A sermon for the Second Sunday in Lent, March 16, 2025. The scriptures are Genesis 15:1-12,17-18, Philippians 3:17-4:1, Luke 13:31-35, and Psalm 27.
John of the Cross is probably best known for his spiritual theology, but what a lot of people miss, and I didn’t notice until several years of trying to figure out his theology—is that John’s theology largely comes from his commentaries, and his commentaries were explaining his poetry. And so, if you really want to hear the spirit of John of the Cross, it’s his poetry that sings loudest.
One of my favorite of his poems is sometimes called “The Font, or the Fountain.”
How well I know that fountain, filling, running,
Although it is the night.
That eternal fountain, hidden away
I know its haven and its secrecy
Although it is the night
But not its source because it does not have one,
Which is all sources’ source and origin?
Although it is the night.
“How well I remember that fountain,” John writes. And water flows through his poem. He conjures up water like that at the beginning of creation, in baptism, like water that gives life to all creation, water flowing from the side of Christ on the cross. Water that combines with flour to make bread, bread that becomes holy, and makes us holy through Communion with Christ’s body.
The power of the poem, for me, is in the refrain: “aunque es la noche,” “although it is the night.” Although it is the night, even though it feels dark outside and in, even though it might feel like God is not paying much attention…. John’s poem nevertheless finds faith.
John wrote this poem during the nine months in which he was held as a prisoner in a cold cell in Toledo, Spain. Unsure of whether he would be released, tortured in the name of religion by other Carmelite monks, John nonetheless maintained a faith in God.
It’s faith “even though” the current situation is bad for John of the Cross. That kind of faith even though, is a faith we can find strength from, and it’s a faith that comes through in today’s scripture readings.
In the first reading, God speaks to Abram and tries to reassure him. “Do not be afraid,” Abram, God says. “It’s going to be ok.” Abram has been feeling sorry for himself. In a culture in which one was defined by one’s progeny, Abram and Sarai were barren, and had only a distant relative to point to for an heir. But God promises a future they can’t even image, a future glimpsed in our icon of the Holy Trinity, in which the three mysterious strangers, the angels, suggesting the Trinity of God’s love, are shown hospitality by Abram and Sarai, and everything begins to change for them.
“Although it is night,” God might have said to Abram, do not fear. I am with you.
Paul says something similar to the Philippians, “For many live as enemies of the cross of Christ; … Their end is destruction; their god is the belly; and their glory is in their shame; their minds are set on earthly things.” But although it seems like the night, Paul says, “our citizenship is in heaven.” “He will transform the body of our humiliation that it may be conformed to the body of his glory.”
In the Gospel, the Pharisees warn Jesus, that things are looking dark. Herod is out to kill Jesus, so he’d better just get out of town. Jesus refuses to listen. Jesus is not afraid of the dark, but instead, knows that God fills the dark just as well as the light. God holds us close in the dark, like a mother hen protects her young. Whether it’s the dark of night, or the dark of Gethsemane, or the dark of Calvary, Jesus knows that God will be there.
In John of the Cross’s poem, the water moves towards a climax. After mentioning the water that runs through even the darkest of nights, of times, of places, and in one verse he writes,
This eternal fountain hides and splashes
Within this living bread that is life to us
Although it is the night.
Hear it calling out to every creature.
And they drink these waters,
although it is dark here
Because it is the night.
“Although,” or “even though” it is the night, has become, BECAUSE it is the night. It suggests that John of the Cross has made peace with the darkness, with the uncertainty. Faith has helped him develop a kind of “night vision.” In other words, he’s not scared, like Abram. He’s no longer worried so much about all the evil he sees around him, like the Philippians, but John of the Cross is developing the kind of faith, like Jesus, that can maintain a love for God and for other people, even when it is night, even in the face of difficulty or war or a crazy economy, or failing health… or (fill in the blank.).
The season of Lent does not invite us to run from the dark places of the world, but instead, for us to grow in faith so that we can see even in the dark. May God increase our “night vision,” give us hope, and fill us with faith.
In the name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.