Turning the Lights On

On January 25, 2026January 25, 2026 By J. Barrett LeeIn SermonLeave a comment

Sermon for the 3rd Sunday of Epiphany.

The biblical text is Isaiah 9:1-4.

Back when I was a little kid, I would sometimes wake up in the middle of the night, maybe after a nightmare, and I would look around my room in the dark.

And this place that felt so comfortable and so familiar to me in the daytime suddenly felt very foreign and strange in the nighttime. I was certain that there was danger in the darkness. And some of it, to be fair, was real. I never did a good job of keeping my room clean—either then or now—so it was entirely possible that I might trip and fall over something without the lights on. But some of that danger, I now know, was imaginary—like the monster under the bed or the boogeyman hiding in my closet.

But either way, whether I was thinking about real danger or imaginary danger, the feeling of fear was real.

I think we’ve all felt that way at some point or another in our lives—whether it was back when we were kids or maybe even now that we’re grown-ups. The things we’re afraid of might be different, and they too might be real or imaginary. But the fear itself stays the same.

The people of the kingdom of Judah in the 8th century BCE felt that fear too—the terror of a kid waking up in the middle of the night and not recognizing their own bedroom—Except that the people of Judah were feeling it about their country.

They didn’t recognize it anymore. There was trouble brewing at home and abroad. Their leaders had become self-absorbed and inhumane. And the prophet Isaiah—the one person in the capital city who was making any sense at all—wasn’t being listened to by anyone.

The Assyrian Empire was lurking on their borders, threatening invasion, and meanwhile Ahaz, the king of Judah, was busy flirting with their king and trying to impress him in any way that he could. It was as if a deep darkness had settled over their country, and the familiar landscape had suddenly become unrecognizable.

These were scary times for the people of Judah. And that’s where our first reading, from the book of Isaiah, picks up today.

And the prophet Isaiah doesn’t beat around the bush: He gets straight to the point, saying, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.”

Light is a funny thing. It doesn’t change much, but it makes all the difference.

For that kid who wakes up in the middle of the night, turning on the light is the one thing that can assuage that overwhelming fear. When the light is on, you can see a path through the messy room to the door. When the light is on, you can see that there are no monsters under the bed or in the closet. When the lights are on, you can remember that the place where you are now is the same place where you felt so at home before—you were just temporarily blinded by the darkness.

Turning on the lights doesn’t bring the night to an end any quicker, and it certainly doesn’t cause the room to be any less messy than it was before, but it makes it possible for you to see a way through the mess to the other side, and it gives you the comfort and strength you need to make it through the night until a new day dawns.

That’s the hope that the prophet Isaiah was giving to the people of Judah during their time living “in a land of deep darkness.”

The candle in the night was a sign of better days to come.

The word Isaiah uses to describe this new day—the word he repeats over and over again—is joy. He says, “You have multiplied the nation; you have increased its joy… They rejoice before you, as with joy at the harvest.”

It’s joy, joy, joy.

Isaiah says to his people, “I know things are tough right now, and in the darkness, you don’t recognize the country that once felt so familiar to you. But I promise you that a new day will dawn—a day of joy. And it will come when you least expect it, and in a way that you didn’t see coming.”

He said to the people that, “the yoke of their burden… the bar across their shoulders… and the rod of their oppressor,” would be broken “as on the day of Midian.”

And that’s a very interesting phrase.

When Isaiah talks about “the day of Midian,” he’s talking about a very specific scene from the book of Judges.

In Judges, chapter 7, the hero Gideon defeats a vast army in battle with an impossibly small force of underdogs. By the numbers, it should not have worked. But God was with them, and they stood up for what was right anyway, in spite of the overwhelming odds. And in the end, they were victorious.

So when Isaiah says that “the rod of the oppressor will be broken as on the day of Midian,” he’s saying to the people of Judah, “Just as God was with our ancestors in their struggle for what was right, so God will be with us too in ours.”

And I believe that message applies not just to the people of Isaiah’s day in the 8th century BCE, but to us too in our own day.

It’s easy to look around at the way things are today and see the darkness.

It’s easy to feel the fear and want to lash out in anger.

But what God asks of us instead is to be the light and let that light shine for all to see.

As we already talked about, light doesn’t change much—but it brings clarity. It allows the truth of our present moment to be seen for what it is. Light beats back the darkness of fear with the brightness of perspective. When we look around the room with the lights on, we see what’s really going on, and we are not afraid.

With the lights on, we can say to the monster under our bed, “You’re not really there. You have no power over me.” With the lights on, we can say to the mess on the floor, “I’m going to clean you up tomorrow, and you will not cause me to stumble and fall during this temporary time of darkness.” With the lights on, we can say to our fears—both real and imaginary—“You don’t scare me anymore.”

So, kindred in Christ, my message to you today is this:

Let your light shine. Now more than ever.

When the darkness of this world threatens to overwhelm you with fear, answer with light—light that brings truth and clarity, light that refuses to let you deny the evidence of your eyes, light that exposes monsters for the illusions that they are, light that dispels the darkness of fear for the brightness and warmth of home.

Because that is where we are.

Scripture tells us, in the Gospel according to John, chapter 1, verse 5, “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

My dear, beloved kindred in Christ, I proclaim to you today, in this season of Epiphany, that the scripture is true: The darkness has not overcome the light.

In fact, darkness is simply the absence of light. So, wherever the light shines, the darkness flees in terror.

You need not fear the monster under your bed, because the truth is that the monster is afraid of you.

So, let your light shine, my friends. Say to yourself, “This little light of mine, I’m gonna let it shine.”

Let it shine through the cameras of your cell phones.
Let it shine in your posts on social media.
Let it shine in your conversations with friends and family.
Let it shine in the acts of mercy and justice that you share in solidarity with your neighbors.

Let it shine.
Let it shine.
Let it shine.

Because, “the people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness—on them light has shined.”

“The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”

Amen?

When God Smacks You in the Head

On May 7, 2017May 7, 2017 By J. Barrett LeeIn Uncategorized5 Comments

I’ve been wanting to write more about my recent transition from the Presbyterian Church to the Episcopal Church, but a hectic schedule has not allowed. Hopefully, I will get to that soon. I’m sorry for leaving my readers in the dark, but living life has taken precedence over documenting it.

The transition process has been full of providential coincidences, deepening relationships, and a profound sense of finally settling into a church tradition where I can feel at home.

I have had a steep learning curve in my new job as parish administrator at St. Thomas Episcopal Church in Battle Creek. I’m grateful that the community there has been wonderfully welcoming and patient with me as I learn how to juggle these new responsibilities. I have desperately needed to learn the administrative and financial aspects of church life, which this job allows me to do. Knowing about these things will make me a much stronger presbyter when I (hopefully) return to that role in a few years. I believe I am exactly where God has called me to be for this moment.

At the same time, this new season is not without its own pain and anxiety. First of all, I am still grieving my previous call as pastor of North Presbyterian Church, Kalamazoo. I had hoped to remain in that position for much longer than I did. Even after I came to the realization that I was not a Presbyterian, I was determined to stay on for the sake of serving that amazing group of people. Unfortunately, the financial realities made it impossible for me to continue in the call.

Second, the reality has begun to sink in that I am taking a substantial risk by hopping between denominations like this. The Anglican commitment to the historic episcopate (a theological commitment I have come to agree with, btw) means that I will have to re-enter the discernment process for ordination. The process will take several years. And there is the possibility, however slight, that a bishop might look at my situation and not decide to move forward with ordination. My priest assures me that this, while technically possible, is highly unlikely. Nevertheless, the fear sometimes keeps me up at night. I felt it acutely this weekend at the Diocesan Church Development Institute (DCDI), where clergy and parishioners from two Michigan dioceses gathered to learn about helping members grow spiritually, live together in community, and nurture transformative change. I was thinking about how much I love this when the terror struck that I might never again be able to invest my whole life in pastoral ministry, as I have for the last decade.

But God is not without a sense of humor.

Today’s epistle reading at the Daily Office was from 1 Peter 5:1-11. St. Peter writes as an apostle, bishop, and priest (presbyter, translated as “elder” in the NRSV) in the Church. He exhorts the leaders of the Church “to tend the flock of God that is in your charge, exercising the oversight, not under compulsion but willingly, as God would have you do it not for sordid gain but eagerly.” (1 Pe 5:2)

I heard the following words as if they were spoken directly to me in this moment:

“Humble yourselves therefore under the mighty hand of God, so that he may exalt you in due time. Cast all your anxiety on him, because he cares for you.” (1 Pe 5:6-7)

And I then I read the following as a promise:

“And after you have suffered for a little while, the God of all grace, who has called you to his eternal glory in Christ, will himself restore, support, strengthen, and establish you.” (1 Pe 5:10)

As one trained in the arts of biblical exegesis and church history, I am fully aware of the dangerous situations that arise when one inserts one’s personal desires and fears into the text of Scripture. Furthermore, I know how church bodies work and have come to trust in the process of discernment that happens with the bishop in concert with relevant committees. There are no guarantees that I will ever become a priest in the Episcopal Church. Even if I do, the path will not be short or easy.

But the promise I hear in this text is that my life is destined to reflect God’s “eternal glory in Christ” and I will be given whatever manna I need to make that journey safely. I write these words from a place of faith, knowing that those same old fears are likely to reassert themselves in the next few years, days, or even moments. May God grant me the grace to trust the promise, even as my own heart screams in terror.

Last night, I was venting these fears to my wife at some length (ad nauseum, she might say). I eventually paused to go say Evening Prayer. Reaching down to get a hymnal from the bottom shelf, something must have shifted. There was a noise on the shelf above me and a sudden, stinging pain in the back of the head. I turned around to see what had fallen and hit me… it was my ordination certificate.

PCUSA Ordination Certificate.JPG

God Is With Us (in the little things)

On December 29, 2013 By J. Barrett LeeIn Uncategorized2 Comments

Do you ever get scared? I get scared sometimes. I get scared of all kinds of things:

What if I get sick? What if we run out of money? What if I lose my job? What if my marriage falls apart? What if something happens to one of my kids?

What if this election doesn’t turn out the way I think it should? What if the stock market crashes again? What if essential relief and education programs get their funding cut by policy makers?

We live lives surrounded by fear. The famous philosopher (and sometimes crankyperson) David Hume once went on a rant about all the things in this world that scare us. First, he said, there are our natural enemies: those things that threaten our physical existence (i.e. predators, disasters, diseases). Then there are our societal enemies: tyranny, oppression, injustice, inequality, violent rebellion. Next you have our internal enemies: guilt, shame, fear. Finally, as if all that weren’t enough, we have our own imaginary enemies that we make up ourselves: superstitions, taboos, mythical monsters.

Surrounded by so many enemies and things to be scared of on all sides, life hardly seems worth living, says Hume. Why then do we go on? Why don’t we just end it all? Well, says Hume, because we’re scared of that too. Death is the ultimate enemy to fear because no one knows for sure what lies on the other side of it. And so, because we are ultimately afraid of death, Hume says, “We are terrified, not bribed, into the continuance of our existence.”

Now, this is a pretty dark portrayal of reality (David Hume was kind of famous for that), but I think he has a point in noticing that we live our lives surrounded by fear. There’s always something to be worried about or afraid of. This is the way it’s always been.

Way back in the 8^th century BCE, there was a Jewish king named Ahaz who had a lot to be scared of. His reign had been fraught with constant conflict. Two of his enemies, the Ephraimites and the Arameans, had joined forces and were threatening to lay siege to the city of Jerusalem. Ahaz was understandably scared out of his gourd. The most sensible thing he could think of to do was to seek out support from a bigger, meaner bully down the block. Back then, the biggest, meanest kid in town was the Assyrian Empire.

This, by the way, is the same rationale that leads some people, especially teenagers and young adults, to join gangs: they’re looking to garner a sense of safety when they feel like no one else cares about them. But, as is so often the case with these kinds of things, there is a hefty price to pay and very little safety after all. In King Ahaz’s case, he and his people would pay dearly for whatever protection they received from Assyria. Having sacrificed freedom for security, they were no longer in charge of their own house. The people of Judah paid tribute to the Assyrians and owed them allegiance, even to the point of worshiping Assyrian deities in the place of the Jewish God. Because of fear, Ahaz lost sight of who he was and what he was supposed to stand for in the world.

It didn’t have to be this way. Isaiah the prophet, who was a pretty insightful dude, saw the bad end coming and tried to warn Ahaz. He said, “These troubles are only temporary. It’s not worth selling your soul in order to ensure your survival. Have a little faith!” He pointed to a pregnant woman and said, “You see this young woman? By the time her baby grows up and is old enough to walk and talk, these conflicts will be nothing more than a distant memory. Look at this woman and remember her. Let her baby be a sign to you that God is with you, therefore you don’t need to be afraid.”

This was a powerful message. And it’s one that has endured for thousands of years, even though its intended audience didn’t listen to a word of it. Isaiah told Ahaz to look for God, not in grandiose displays of power or guarantees of success, but in the little things of this world. The sign of God’s presence was that little baby, whose name would be Immanuel, which is Hebrew for “God is with us.”

Over seven hundred years after Isaiah first spoke these words, the early Christians would look back at them and say, “Hey, you know what? Isaiah’s prophecy kind of reminds us of Jesus! He wasn’t very powerful or successful by this world’s standards, but when we looked at him, we got that hunch that maybe “God is with us.” Besides, Jesus taught us to look for God in the little things as well: in the birds of the air and the flowers of the field, in farmers sowing seeds and bakers baking bread. Jesus got us looking at all those little things in life that most people never pay attention to. Because of him, we know that God is with us, just like Isaiah tried to tell Ahaz with that little boy Immanuel.”

I love that. God is with us in the little things. As we live our lives, surrounded and overwhelmed by fear, we often forget to pay attention to those little, everyday signs that God is with us. Like Ahaz, we can sometimes be quick to lose sight of who we are and what’s really important, especially when we’re afraid. It’s in those moments of overwhelming anxiety that we most need to take a step back, take a deep breath, and look… really look at ourselves, our lives, and our world. We need to pay attention to those little things, the things we’re too busy for, the boring, ordinary things that happen every day, the things that don’t seem all that important: babies, bread, birds, flowers, seeds… because those places are the places where God meets us.

There may be no grandiose sign, no light from heaven, no singing angels. There will be no guarantees of security or success. Just the little things, little signs of Immanuel, that God is with us. All we are promised from these encounters is a renewed perspective on who we are what life is all about. The strength we find in these encounters is the strength to stand by our core values and central beliefs, come what may. God is with us in the little things of this world to remind us that some things in life are more important than success or survival, therefore we don’t need to live in fear. Fear is not the foundation of reality. Deeper than fear, deeper still than the natural, societal, internal, and imaginary enemies who surround us on every side, at the very heart of reality, we have a friend who is always with us… a love that will not let us go. My esteemed, late colleague, the Rev. Fred Rogers (host of the children’s TV show Mr. Rogers’ Neighborhood) said it best:

“I believe that at the center of the universe there dwells a loving spirit who longs for all that’s best in all of creation, a spirit who knows the great potential of each planet as well as each person, and little by little will love us into being more than we ever dreamed possible. That loving spirit would rather die than give up on any one of us.”

With a God like this on our side, what do we have to be afraid of?

Immanuel, God is with us, even (especially) in the little things. This is the message that Isaiah tried to deliver to King Ahaz, although Ahaz wasn’t willing to hear it. This is the message we are meant to take with us from the Christmas season. The question for us is: are we willing to listen?

Immanuel, God is with us. Do not be afraid.