He Starts in the Dark

A Reflection on the First Reading for Sunday, January 25, 2026:
​Third Sunday in Ordinary Time

---

Isaiah
9.1-4

There will be no gloom for those who were in anguish. In the former time the Lord brought into contempt the land of Zebulun and the land of Naphtali, but in the latter time he will make glorious the way of the sea, the land beyond the Jordan, Galilee of the nations.

The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness — on them light has shone. You have multiplied the nation, you have increased its joy; they rejoice before you as with joy at the harvest, as people exult when dividing plunder.

For the yoke of their burden, and the bar across their shoulders, the rod of their oppressor, you have broken as on the day of Midian.

Pause. Pray. Reflect.

There’s a lot of light in this reading. But not the kind that erases shadows and pretends the night never happened. It’s light that pierces, the kind that assumes you’ve been stumbling through darkness for years and still dares to say, “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Not escaped the darkness. Walked in it.

Before coming to Christ, I used to mistake cynicism for wisdom. I did this for all the reasons people do. As the line often attributed to Bertrand Russell goes, “Cynicism is the mask of the betrayed heart.” And my heart did feel betrayed. Invaded, mixed, and dishonored. Just like the lands of Zebulun and Naphtali. My interior world mirrored theirs. Once claimed, then fractured, now unsure of its name. Hope wasn’t just unfamiliar. It felt like a scam. Like a pyramid scheme for people who still had energy.

But Isaiah isn’t offering easy comfort. He’s telling the truth. The darkness is real. And so is the light. But the light doesn’t wait for things to get tidy. It shows up anyway.

John’s Gospel echoes Isaiah: “The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.” (John 1:5) Not because we cleaned ourselves up. Not because we were finally lovable. The light shines because that’s who Christ is. He is love itself. And not the kind I was trained to chase. Not the transactional, shrinking kind that disappears the moment you need it most. His love is wildly nonstrategic. Unreasonable. It doesn’t negotiate or wait for you to get it together. It just arrives. It can almost hurt to be loved like that. Not because it’s bad, but because it’s real. And real love, when you’ve never had it before, burns a little.

My confirmation saint, St. Catherine of Siena, called Him a madman. “You are a madman Christ, drunk with love for Your creature.” This might read as poetic exaggeration, but honestly, I think it’s just accurate.

There’s a beautiful couple at my parish who’ve recently taken an interest in me, possibly sensing that I’m earnest, but periodically overwhelmed and directionally confused, being in my Catholic freshman year and all. During a rough season, the wife shared a story about a pilot. She’d asked him how he lands a plane in total darkness.

“I look for the runway lights,” he had said. “They guide me home.”

He doesn’t need full visibility. Just enough light to know where to go. That’s Christian hope. Not a feeling, not naive optimism, but the determined act of looking for light when everything’s still dark.
​
He starts in the dark. He always has. And somehow, impossibly, He keeps choosing to.




Madison Gorham

---