Church of the Incarnation

It's a dark night, the kind of dark you can feel as it wraps its arms around you, hiding you in the weight of its shadows. It's the kind of dark that empties the streets of casual traffic and silences the expected sounds. It's the kind of dark that can disguise a man and allow him to travel anonymously, even passing by the Roman guard without being recognized. It's the perfect night for my visit.

So I step out into the darkness. The streets I know so well, streets which open their arms to me in the daytime, now seem unfamiliar in the gloom. I feel my way along the buildings, hugging the shadows that cling to their walls, groping only for the next step. All my senses are peeled, straining to be aware of anything or anyone in my path. Once I hear a clatter as some vessel falls not five feet in front of me. I freeze as it rolls toward me, finally stopping as it hits my foot. I strain to hear who dropped the vessel, eyeing the inky blackness for signs of a figure coming toward me, and almost shout when a deafening bleat sounds at my ear as the offending goat clatters down the road.

I know what it would mean for me to be caught on this visit. The other Pharisees would consider it heresy for me to seek out the young rabbi. If they caught me, I would lose everything that mattered: my wealth and security, my power and position, my status and the protection it provided. No, this visit belongs to the darkness that surrounds it.

As I creep my way along blindly, I think about how much of my life belongs to the darkness lately. It's not that I'm a bad person - in fact, I'm regarded as a model Pharisee. But just as the darkness of this night keeps me from seeing past my own hands, there are things in my life that keep me focused only on myself. The economy's getting tighter - everyone knows that. If Rome can't scare up a war soon and bring in cartloads of spoils, we're in for a bleak winter. Everyone's cutting back, not just me, but I still feel darkness enshroud me as I hold onto my coins in the Temple rather than dropping them into the coffers. And with money getting tight, it's more important than ever to ingratiate myself to Rome, spending hours in the shadows of the Praetorium in case Pilate needs advice. I know I'm being selfish, but I can't afford to spend my time helping the poor and the lame when important people, people whose favor I desperately need, might call on me.

And then there are the deeds I don't dare recall in the daylight, the ones I name only in the darkness. Like the way I hurry past my wife's bedchamber each night, pretending I can't hear her sobbing about the distance between us. Or the way I refill my glass at dinner each night until the pounding in my head dulls and I can't feel the shade of despair that's closing in on me.

In some ways, this night is like the rest of my life. I seem to live in the darkness, frightened and alone, unable to see past myself and my needs, groping for a path through the gloom, straining for the slightest light that might show me the way.

Or am I even looking for the light? There in the darkness, I'm safely hidden. No one can recognize the blackness deep inside me. In the darkness I can go on pretending that I'm the perfect Pharisee, far too centered and holy to feel incapacitated by fear, smothered by despair, eaten away by doubt. Perhaps I've come to love the darkness, to need the safety of its shadows. And yet here I am, risking everything to travel through this murkiness in search of Jesus.

As I round one last corner, I'm suddenly confronted by a blinding light. I shade my eyes from the brightness, wiping away the tears of pain. As my eyes adjust, I begin to see that Jesus' disciples have built a roaring fire in the courtyard and are warming themselves by its glow. They're in the middle of a spirited debate, but they look so casual, so relaxed. When we Pharisees debate, it's a structured thing. We choose our words very carefully, because we know the others are making notes and will attack us for the slightest mistake of logic or of verbiage. But the disciples aren't careful at all - they even help one another find the right words. And they sit right next to those with whom they disagree, really engaging them and not just trying to win the public argument.

I press against the buildings, clinging to the only bit of darkness in the fire-lit courtyard until I see the rabbi, sitting apart from the group and watching their conversation with a little smile on his face. I slither my way around the edges of the courtyard, somehow getting to him without attracting his disciples' attention. He doesn't look surprised as I step out of the shadows, and he beckons me over to spread my cloak and sit beside him in the half-light. I whisper an introduction, and we speak of many things. At first I'm glad for the shadows that keep our faces partially hidden. But as the conversation turns to judgment, I find myself leaning toward the firelight, hoping to see his face more clearly as he speaks. Now I know a thing or two about judgment. My father made sure all his boys knew the sting of being found lacking and the consequences that should follow. And as a Pharisee, it's my job to point out others' faults and to mete out suitable punishment. But Jesus says he isn't here to condemn anyone. And as he speaks, I watch his disciples. That's the difference! They speak freely and openly, right there in the light of the fire, because they know they won't be condemned - not by one another and not by Jesus. They're free. They aren't skulking in the shadows like me, calculating their every word and action, replaying their shortcomings in their minds, and searching for ways to hide them. Is it possible that the world really works this way? Is it possible that salvation, that freedom, that life comes without strings attached? Is it possible that it won't all be snatched away in an instant for the slightest misstep?

Jesus explains that he doesn't condemn anyone. He offers freedom and new life and wants nothing in exchange. But those of us who don't believe him, who choose to stay hidden in the shadows, clutching our guilty secrets to our hearts and straining anxiously for signs of the next attack, we condemn ourselves to a life of fear and worry. Jesus doesn't condemn us; we condemn ourselves.

I'm still considering this when Jesus gives a shiver. It's cold here in the shadows so far from the fire. He stands and picks up his cloak to move into the circle of light and warmth around the fire, and he stretches his hand to me, offering me a place beside him. I hesitate. Do I dare risk being identified, do I dare risk losing everything I've held onto, everything I thought kept me safe - my standing among the Pharisees and my standing with Rome? Do I dare believe that none of that matters, that I'm safe from condemnation without any of it? Do I dare leave the shadows where I've lived so much of my life and step into the light to take my seat beside Jesus?

Do I dare?

Do you?