139: Let the Light In
After quite the journey, which included a four-hour train ride, an overnight stay in Oban, then a ferry, a bus, and another ferry, we finally arrived on the Isle of Iona in Scotland.
Iona is a super tiny island off the northwest coast of Scotland, and its known for being a pivotal point along the way as Christianity spread into Scotland. St. Columba {an apprentice of St. Patrick} landed there in 563 AD. And over the years—centuries, really—a monastic community was formed. Not much remains from the original abbey, but around 1200 AD, the current abbey was built. The history is fascinating, and I’ll link to more of it in the show notes in case that’s your thing.
Anyway, we were there to participate in the first of two work weeks at the Abbey. They hold one work week on the cusp of spring each year to prepare for the thousands of visitors coming through during high season. The second work week happens in autumn, as the Abbey {and most of the island} closes for visitors during the low season.
We were there to help prepare. And so after settling into our room and familiarizing ourselves with the Abbey grounds, we then learned what our jobs for the week would be.
Jobs included painting and sewing and deep cleaning and organizing and gardening and even clearing out and hauling away debris and worn resources. As for me, I was assigned to the window-washing team, along with my new friends Autumn and Marguerite. As the team name might imply, we were responsible for cleaning all the windows at the Abbey. Quite the task, but one I looked forward to.
The next morning, we got together and gathered all of our supplies—buckets of water, soap, vinegar, sponges, cloths, squeegees. Then, we got to work.
For four days, our team cleaned windows. Both inside and out. Some windows were newer, but many were nearly a century old; and the window frames, well, those were many centuries old. In the setting of the Abbey, what might have been mundane or ordinary work elsewhere felt holy; sacred; reverential, even. What would have otherwise been a chore became a practice. And the difference it made was clear.
Literally. I didn’t really notice it from afar, but up close, it was amazing to see how much dirt and grime and sea salt had built up on the glass of these windows over the course of the year. It’s not that the dirty windows weren’t able to let any light in; the spaces inside were still beautiful. With all that build-up, though, they’d grown dull, dusty and drab during the low season.
As we worked and gently, delicately, thoroughly washed it all away, the glass glistened; the view sharpened; the sunlight more directly shone through. And those spaces grew distinctly brighter, lighter, and warmer than they were before our work began.
It was a deeply meaningful experience for me, in ways I’ll continue to hold close. And it also provided a question and invitation I’ve found helpful ever since:
What does it look like for me to help let the light in?
As window-washers throughout the week, that’s part of what our little team did—we helped let the light in. And I wonder if, as followers of Jesus, letting the light in is part of our call, too.
In John 8:12, Jesus calls himself “the light of the world.” And in Matthew 5:14-16, Jesus also says this:
14 “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid. 15 People do not light a lamp and put it under the bushel basket; rather, they put it on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. 16 In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.
Jesus is the light of the world. And in this passage, we are reminded that we are called to follow suit. Together as His followers, and through God’s Spirit within us, we are the light of the world, too. And that light is not meant to be hidden or diminished.
Truly, we need it. Sunlight aids growth. It improves mental and physical health. It enhances overall well-being. Good, natural light helps us flourish.
In a similar way, the light and presence of God offers hope, endurance, compassion, peace, joy, and love. It is bold without being flashy. It is soft, though not insignificant. It sees the overlooked and notices the unnoticed. It reminds us all that we matter; we belong; and we are never alone. In the middle of the dim and dreary, God’s light makes a difference.
So what might it look like to let that light in?
It might look like a note of encouragement.
It might look like a meal for a struggling friend.
It might look like a newly planted tree or a commitment to prayer.
It might look like a listening ear or a steadying presence.
It might look like a peaceful protest or a thoughtfully written poem.
It might like look like a generous spirit or an unexpected gift.
Of course the list goes on. As we are led by the Spirit of God within us, there are countless ways to let the light in.
Today, as we continue to become the people God calls and invites us to be, may we remember to do just that: to help let the light in. As artist and writer Jan Richardson shares,
Blessed are you
who bear the light
in unbearable times,
who testify
to its endurance
amid the unendurable,
who bear witness
to its persistence
when everything seems
in shadow
and grief.
Blessed are you
in whom
the light lives,
in whom
the brightness blazes—
your heart
a chapel,
an altar where
in the deepest night
can be seen
the fire that
shines forth in you
in unaccountable faith,
in stubborn hope,
in love that illumines
every broken thing
it finds.
{Blessed Are You Who Bear the Light from Circle of Grace by Jan Richardson}