Letting the light in, and finding God when I do

A Reflection for the Memorial of St. Catherine of Siena, Virgin and Doctor of the Church

Find today’s readings here.

When Jesus says “whoever sees me sees the one who sent me” in today’s Gospel, it makes me a little bit jealous of those who had direct access to him during his human life. It must have been nice to hear his words and see his face and be told, explicitly, that those sensory experiences not only granted you access to the son of God but also provided an immediate and direct line to God in heaven. 

I admit I do not always feel so intimately connected to the divine. I am not often thinking about God as a personal relation of mine, someone who I can lock eyes with when something makes me laugh or catch up with over a friendly conversation.   

When I try to imagine interacting with God in a human way, I imagine myself sitting in the pews of a crowded church or in the highest seats of a giant concert stadium. Never do I imagine being close enough to Jesus—much less the one who sent him—to see smile lines or freckles or the arc of an eyebrow; to recognize the sound of his voice. 

But the next lines in today’s Gospel passage help temper my envy of those companions who could have claimed to know those parts of God. “I came into the world as light,” Jesus says, “so that everyone who believes in me might not remain in darkness.” 

What is more beautiful than the majesty of light cutting through darkness? There is a reason people wake up at the crack of dawn to see the sunrise or sit outside late into the night to gaze at the shimmering stars. In these last few weeks, we here in New York City have breathed a collective sigh of relief as the hours of daylight have lengthened, as the sun has begun to linger each evening: parks are filled with people, restaurants are overflowing, flowers are blooming and birds are chirping. 

Sometimes I get tired of having to search so deeply for access to Christ. Studying Scripture feels much more laborious than having a conversation with Jesus myself. I occasionally feel resentful of having to hear his voice secondhand, of only seeing recreations of his face. Sometimes it feels like no matter how hard I look or how closely I listen, there is nothing but blurry images and jumbled sounds to be found. I often feel like I am still in the dark. 

But sometimes, when the light cuts through the clouds just so or the sky turns shades of warm pink and orange or the sun reflects boldly on the still water, it is like I am blessed with a moment of clarity and calm. My uncertainty may not disappear completely. But it is put on pause as the light physically cuts through the darkness and a spiritual connection cuts through my malaise and confusion. Jesus himself compares that sensation to his presence in the world. It is an analogy that makes sense to me: the sense of peace, the urge to exhale, the flood of warmth and happiness. 

When great light shines into my life, even in subtle everyday ways, it really does feel like God is smiling right at me. And if those moments are a glimpse of what it feels like to see the face of God—well, how could I be anything but grateful? 

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