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Day Two: Ash Wednesday

LIGHT AND THE DISPOSITION OF LIFE

Read John 12:1-19.

Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him (vv. 1-2).

Rebekah and I tell the following story from our epic trip “out West,” back when Andrew and Naomi were still snarky teens. We drove from Tampa all the way to Colorado and beyond, 6,800 miles over three weeks.

One day, in the middle of the Rocky Mountains, we signed up for one of those “abandoned gold mine” tours. The train took us a half-mile into the heart of the mountain. Eventually we came into contact with darkness on a level I had never experienced before. Our guide turned off all the lights until there was just one remaining. Then he stood on a chair.

“Close your eyes and put your hand two inches in front of your face,” the guide said. “Keep them closed. Now I’m going to turn out the single remaining light, and I want you to open your eyes after I count to three.”

The result was shocking. Not only could we not see our hands in front of our faces, we could see absolutely nothing at all. It was as if matter no longer existed, just sound, and there wasn’t much of that because we were all almost too nervous to even breathe.

About thirty seconds later—an extremely long time in those conditions—our guide told us all to hold perfectly still and to be completely quiet because he was going to light a small wooden match. When he did, the effect was amazing; we could see everything! We were in a cavern about the size of a three-hundred-seat auditorium, but there wasn’t a cubic foot of the space that did not experience at least some degree of illumination.

Well, he got the “Wow!” element he was looking for. The tour was a definite success. Nobody found a smidgen of gold, but we didn’t care and we all went on our way happy. But my mind could not stop working as I thought about the effect that even one small spark of light will always have on darkness. As the Gospel of John says, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness can never extinguish it” (NLT).

Here’s the really cool part. Even though the wooden match produced “artificial” light, it turns out that the phosphorescent energy that illuminated our cavern was still a conduit for the power of the sun’s energy, which is absorbed, stored, recalibrated, reconstituted, unearthed, transformed, packaged, repackaged, and ultimately released via a thousand different pathways.

We are all called to play the part of the match in the dark cave that is this world. In the beginning of John’s Gospel there’s a telling passage about our critical role as conduits for the light. “There came a man who was sent from God; his name was John. He came as a witness to testify concerning that light” (John 1:6-7, NIV).

If there’s an ounce of hope in this world, if there’s any impulse to growth, if we understand any sense of urgency beyond merely existing—then that’s the quality of light John was talking about in his testimony. Life and light testify to the truth about creation.

LENT CALLS TO THE PROMISE OF RESURRECTION

The promise inherent in springtime runs deep. During my childhood in England, February was the time that the green tips of crocus leaves pushed their way through the slush of freezing rain or the residue of melting snow, insistent on a cold, wet, uninviting morning. I’d be outside, under protest, with our enthusiastic golden retriever and there the flowers would be, little heads poking up with extravagant hope. “We can do it!” they seemed to taunt. “What’s your excuse!”

Today, living in Florida, I find that springtime is already in full bloom in February. Everywhere the garden pushes ahead in response to the imperative of life—the dynamic life force resident in the cell structure of even the simplest plant; the impulse not just to live but also to grow; unrelenting life.

The power that created—and still creates—is best described as the author and the sustainer of life. Separation from the Creator is best described as death—life set aside in favor of darkness. But my journey as a follower of Jesus has given me this new disposition, and that is the disposition of life.

A surge of vitality comes through cold soil and dead wood every spring. Such animation just hints at the brilliant life offered through the process of birth and resurrection. Jesus put it this way, when he was talking with a man named Nicodemus: “Do not be astonished that I said to you, ‘You must be born from above’” (John 3:7).

“See, I am making all things new” (Rev. 21:5).

Newness; springtime; hope beyond winter; resurrection; all of nature shouting instruction to each one of us in terms of our journey. Time to ask myself some questions:

In what ways am I allowing the Spirit to work newness in me?

How is my faith able to comprehend—in a fresh way—the promise of renewal?

In what ways do I present the kind of evidence that the crocus demonstrates every year?

How does the way that I live communicate the reality of God’s amazing love to the world around me?

“So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation; everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” (2 Cor. 5:17).

Lazarus, who enjoyed dinner with Jesus in Bethany, was a new creation in Christ. And the story told every spring via re-creation points to the truth about the character of the Author of Creation. This journey together through Lent serves as an invitation to align the heart of our spiritual nature with the regenerative heart of God, the Sustainer and Deliverer, to set our intention toward life and to align ourselves with the light.

Examine your own life in light of the questions listed above.

Prayer: Accompany us on this journey to the Cross, Creator God. Sustain us by your Spirit; walk by our side; re-create us in the context of your awesome love. Amen.