Sermon for the Third Sunday after Epiphany, Year A (1-25-26)

It happens to us all from time to time: we find ourselves on one side of a room, and inconveniently the opposite side from the light switch, and we are completely in the dark. Shuffling around slowly and just waiting to run into the next object. Arms outstretched into that dark void, reaching for the light and hoping beyond hope that we don't end up on our faces.

That’s a pretty good description of how a lot of us feel right now. We read the news and feel our stomach tighten. We brace ourselves as soon as someone brings up politics at a family gathering. We wonder what it will be like for our kids and grandkids who are growing up in a country that's more divided, more angry, and more afraid. It can feel like we’re just trying to put one foot in front of the other without tripping.

That darkness can also feel consuming, suffocating. Darkness seems to edge in while the state continues to execute people on the street with seemingly no recourse - simply because they exercise their right to dissent. The darkness seems to grow and malign the hearts and minds of otherwise decent people who - in response to engineered fear - find a sense of power and security in acts of cruelty and petty violence. Yes, it seems the darkness has found a fertile plot in our nation's halls of power. And it's hard to know what to do about it, isn't it?

Isaiah this morning is talking to people who, too, knew that feeling well. Zebulun and Naphtali were not powerful places. They were borderlands—often invaded, often ignored, the first to suffer when empires decided to flex their muscle. These were communities who felt forgotten and expendable. Isaiah doesn’t tell them to “look on the bright side.” He names the reality: darkness and deep shadow.

But we have to remember who Isaiah was: a prophet. He proclaims, "The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light; those who lived in a land of deep darkness— on them light has shined." As a prophet, Isaiah is predicting something that hasn't yet come to pass - painting a new, fresh picture of the future for these people who walked in darkness. They still had to wait for the light to shine. We, however, are luckier than that.

Matthew's gospel tell us "Jesus left Nazareth and made his home in Capernaum by the sea, in the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali, so that what had been spoken through the prophet Isaiah might be fulfilled: “Land of Zebulun, land of Naphtali, on the road by the sea, across the Jordan, Galilee of the Gentiles— 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.”

That matters because many of us have learned to think hope comes later. After the election. After the court case. After the economy stabilizes. After people calm down. But Isaiah says God doesn’t wait for the chaos to settle before showing up. God’s light breaks in while people are still confused, afraid, and worn out.

Isaiah says this light brings joy—like the joy of a good harvest or a long-awaited win. That’s not a shallow, everything-is-awesome kind of happiness. It’s the joy of relief. The joy of realizing, “Maybe we’re going to make it.” You can feel that kind of joy in small moments: when a tough conversation doesn’t explode, when someone admits they were wrong, when a community actually shows up for each other after a tragedy.

Isaiah also talks about burdens being lifted—the yoke, the bar, the rod. In other words, the things that press people down. We don’t have to look far to see those today. It’s the single parent working two jobs and still falling behind. It’s immigrants living with constant fear of what might happen to their family. It’s communities of color carrying the weight of being over-policed and under-protected. It’s teachers, healthcare workers, and public servants burned out and stretched thin. God’s light doesn’t ignore these realities; it goes straight at them.

But here’s where Isaiah surprises us. God doesn’t defeat oppression by handing us bigger weapons or louder megaphones. The boots of violence are burned, not reused. The victory doesn’t come from out-shouting, out-shaming, or out-hating the other side. That’s important in a moment when everything around us encourages escalation—meaner comments, harsher labels, less patience.

Living in God’s light means choosing a different way, even when it feels slower or weaker. It looks like refusing to dehumanize people, even when we strongly disagree. It looks like checking a story before sharing it, because truth matters. It looks like staying at the table with someone who sees the world differently, not to “win,” but to witness—to show that dignity is still possible.

Isaiah isn’t saying darkness isn’t real. He’s saying that it’s not in charge anymore. The light has already come. And that changes how we walk. We walk with courage instead of panic. With honesty instead of denial. With hope that doesn’t depend on things going our way.

We may still be in a shadowed place as a nation. But Isaiah reminds us that God specializes in shining light right there—on the edges, among the overlooked, in the places everyone else has given up on. And if that light is real, then our calling is simple, but not easy: to walk as people who believe it’s already shining.



Amen.