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Once in the first reading, from Isaiah, and twice in the gospel we just heard, “the land” or “the territory of Zebulun and Naphtali” mentioned. On first hearing, I just want to skim over these words, these ancient Biblical places, and get on with the rest of the Scripture story. Historically Zebulun and Naphtali mean nothing to me, but metaphorically and symbolically they may have something to say to us. Geography and spirituality are more linked than we realize. 

Zebulun and Naphtali are regions in the Northern Kingdom of Israel, next to Galilee, the center of Jesus’ ministry. We might call these northern regions, provinces in the country of Israel. Whenever they are mentioned, what immediately follows is: “The people who walked in darkness have seen a great light.” Zebulun and Naphtali certainly knew darkness, not to mention suffering, humiliation, and endless wars. They had a history of being invaded and defeated by the Egyptians, the Assyrians and the Babylonians. Almost anyone who wanted to attack Israel went through the weakest entry points, Zebulun and Naphtali. These two territories were like the kids who are chronically picked on, teased, and bullied in the school yard. They were like the weakest links in Israel’s defense system, and bordering countries knew this. As I said, if any country wanted to invade Israel, they knew to enter Zebulun and Naphtali first, beat them up, and they try to conquer the rest of Israel. That simply was their sad history.

Jesus hears that his cousin, John the Baptist, was arrested by Herod. This is Herod Antipas, the son of Herod the Great, the one who tried to kill Jesus as a baby. Because he was a baby, Jesus’ parents had no choice but to flee to Egypt and remain there until Herod the Great died. Now Jesus, as an adult, is not fleeing Herod Antipas. In fact, when Jesus hears that John the Baptist is arrested and about to be killed, we are told he left his hometown of Nazareth and goes to Galilee, the region of Zebulun and Naphtali and begins his ministry there. This is the region where Herod Antipas rules. If John the Baptist is arrested and killed, this certainly will be the fate of Jesus as well. Yet, knowing all this, Jesus enters the region anyway; he enters the eye of the storm. There will be no fleeing to the safety of Egypt this time. He will stand in this place, in the land of the people who sat in darkness. From this depressing, dark place—that suddenly got even darker—Jesus will not budge. He will be a light in their darkness. He comes to this despondent place to bring God’s light and God’s presence. 

It seems to be God’s way. God delights in bringing strength at the very moment we feel weakest. God delights in bringing peace at the very moment when we feel most anxious. God delights in bringing healing when we are hurting the most. God delights in bringing us joy at the very moment when we can no longer manage even a smile. God delights in making those, who have always been last, first. God delights in bringing hope into the most hopeless situation in your life, my life, and the life of the world. God delights in saying to those who seem insignificant and forgotten, “By the way, you are never forgotten. If fact, your name is written on the palm of God’s hand.” God delights in transforming every situation of death into life. It seems to be God’s job description. It is as if God is saying, “If I can do it here, in this desperate person, in this desperate situation, in Zebulun and Naphtali, I can do it in you.” 

In short, God is a risktaker, and so is his Son, Jesus. God delights in going against all odds and proving the oddsmakers wrong. Going after the one lost sheep, leaving the other 99 unattended, is a sign of a risktaker. Forgiving a thief who spent his whole life stealing and promising him, “Today you will be with me in paradise,” is a sign of a risktaker. 

Maybe that’s what Paul saw in following Jesus. Paul saw a risktaker and wanted to risk everything himself on this Jesus. Paul invites us to the gambling table as well and says, “Don’t put you chip down on me, or Apollos, or on Peter. Instead, push all your chips to the center of the table and risk it all on the one who risked everything for you.” 

Here’s a little story of risk-taking, of light coming into a dark situation and overcoming the darkness. It’s told by a middle-aged women recalling an episode from her childhood.

I grew up knowing that I was different, and I hated it. I was born with a cleft palate, and when I started school, my classmates made it clear to me how I must look to others: a little girl with a misshapen lip, crooked nose, lopsided teeth and garbled speech. When my classmates would ask, “What happened to your lip?” I’d tell them I’d fallen and cut it on a piece of glass. Somehow it seemed more acceptable to have suffered an accident than to have been born different. I was convinced that no one outside my family could love me. 

There was, however, a teacher in the second grade who we all adored, Mrs. Leonard by name. She was short, round, happy—a sparkling lady. Annually, we would have a hearing test. I was virtually deaf in one of my ears; but when I had taken the test in the past years, I discovered that if I did not press my hand as tightly upon my ears as I was instructed to do, I could pass the test. Mrs. Leonard gave the test to everyone in class, and finally it was my turn. 

I knew from past years that as we stood against the door and covered one ear, the teacher sitting at her desk would whisper something and we would have to repeat it back…things like “the sky is blue” or “do you have new shoes?” I waited there for those words which changed my life. Mrs. Leonard said in her whisper, “I wish you were my little girl.” 

The little girl, indeed, sat in darkness, in the region and shadow of death, and the light of truth shone upon her.

Fr. Phil Mulligan