hesitation here on the part of these light-carriers, no embarrassment, no defensiveness. Beginning in the village church, then, the blessed fire eventually burns widely, carried by the hands and feet of faithful peasants, spreading out all over the neighborhood, shining out to rescue the world from darkness. I love the simplicity. I love the devotion. Even the courage in so many places.

I remember vividly an Easter morning a number of years ago. Sharon and I were still living in Seattle. The sun was shining brightly early that special morning. As I opened my front door to gather my papers, I spotted the cherry blossoms exploding from our favorite tree in the front yard. It had rained through the night, the sidewalks were clean, the grass fresh with drops of rain.

I almost let out a shout: “Yes, yes, Christ is risen indeed!” It was such a life-giving moment before we headed off for church. That moment lingers as fresh in memory as the blossoms and the drops of rain.

Inside, as I thumbed through The Seattle Times and The New York Times, I was suddenly startled to discover there was not one word about Easter in my papers. As I prepared to worship my risen Lord with two billion others around the globe, my papers had declared I was on the wrong side of history. Outdated rituals, they wanted to remind me, a bogus history. Too many more important things going on. This Easter thing is a little too mysterious for our tastes. We only print the news that fits the way we see things.

As we prepare for Easter this year, I’d like to think I could live back in the world with those Russian peasants, simple in faith as they carry the light to their homes. We all feel a surrounding, encroaching desolation of darkness, and yet on this Easter, as we shout out “He is risen, he is risen, indeed,” perhaps under exuberant cherry blossoms, perhaps in the freshness of the morning, may we resolve to carry the blessed fire to light our homes, to place in our windows, announcing a light that penetrates and dissipates our darkness.

Up against the forces of brutality loose across our world; up against indifference, blindness, disdain about the light we carry; up against the doubt and skepticism of our own day, at times even in our own hearts—may we feel again the profound mystery of the light we carry, a light that will never grow dim, a light that lights anew our darkened world, each Easter, each year, each day.