As I was walking through the Art Institute of Chicago a few weeks ago, I came upon a painting of a woman lying down in a bed. She was positioned in what could have been mistaken, by a hasty glance, as a romantic pose. But upon closer examination, the sunlight coming in from the painted window illuminated this woman’s posture as one of defiance, anger, brokenness and shame. She was lying somewhat haphazardly. On the bedside table was a collection of empty bottles. And yet the artist captured her expression at the moment when the light from the window landed on her. The light illuminates the contours of her face and makes her brokenness look absolutely beautiful.
We use the metaphor of light and darkness to talk about God fairly often. Typically, the darkness is vilified. In a raw, emotional way, that makes sense. As children, we are often afraid of the dark. And even as adults, we don’t like it when our ability to make sense of the world around us is taken away. But maybe it’s not that simple. As an artist, I have come to love the shadows. They bring depth to our images, they ground us. The shadows are so human.
This week’s theme is “the light enters the world.” It’s a complicated statement. It’s not “the light makes the darkness go away forever,” which would perhaps be easier to understand. It’s not even “the light overcomes the darkness.” Even if sunlight is the metaphorical God, the darkness doesn’t disappear. The shadows are, as I said before, so human. We know, especially as we reflect during this season of Lent, that the world is full of suffering and chaos and that much of that is caused by humanity. But even in our most painful moments, when we lie like the woman in bed, we can be illuminated. We know that the existence of God doesn’t make suffering go away. Instead, the light is entering the world. It’s showing us the shapes and colors and the joys and sorrows. The light is what allows us to see our humanity.