The Ghost and the Glimmer

Advent is the season that reminds us of light in the darkness, of Isaiah the prophet’s words, quoted by the gospel writer:

The people who live in darkness
have seen a great light,
and for those living in the land of the shadow of death,
a light has dawned.¹

Last year during Advent, I woke up every morning in time to watch the dawn, the sky’s transformation from black to a pale, streaky light, often diffused by cloud cover. These were not shimmering, bright skies in December, not in Iowa. But, unfailingly, the light came each day, dawning the way dawn does, unassuming, barely there at the start. 

This year, although I am not rising as early to watch the sky, I have not been able to rid myself of the image of another dark night, one in which Jesus’ disciples must have longed to see golden beams flitting across the sky. But it was night and the disciples crossed the Sea of Galilee in their boat. The Gospel of John doesn't say why they set off without Jesus (Matthew’s Gospel says Jesus made them do it). John says just that they went down to the sea when evening came, which (by the way) would not be my preferred time for boat travel without compass or motor.

Darkness had already set in, but Jesus had not yet come to them, wrote our narrator.² Yet, they set sail for Capernaum and a mid-sea crisis: A high wind arose. The sea began to churn.³ The disciples strained at the oars for three, maybe four, miles, doing the work, perhaps, of an 8-mile trip on a breezeless day. 

At a certain point, maybe around mile three, I would have counted all lost. And were I Peter, I’d have mourned what hadn’t happened before this disastrous ending: There wasn’t time to live up to—into—my new name. Jesus was wrong. I was never a rock–just a reed shaken by wind, and by wind I’ll return to the earth. 

Over the rage of the sea, Nathaniel might have been heard shouting to the others his own brand of dry comfort: We had a good run, didn’t we? Has anyone alive seen what we’ve seen? Water turned to wine! Five thousand men and their families lunching on five barley loaves and two fish! Friends, we could not have expected it to last.

And John–who identified himself in his gospel account as the “disciple Jesus loved”--perhaps John felt the inner anguish of betrayal. Where was Jesus anyway? Why had he sent them on alone? Where was the one who multiplied bread and broke the laws of chemistry and physics?

When I think of Jesus as “the Light,” I remember the story of the Apostle Paul on the way to Damascus, when a light from heaven flashed around him, stinging his eyes and blinding him for days. But this is not how Jesus, our Light, typically appears to us. Only three of his disciples saw him transfigured and bright on the mountaintop. Only Moses’ face shone like the sun, reflecting his encounter with God on Mt. Sinai. Indeed, God the Light usually appears first as streaks of pinky dawn against a background of black. 

Twenty-three years ago, the second week of December, I was hospitalized for emergency surgery, warned I might lose my life–because a miscarriage had gone wronger than the wrong a miscarriage already is. I came home that December and sat in the dark, waiting for light, for any glimmer, while doctors debated whether I now had a rare pregnancy-induced cancer, whether it would be safe for me to try again to have a child. Every morning that December the sun rose–cold, chill, distant–but sun nonetheless, an existential reminder that the past foretells a future in which the sun keeps rising and, therefore, anything is possible. 

At one time or another, the words I imagine coming from the mouths of Peter, Nathaniel, and John have been my own words, my own thoughts. Maybe they’ve been yours. 

It’s obviously too late to fulfill the purpose God gave me.

The good stuff couldn’t have lasted, but it was a good run. 

How could he let me go out like this–-alone? 

But Jesus shows up at the last second as an affront to all of the disciples’ (and my own) muddled conclusions about the future and the past. And he does it dressed as a ghost. So other, so different that for a moment fear of the sea is swallowed up by the disciples’ terror of the God-Man-Ghost who walks on water. “It is I,” Jesus told them. “Don’t be afraid.” Immediately, the narrator tells us, they were safe at the shore. 

When all was lost on the sea, he showed up at the seemingly last minute. In the latter half of the wedding at Cana, after denying his mother’s request, he quietly turned water into the best wine. In the eleventh hour of illness, he healed the official’s son before death struck the final blow. 

This Advent, if you are feeling discouraged by darkness, if you wonder if Emmanuel truly is God with us, you don’t have to set your hope on a blinding road-to-Damascus or mountaintop experience. The bar need not—nay, should not—be set according to our standards of God’s revelation and timing. Perhaps all God deems fit to show us today is the Glimmer at dawn, the Ghost on the water.

But when all you see are the first few streaks of dawn, rest assured more light will follow. And when God comes to you dressed as a Ghost—impalpable, ungraspable, but present nonetheless—rest assured he carries those he rescues safely to the shore.

Thanks for your support in reading and sharing my work! I’m a holistic life and leadership coach, pastor, author, podcaster and seminarian. For essays and podcasts that come straight to your inbox, subscribe to this newsletter in the subscription box above. Fun fact: I’m also the author of Dear Boy:, An Epistolary Memoir and the host of the Your Pastor Reads Books podcast. For more info, visit my web site at heatherweber.org.

1. Mt 4:16

2. Jn 6:17

3. Jn 6:18