Walking in the Light

As we welcome the season of Advent, I am reminded of a night years ago on the Big Island of Hawaii—a night that forever shaped my understanding of what it means to seek the light on the journey of faith.

Let me take you there: The volcano was alive, its rivers of glowing lava flowing down the mountainside, painting the darkness with vibrant orange streaks. My hosts encouraged me to go out at night, flashlight in hand, to witness this marvel up close. As I drove toward the edge of the flow, I watched those blazing rivers dance toward the sea, both awe-inspiring and humbling.

When the road ended, I joined a line of people, strangers journeying together, picking our way across rough, blackened lava rock. Though surrounded by others, I felt alone, every step uncertain on the sharp and shaky ground. Suddenly, my flashlight flickered and died. In that instant, the adventure became frightening. The darkness felt alive—every shadow a threat. I worried about twisting an ankle, falling, being lost and unseen until morning. Fear won, and I headed back to my car, climbing up to watch from the roof, unwilling to risk the mountain without the light.

This memory has stayed with me, especially during seasons like Advent, because our scriptures today use these very images: the mountain and the light. In Isaiah, the prophet describes a vision of God’s mountain, a place that rises above all, shining as a beacon for all peoples. “Come, let us go up to the mountain of the Lord,” he proclaims, “that he may teach us his ways and that we may walk in his paths.” And the image continues—God’s instruction flowing like living water from Jerusalem, divine judgment turning weapons into tools for peace, nations no longer learning war.

Isaiah’s mountain is not just a physical place, but a symbol of our highest hopes—a place where God’s justice reigns and peace is possible for all. 

It is a call upward, an invitation to transformation, to become peacemakers and children of light. Paul, in his letter to the Romans, picks up the metaphor of light. “Put on the armor of light,” he exhorts. Because the light reveals what is hidden, it awakens us to the truth. Without the light, we stumble; with it, we walk secure, even over rough ground.

As Advent begins, we find ourselves at the threshold of a new liturgical year. Historically, Advent was a time of fasting and preparation—a spiritual journey, not just toward Christmas, but toward baptism and readiness for Christ’s coming, whenever and however it arrives. The ancient church saw this season as both an ending and a beginning: a contemplation of the end of the world as we know it, and the arrival of God—unexpected, disorienting, and full of hope.

Jesus warns, in today’s Gospel, that just as people in the days of Noah were surprised by the flood, so too will the coming of the Son of Man take us off guard. His message is simple but urgent: “Keep awake!” Stay conscious. Don’t drift off in spiritual sleepiness or routine. 

God’s arrival will surprise us, but more than that, God is always showing up, here and now, in unexpected ways.

We are called to be alert, to notice the ways God is present: in the history of Israel, in the incarnation of Christ, and in the ongoing life of the faithful. Scholar Amy Lindeman Allen reminds us that because of God’s faithfulness, “we can already go up to the house of the Lord, learn God’s ways, and walk in God’s paths, beat our swords into plowshares, and put on the ‘armor of light.’” The invitation is now, not just someday.

So, what does this mean for us? Like that night on the mountain, we are each invited to step forward into the unknown, trusting the light God gives. We are called to walk together, even when the path feels uncertain and the road is rough. We are called to lay aside fear, to become peacemakers in a world still insisting on war. Advent’s hope is not just for the end times, but for today—a hope that we are being made into people who reflect God’s light, who seek justice, who are awake and ready to walk in the light of the Lord.

Isaiah’s vision closes with a powerful vision: “they shall beat their swords into plowshares and their spears into pruning hooks; nation shall not lift up sword against nation; neither shall they learn war any more.” This vision inspired songs of hope among people yearning for liberation, including this one, sung by enslaved people in the American South. As we close, I invite you to join me in singing “Down by the Riverside.”

Gonna lay down my sword and shield,
down by the riverside, down by the riverside,
down by the riverside;
gonna lay down my sword and shield,
down by the riverside, down by the riverside.
I ain’t gonna study war no more, ain’t gonna study war no more,
ain’t gonna study war no more,
I ain’t gonna study war no more, ain’t gonna study war no more,
I ain’t gonna study war no more.

Gonna lay down my burden,
down by the riverside, down by the riverside,
down by the riverside;
gonna lay down my burden,
down by the riverside, down by the riverside.
I ain’t gonna study war no more.
ain’t gonna study war no more,
ain’t gonna study war no more,
I ain’t gonna study war no more,
ain’t gonna study war no more,
ain’t gonna study war no more.

Let us all now awaken to the Advent light of Christ, to climb the mountain toward the God who can change us into people of peace and love. Amen.