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?