Rest a while

I am sure I have told this story before; however, it is helpful for me to remember.

As the Dutch diarist Etty Hillesum began her diary: “All right, here we go.”

The island I lived on in the Lomaiviti group of Fijian islands was called Ovalau. Only half the island had electric lighting.

When night arrives in the tropics, darkness is absolute. Anyone who has visited knows this truth: the night is black.

On one occasion I had been to a village on the non-electrified side of the island. I had set out in daylight, and after Mass and singing and eating and more singing, I was to set off home.

But—and it was a significant challenge—how would I find my way back to the road and my vehicle? It was pitch black with lush tropical undergrowth in front of me and all around.

At that moment a young boy, seven or eight, took hold of my hand and said very calmly, “Saka, follow me.” (Saka means “father” or “priest” in Fijian.)

With the boy leading and me holding on for dear life, he led me along a path through the foliage. If you knew where the path was, the journey to the road was simple. If you did not, you might well be still walking.

This experience came flooding back when I read today’s Gospel (Mt 4:12-23), which includes the passage: “The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light” (v. 16). It is a quote from the prophet Isaiah which we read as part of today’s First Reading (Is. 9:2).

Light, for me, immediately conjures images of daylight or an electric light being turned on, or perhaps a candle being lit. To imagine light as a person takes some effort.

The young boy leading me through the lush tropical undergrowth was as big a searchlight as I have ever experienced. A light might well be a person rather than a switch.

Take a moment to reflect: Who has taken me by the hand and led me through the darkness?

If you have ever been associated with farm life, you know that lambs wander.

One of history’s most famous “wandering lambs” is the Ghent Altarpiece, also known as the Adoration of the Mystic Lamb. A massive and complex 15th-century masterpiece, the altarpiece was created for St. Bavo’s Cathedral in Ghent, Belgium. Begun in the mid-1420s and completed by 1432, the work is attributed to the brothers Hubert and Jan van Eyck.

However, the painting has had a remarkably eventful—and perilous—history. During its nearly 600-year existence, the Ghent Altarpiece has been:

• Nearly incinerated by rioting Calvinists.
• Seized by Napoleon and taken to the Louvre in Paris.
• Sawn in half after falling into the possession of the King of Prussia.
• Coveted by Hermann Göring and eventually stolen by Adolf Hitler.
• Rescued from an Austrian salt mine, where it was rigged with dynamite and destined for destruction.

The altarpiece is a monumental polyptych with hinged wing panels. Traditionally, it remained closed, displaying only the Annunciation to the public. It was opened only on holy days to reveal the vibrant interior. Through this design, the artists skillfully remind us where our story begins: the Word made flesh because a young woman dared to say “yes.”

Today, a question remains: Do I allow the Lamb to wander, or have I penned the Lamb for my own use?

To describe Gentile da Fabriano’s “Adoration of the Magi” as “busy” might well be an understatement.

Completed in 1423, the masterpiece was originally an altarpiece commissioned by wealthy banker Palla Strozzi for his family chapel in the sacristy of the Church of Santa Trinita. Today, the painting is held in the Uffizi Gallery in Florence, Italy.

The three wise men are dressed in extraordinarily rich, fashionable garments. They are accompanied by a multi-ethnic procession that includes exotic animals.

The painting was not designed to be taken in at a single glance. Instead, the viewer is enticed to return and look again and again. With each look, more is revealed.

There is an abundance of people and a curious menagerie. A close look reveals horses, the head of a lioness and even a monkey, though there are no camels.

The Magus kneeling in front of the infant raises a provocative question: Is he being blessed, or is he checking that the newborn is male? It is a visceral way of declaring that “the Word became flesh and dwells among us.”

The Feast of the Epiphany is a celebration of inclusion. The riot of persons and color in this painting encourages such a spirit.

Perhaps that is the reality of the feast—to return, to look again and to let the story of the Magi reveal itself further. And, if we dare, we must ask: “How inclusive is my Church?”