A Sermon for the Sunday after Theophany
“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has dawned.” (Matthew 4:16)
As we celebrate this afterfeast of Theophany, the great Feast of Lights, we sing again and again that Christ has come and enlightened the whole world, illumined the universe. We speak repeatedly of this illumination, this light that has come forth upon those who are in darkness.
And yet, many of us—perhaps most of us—feel that it’s not the light but the darkness that is getting stronger. The news is relentless. Atrocities brought to our attention every day, things we thought relegated to history, seem to be the new normal. The very moral fabric of the world seems to be tearing.
There’s a paradox here, surely: if Christ has really come and enlightened the whole world, why does it feel so dark?
The Temptation of Withdrawal
One way of resolving the paradox is to say: objectively, yes, the world is both dark and darkening, and that’s the point. In this view, the enlightenment that Christ brought was a kind of truth—something one needs to work out or be told. Once you’ve received that truth, you belong to the group that God secures and protects and will ultimately deliver from this world of darkness.
This has, from time to time, been a temptation for the Church, for Christians. Today it’s become the dominant narrative and it’s very much how Christianity is depicted throughout the world. It may even be the reason some of us are here today: we want to know we have the truth and we have security against the dark world.
And yet, if we delve more deeply into the Scriptures and embody them, if we delve into the Gospel and embody that, if we delve into the living tradition of our Church—the liturgy, the Church Fathers—and embody that, we find an altogether different narrative, a different way of resolving this paradox.
Isaiah’s Promise: A Light That Reveals and Effects Justice
Let us look first to the prophet Isaiah, from whom Matthew quotes in the fourth chapter of his Gospel when he speaks about the people in darkness who received the light. He’s quoting from Isaiah chapter 9, which we sing so beautifully in Great Compline on the Eves of Nativity and Theophany when we chant “God is with us” along with many verses from that chapter.
The prophet here isn’t promising mere illumination. If we listen carefully to this passage, it is the promise of justice: “Of the increase of his government and of peace there will be no end, upon the throne of David, and over his kingdom, to establish it, and to uphold it with justice and with righteousness from this time forth and for evermore” (Isaiah 9:7).
The nature of the light that Isaiah foresees is one that exposes oppression—“the yoke of his burden, and the staff for his shoulder, the rod of his oppressor” (Isaiah 9:4). It’s a light that ends violence—“every boot of the tramping warrior in battle tumult and every garment rolled in blood” (Isaiah 9:5). And it establishes righteous governance “upon the throne of David, and over his kingdom” (Isaiah 9:7).
So the messianic light doesn’t simply make us feel better about darkness. It reveals darkness as darkness so that it can be addressed. It’s diagnostic before it’s therapeutic.
In Matthew, Jesus is presented precisely as that light, in a ministry that inaugurates the kingdom Isaiah foresaw. The light has indeed dawned.
The Patristic Witness: Baptism as Illumination
If we turn to the early Church and the patristic witness, we note that the early Church called baptism photismos—illumination. The newly baptised were called neophotistoi—the newly enlightened.
But what is it that baptism illuminates? Not just grace, but sin. Romans 6, which we read at every baptism and at the Theophany Liturgy, is explicit: we must see our death in sin before we can participate in resurrection life. Baptism leads not to a sudden new day where everything is rosy, but into the heart of testing, temptation, and the revelation of sin.
Note in this morning’s Gospel: immediately after his baptism, Jesus is taken to the wilderness by the Spirit, where he is tested, where he must overcome that which has been exposed—the authority of this world under the domination of Satan. He overcomes it, but he must directly face it first.
St John Chrysostom, in his homilies on the Gospel of John, develops the theme that Christ as light doesn’t simply banish darkness but makes visible what was always hidden. On John 1:5—“the light shines in darkness”—Chrysostom writes that the light exposes the works of darkness, making them manifest so that they can be addressed. The coming of Christ reveals the depth of human sin precisely by illuminating it. We couldn’t see how far we’d fallen until the light showed us. Indeed, several church fathers suggest that the “fall” of humanity is only known in the light of the perfect humanity Christ.
St Cyril of Alexandria develops this theme medically. He speaks of the need for light as a diagnostic tool: the physician must diagnose in order to heal, and diagnosis requires seeing the disease clearly. Christ, as light, reveals our sickness so he can cure it. We can’t heal what we can’t see.
St Maximus the Confessor speaks of the light of baptism granting us diakrisis—discernment, the ability to distinguish good from evil, truth from falsehood. Before the light, we couldn’t see that distinction clearly. The light doesn’t create darkness; it reveals what was already there.
St Gregory of Nyssa, in The Life of Moses, describes this as an interior battle. Spiritual progress is actually an ever-increasing perception of what needs purification. So many of us feel this: we expect that coming to church, having been baptised, receiving the sacraments, everything will suddenly feel good, that we will overcome everything. But it seems the more we progress, the more there is to overcome. As the depths within us are revealed, the darkness seems more present.
This is precisely what Gregory describes. The closer Moses draws to the divine light on Sinai, the more aware he becomes of his own unworthiness. Gregory has his famous concept of epektasis—the fact that our spiritual progress will be infinite. There will always be something more to address. The more we draw close to God, the further we may feel from God.
This isn’t pessimism. It’s the paradox that greater illumination reveals greater depths requiring redemption. The Fathers understood Christ’s light as revelatory, making visible what was previously hidden in shadow. This is uncomfortable but necessary. The light shows us what needs redemption.
The Enlightenment of the World
So returning to the world around us: is it actually getting darker? We feel the world descending into chaos. But what does an objective appreciation reveal?
Consider slavery: once universal, unremarked, defended by philosophers and theologians. Now universally recognised as abhorrent, outlawed everywhere (even if still practised illegally).
Consider violence: murder rates in mediaeval Europe were thirty to forty times higher than today. Torture was routine statecraft. Public executions were entertainment. War was glorified.
Consider women and children: once regarded as property, without legal personhood or rights. The very concept of “children’s rights” or “women’s rights” would have been incomprehensible in most of human history.
Or consider human rights more generally: the idea of universal human dignity regardless of class, race, sex, or religion is a very recent development—and one unthinkable without the light of Christ spreading in this world.
Life expectancy has doubled. Infant mortality has been reduced by more than 90%. Extreme poverty has been reduced from 90% to less than 10% of the global population. Literacy and education have increased dramatically. Democracies have expanded.
By almost every objective metric—violence, slavery, disease, famine, literacy, legal rights, infant mortality—the world is better, particularly where Christian influence has been strong.
The Challenge of Seeing Enlightenment
But why doesn’t it feel that way?
There are sociological reasons we can identify. The twenty-four-hour news cycle means we know about every atrocity almost instantly. In 1850, you’d hardly have known what was happening fifty miles away. Today we know everything, everywhere, all at once. This creates the illusion that there is more darkness when really we’re just seeing more of what was already there.
Media bias plays a role: news disproportionately focuses on the negative because it captures attention. Biased memory contributes: we romanticise the past through rose-tinted glasses, forgetting daily hardships and injustices.
But there’s also a theological reason: we have an expanded moral consciousness as a result of the light of Christ. We now recognise as evil things our ancestors couldn’t even see as problematic. This is progress, but it feels like moral decline because we’re aware of injustices that were previously invisible.
Increased transparency means society no longer effectively covers up atrocities. This is uncomfortable, but it’s the necessary first step towards accountability and change.
So our paradox is resolved as follows: the world feels darker because the light is spreading. We see more evil not because there is more evil, but because the light is revealing what was always hidden in the shadows.
St Theodosius: Illumining the Universe
Today we celebrate St Theodosius the Cenobiarch, of whom the Church sings that “he illumined the whole universe.” How did a monk in the Judaean desert illumine the universe?
Fifth-century Palestinian monasticism was largely the business of hermits—individuals in caves pursuing personal holiness. This worked reasonably well for the spiritually advanced, but it left many floundering. The desert concealed both saints and charlatans. Darkness hid both virtue and delusion.
What did St Theodosius do? He began in Palestine to organise some of the first monastic communities—much as Macrina and her brothers Gregory of Nyssa and Basil the Great were doing in Cappadocia. By bringing people together, it had the effect of bringing darkness to light. It was a difficult process.
Community life exposed issues that solitude had hidden: pride masquerading as humility, delusion disguised as vision, cruelty justified as asceticism. You can deceive yourself in a cave; it’s harder in community. The light of common life revealed what needed healing.
But also in community, true holiness was made verifiable, accountable. Genuine sanctity had to demonstrate itself through patience with difficult brethren, through service, through actual charity and care for one another. The light distinguished authentic spirituality from counterfeit.
Theodosius’s monastery also became famous for hospitality: feeding the poor, caring for pilgrims, serving the sick. His light revealed that holiness isn’t just about personal piety but concrete care for the vulnerable.
Remarkably, his wasn’t a place where everybody was like-minded or cut from the same cloth. This was the most diverse form of monasticism imaginable. Ethnically, it was composed of people from all parts of the known world—Greeks, Syrians, Armenians. He carefully set up chapels so they could each worship in their own language, yet they came together and celebrated the Divine Liturgy and communed together. They lived diverse lives but were united in one community. The light revealed that unity doesn’t require uniformity and showed a way past division.
Theodosius didn’t despair at what the light revealed. He saw the chaos of desert monasticism and brought order. He saw the needs of the poor and established hospitality. He saw ethnic division and created unity-in-diversity.
The model for us in this is that the light that reveals also empowers transformation.
Bearing the Light
When the light reveals darkness—whether systemic injustice, hidden abuse, or normalised cruelty—our first reaction is often to feel overwhelmed. Surely if these evils were always there, nothing has really changed? There is no light dawning, no light spreading?
But no. We need to reframe this. The very fact that we see these evils as evil is itself evidence that the light is at work.
Our ancestors didn’t see slavery as wrong. We do.
Our ancestors didn’t see domestic violence as criminal. We do.
Our ancestors didn’t recognise universal human dignity. We do.
This is the light spreading.
And once the light reveals darkness, we cannot ignore it. To see injustice and turn away is to extinguish the light. This is precisely what Isaiah’s prophecy meant: the light inaugurates a reign of justice and peace. We participate in that reign by addressing what the light reveals.
So how do we bear this light that has shone in the world, that has enlightened the whole world?
First, by resisting despair. When you feel overwhelmed by news of darkness, remember: you’re seeing it because the light is spreading. Your moral distress is evidence of illumination.
Second, by verifying our perceptions. Check facts against feelings. Is violence actually increasing, or are our perceptions being distorted? Are things objectively worse, or are we simply more aware?
Third, by giving thanks for the good at work in this world. Acknowledge genuine improvements where the light has spread: in human rights, healthcare, education, reduction of violence and poverty. Gratitude doesn’t ignore remaining darkness, but it sustains hope.
Fourth, by acting on what’s revealed. Like Theodosius, don’t just lament the darkness. Bring structure, justice, mercy, and order to your corner of the universe. Volunteer. Advocate. Serve. Create alternatives.
Fifth, by maintaining perspective. We’re in the “already but not yet.” The light has dawned, but the final day of the Lord is not yet complete. We work in hope, neither in triumphalism nor in despair.
The Light Still Dawns
“The people who sat in darkness have seen a great light, and for those who sat in the region and shadow of death light has indeed dawned.”
Isaiah’s prophecy is being fulfilled. The reign of justice and peace is advancing, inch by difficult inch, century by century. Look at history. Look at the objective data. The light is spreading, revealing darkness that was always there and empowering transformation.
Theodosius illumined the universe not by eliminating all darkness but by bringing light into his own corner of creation—and that light spread and took hold. We’re called to do the same.
When you feel overwhelmed by darkness, remember: you’re seeing it because the light is spreading. Your moral outrage is evidence of illumination. Your compassion is a gift of grace. Your exhaustion at injustice is the light at work in you.
Don’t turn away from what the light reveals. Don’t despair at the darkness you now see. Instead, give thanks that you can see it—and then, like St Theodosius, bring your light to your corner of the universe.
The light has dawned. The light is dawning still.
And we, by grace, are called to be light in the Lord, revealing and redeeming, until, as the prophet Isaiah says, that day when “the sun shall be no more your light by day, nor for brightness shall the moon give light to you by night; but the Lord will be your everlasting light, and your God will be your glory” (Isaiah 60:19).