May the words of my mouth, and the meditations of all our hearts, be acceptable in thy sight, O Lord, our strength and our Redeemer.
Today we celebrate the life of St. Teresa of Avila, a Spanish mystic and nun of the Discalced Carmelite order. Discalced, for those wordophiles among us, means “without shoes,” or in the case of St. Teresa, it meant never wearing boots or close-toes shoes- sandals or barefoot were OK. Among other works, she wrote a treatise titled “The Interior Castle” in 1577. In this book, St. Teresa compares the soul of the contemplative to a castle, with seven separate courts. The soul advances through these courts one by one as she comes to experience God’s various graces through contemplative prayer and the workings of the Holy Spirit.
In today’s Gospel reading, Jesus says, “You are the light of the world. A city built on a hill cannot be hid.” In St. Teresa’s day, cities and castles were often interchangeable—the social and commercial life of a region was centered in the castle of that area. In Spain these city-castles were frequently sited on hills, with multiple courts which provided layers of defense if the city came under siege. The defensibility of that city could often be easily determined from a distance—are the gates in good order? Are there any breaches in the walls? Is commerce from the surrounding countryside flowing prosperously into this city, or is trade at a standstill? Is the water supply well-defended, or vulnerable to attack?
For an enemy reconnoitering at night, the presence or absence of light in a city was an indicator both of relative prosperity, and of how watchful the night guard and populace were. If lamp oil and tallow candles, pitch torches and firewood were plentiful, the city may be better prepared to defend itself. If a great deal of light could be seen in the city from a distance, attackers would be more cautious than if there were only one or two ill-lit guard towers on the outer wall.
Unlike our electrical floodlights and motion-sensitive lanterns of today, light in Jesus’ day, as well as in St. Teresa’s, needed constant tending. Lamps needed refueled, candlewicks needed trimmed, bonfires needed stoked. Light after nightfall is a given in our society, but prior to electricity and gaslight, constant vigilance was necessary to keep the darkness at bay.
Constant vigilance was necessary to keep the darkness at bay. A guttering candle, a failing lamp, a burned-down bonfire don’t give enough light to show what’s going on around you. Your home, your city, your castle are more vulnerable to attack, and those around you can’t see either.
So what about the watchmen, the guards, the beat cops whose duty it was to keep those homefires burning? There’s an interesting twist to this Gospel passage, but it’s a twist because of what it doesn’t say, rather than what it does. Listen to this section:
Jesus says, “No one after lighting a lamp puts it under the bushel basket, but on the lampstand, and it gives light to all in the house. In the same way, let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”
What is it that others will see in this light? Will they see you, the hardworking watcher in the night, who has kept your lamp well-tended and leaves it out to shed light for everyone else? Will they see the lamp that you carefully polished and meticulously filled, or the lampstand that you so thoughtfully provided so the light illuminates the entire house?
In the light that you provide, Jesus hopes that others will not see you; they will not see your lamp; they will not see your lampstand. Jesus hopes that they will see your good works, those other acts of service or kindness or duty, which are the material evidence that your lamp has been kept burning.
A few weeks ago, Dean Baker preached on the essentials of humility, which is basically a forgetfulness of self. To forget my self, to cease comparing myself to other people, to stop expecting others’ notice or praise or adoration.
In today’s Gospel lesson, Jesus implies this same kind of self-effacement—others don’t see me, or even my lamp or lampstand. What they see is the results of my choices, good and bad. Was I kind to that guy in a wheelchair, or did I just ignore him? Did I pick up the piece of trash on the sidewalk as I was walking in to work? Did I leave a generous tip for the college-age waiter who made sure my café mocha had enough whipped cream on it?
Choices, choices, choices. And all of them with results. The choice to keep my light burning, clear and bright, not only allows other people to see the works that I do, but actually enables me to make better choices as time passes. In a dim twilight I can let the guy in the wheelchair just go by, but if I’m aflame with the Holy Spirit I will have a lot harder time ignoring him.
St. Teresa’s book, “The Interior Castle,” is basically about the conversion of our souls. Piece by piece, court by court, day by day, we learn to better tend our lamps. We catch fire from conversations with one another, from books we read, from touches of providence and grace in the small things of our lives. We refill our lamps through the Eucharist, through study and prayer, through classes and retreats. We trim the wicks of our lamps by caring for the state of our souls, by making hard choices, by doing things that make us more alive rather than damping down the fire.
One final point-- who gets the glory in this Gospel lesson? Does the watcher, the guard, the beat cop weary from a night’s long work? No- the glory is given to your Father in heaven. One more nail in the casket of the self-important self, allowing true humility to arise from that grave.
So what can we take with us from this Mass celebrating St. Teresa of Avila? Humility? Vigilance in the night? Good works that are thanks enough in themselves?
I would suggest that what we take from here are Jesus’ essential words: “You are the light of the world.” Live like you believe it, and see what happens. Amen.