February 8, 2026

The Light of the World

I want to begin by sharing with you two wonderful quotes, both of which have been widely, and falsely, attributed to great historical figures.  The first is everywhere ascribed to Plato, though I find absolutely no evidence that it appears in any of his writings.  It goes like this: “One can easily understand a child who is afraid of the dark.  The real tragedy of life is when grown men and women are afraid of the light.”  I don’t think Plato ever wrote that, but I love it anyway.

 

The second is often attributed to Galileo.  In fact I have seen a striking poster someone produced of a hand with stars that offers the quote in Galileo’s name.  This one goes: “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”  This one is actually the concluding line of a poem by Sarah Williams.  I am particularly fond of these words.  They come to me at times when I’m out under a black velvet sky punctuated with tiny lights.

 

Both of these misattributed quotes speak metaphorically of darkness and light.  And both speak of conquering fear.  In both, the darkness is the night, but the difference comes in the lights they refer to.  The pseudo-Platonic line alludes to the light of day, while the words never spoken by Galileo are about the starlit night.  I’d like to speak to you this morning about fear and confidence, and about the light of day and the lights of the night.

 

Jesus gives us our starting point.  In the scripture you heard this morning from Matthew, he says, “You are the light of the world.”  But in the eighth chapter of John he says, “I am the light of the world.”  So which is it?  Is he the light, or are we the light?  To get a handle on that, let’s talk a little astronomy.  Here’s something that Galileo didn’t know, although he might have guessed it.  There are about thirty times as many stars in our galaxy as there are currently people on the earth, but at most you can only see about nine thousand of them on a dark night.  Those points of light in the black sky are what give us such a sense of wonder when the world around us is asleep.  We see them, as everyone knows, at those times that the earth rotates in such a way that the sun is facing the other side of the planet from us.  As the earth turns, the stars disappear, lost in the glare of sunlight diffused through an atmosphere of mostly nitrogen, oxygen, and argon.  The only light we can see then is the sun.  This seems to set up a dichotomy between night and day that has inspired poetry, literature, visual arts, and mythology.  But each of us knows intellectually, if not viscerally, that our sun is simply another of the pinpoints of light that we call stars.  The only difference is how close we are to this one.  So, in our daily language, we might speak of two opposites as being “like night and day.”  But is there truly such a difference?  It’s all stars; the perception of difference is only a matter of distance.

 

Which takes us back to Jesus.  What is the difference between him and us?  We might say it’s like “night and day.”  And I would say: yes it is.  Each human being is like a glowing center of creative power; each one has the “atomic structure,” if you will, to bring light into places of cold, empty darkness; each one bears with that light the power to vanquish fear.  And what is the difference between us and Jesus?  I suggest that it is simply a matter of perspective.  In him we were able to see more closely, more fully, more powerfully, the force of love that burns at the core of creation and transforms lives and worlds.  He is the light of the world, and so are you.

 

That’s more than a little frightening.  Truth be known, I’m not sure I want to be the light of the world.  It sounds like an unbelievably burdensome responsibility.  It would be so much easier to simply mind my own business, take care of my needs and wants, and not take a lot of risks.  But with gratitude to whomever came up with the words and called them Plato’s, I have to concur.  “One can easily understand a child who is afraid of the dark.  The real tragedy of life is when grown men and women are afraid of the light.”

 

Dick Sparrow was an Associate Conference Minister for the Massachusetts United Church of Christ when I was pastoring a church in his area.  I must tell you that Dick was one whose light shined in a lot of dark places.  When I was in the hospital with a heart attack, Dick came to see me every day until I was out of the woods.  At any rate, Dick told of an incident that I can’t resist sharing with you (since pitchers and catchers report for spring training on Tuesday and this is kind of a baseball story): “At a fundraising dinner for a school that serves learning-disabled children, the father of one of the school’s students delivered a speech that would never be forgotten by all who attended.  After extolling the school and its dedicated staff, he offered a question.  ‘Everything God does is done with perfection.  Yet, my son, Shay, cannot learn things as other children do.  He cannot understand things as the other children do.  Where is God’s plan reflected in my son?’

 

“The audience was stilled by the query.  The father continued.  ‘I believe that when God brings a child like Shay into the world, an opportunity to realize the Divine Plan presents itself.  And it comes in the way people treat that child.’  Then, he told the following story: ‘Shay and I walked past a park where some boys Shay knew were playing baseball.  Shay asked, “Do you think they will let me play?”  I knew that most boys would not want him on their team but I understood that if Shay were allowed to play it would give him a much-needed sense of belonging.  I approached one of the boys on the field and asked if Shay could play.  The boy looked around for guidance from his teammates.  Getting none, he took matters into his own hands and said, “We’re losing by six runs, and the game is in the eighth inning. I guess he can be on our team and we’ll try to put him up to bat in the ninth inning.”

 

“‘In the bottom of the eighth inning, Shay’s team scored a few runs but was still behind by three.  At the top of the ninth inning, Shay put on a glove and played in the outfield.  Although no hits came his way, he was obviously ecstatic just to be on the field, grinning from ear to ear as I waved to him from the stands.  In the bottom of the ninth inning, Shay’s team scored again.  Now, with two outs and the bases loaded, the potential winning run was on base.  Shay was scheduled to be the next at-bat.  Would the team actually let Shay bat at this juncture and give away their chance to win the game?  Surprisingly, Shay was given the bat.  Everyone knew that a hit was all but impossible because Shay didn’t even know how to hold the bat properly, much less connect with the ball.  However, as Shay stepped up to the plate, the pitcher moved a few steps closer to lob the ball in softly so Shay could at least be able to make contact.  The first pitch came and Shay swung clumsily and missed.  The pitcher again took a few steps forward to toss the ball softly toward Shay.  As the pitch came in, Shay swung at the ball and hit a slow ground ball to the pitcher.  The pitcher picked up the soft grounder and could easily have thrown the ball to the first baseman.  Shay would have been out and that would have ended the game.  Instead, the pitcher took the ball and threw it on a high arc to right field, far beyond reach of the first baseman.  Everyone started yelling, “Shay, run to first.  Run to first.”  Never in his life had Shay ever made it to first base.  He scampered down the baseline, wide-eyed and startled.  Everyone yelled, “Run to second, run to second!”  By the time Shay was rounding first base, the right fielder had the ball.  He could have thrown the ball to the second baseman for a tag.  But the right fielder understood what the pitcher’s intentions had been, so he threw the ball high and far over the third baseman’s head.  Shay ran towards second base as the runners ahead of him deliriously circled the bases towards home.  As Shay reached second base, the opposing shortstop ran to him, turned him in the direction of third base, and shouted, “Run to third!”  As Shay rounded third, the boys from both teams were screaming, “Shay! Run home!”  Shay ran home, stepped on home plate and was cheered as the hero, for hitting a “grand slam” and winning the game for the team.

 

“‘That day,’ said the father softly, with tears in his eyes, ‘the boys from both teams helped bring a [little] of the Divine [light] into this world.’”

 

That story of Dick’s always gets to me, not because Shay got to be a hero, but because seventeen other kids got to be heroes that day – each one of them shining with their own light on a warm summer afternoon under the light of a star, a big, yellow star, close enough to share it’s energy with all of them.

 

You are the light of the world.  And every minute of every day you are presented with opportunities to let that light shine in small ways and large.  Sometimes it seems easier to content ourselves with our own hurts and fears.  Sometimes it feels like a burden to come up with creative ways of emitting love into seemingly hopeless, dark corners.  Sometimes our own way ahead is obscured in the twilight of a setting sun, but lift your head and take notice of the many flaming hearts around you, and say with me, “I have loved the stars too fondly to be fearful of the night.”