Turning Off the Light at the End of the Tunnel

There was a park that I played at regularly as a child. Not too far from home. Swings and slides. Rocket ships and merry go rounds. Monkey bars and teeter-totters. Dirt paths through small patches of trees that my friends and I called forests, where we’d hunt for hidden treasure and recreate scenes from our favorite adventure movies. There were tennis courts, where I never once played tennis, but where I practiced new skateboard skills and learned to ride a pogo stick.

Behind the tennis courts was a tunnel. Carved out below the 2-lane road above. On the other side of the tunnel was a public golf course. Unless you count putt-putt, I have never played a round of golf. For me that golf course was a place to roll in soft grass and run through muddy greens to the banks of the Flint River, where I loved looking for fish and seeing my own reflection in the water. The golf course was the perfect place to sled on snowy winter days and fly kites in the spring.

I preferred getting to the golf course from the street level. That tunnel, while not very long and not completely darkened, always frightened me. It had a certain smell and there was often broken glass, beer cans, and cigarette butts on the ground. Skulls and skeletons graffitied on the walls. I would drag my bike up the hill or a crumbling staircase to avoid riding through the tunnel.

You’ve heard of the light at the end of the tunnel, right? This metaphor about better things to come or hope on the horizon is a common part of our lexicon and bag of catch phrases for hard times. After some reading, I learned these words are first found in writings from the 1800s and were popularized by American journalists and politicians speaking to the light at the end of the tunnel in relation to the Vietnam War.

I first heard these words during a long season of debilitating depression. Well-meaning people encouraging me to hold on or just keep going because the light was coming.

Desperation pushes you to cling to whatever you can find. To reach for even glimmers and glimpses of something better. Truthfully, the light at the end of the tunnel was never really a comforting thought. Life was that bad. Grief was that heavy. Helplessness was that intense. And not being able to even imagine that end of the tunnel light, created more shame. Was another sign that I was frail and my faith was weak.

Today, I’m not in a deep depression, but I am feeling very real despair. The state of the world, the increased and expedited unraveling of democracy in the United States. The constant chaos, confusion, and cruelty. The corruption. The unchecked power. The greed. The lies. The manipulation. The violence. The threats of more. The attacks against the most vulnerable. The silence. The resignation. The hand-washing. The shaking of the hands of church and state.

It’s overwhelming. Exhausting. Maddening to think of how and where all of this will end. Where do we put our efforts and energy? Who do we trust? What do we follow? Where do we fix our gaze? I’m not sure. And, I’m sure it’s not the light at the end of the tunnel.

In the fall of 2017, in the midst of Trump’s first term as president, heightened hateful rhetoric against immigrants, and lingering travel bans, I traveled to Mexico. At that time there was a whole choir of voices telling me I was to blame for my own tunnel, that I had created that wilderness experience by daring to come out of the closet. This choir largely denied my existence and ignored my calls and cries, except to deliver judgement. And there was a small ensemble, led by a beautifully brave and wonderfully wise conductor, saying, come with us to the light.

I met up with this ensemble of United Methodists from the Mountain Sky Conference, led by Bishop Karen Oliveto, at the airport in Mexico City. And from there we took a bus to Cuernavaca, “the city of eternal spring” for a 2-week immersion program. Studying Spanish and Social Justice.

Prior to this trip, I knew of Bishop Oliveto, but did not know her. I had followed her ministry for years. Crying tears of joy and sorrow when she was elected as the first openly lesbian bishop in the denomination we both so love. From the moment I first anxiously reached out to her on Facebook Messenger, I was changed by her light and the light she guided me to encounter. By the time our bus arrived in Cuernavaca, I was no longer a stranger. I was part of a community.

That trip, some 6 months after I came out and surrendered my clergy credentials, was really a last attempt at trying. I hadn’t expressed that hopelessness to anyone except my journal, but I was running out of strength, money, and ideas. And a will to keep on going.

Our group took a field trip to an ancient indigenous town, Xochicalco, now part of an archaeological site. Walking the grounds and climbing the stairs of the pyramids was like walking a labyrinth. Our guides talked about a possible visit to the Observatory, which would depend on the weather. The site is closed in event of rain. Luckily the rain held off.

Underneath one of the pyramids there are thirty-two tunnels, of which only one has been excavated. It happens to be the tunnel leading to the Observatory. Approaching the entrance, I was reminded of that tunnel from childhood, the one I feared and avoided. Did I really want to go in? The light of community empowered me to press on.

We entered through a small door. Guided through a darkened, damp, and humid cave. In a small puddle of water I saw my reflection, much like it was in the Flint River when I was a child. Reaching the Observatory, we were welcomed by light. On the floor there was light shining down forming a perfect circle. Above us there was a hole leading up several levels to the top of the pyramid. This sacred place within the pyramid was once reserved only for priests and astronomists, who bathed before entering to purify themselves.

One by one, everyone in the group took a turn in the center of the circle. Looking up, not ahead. Lifting our heads and our hands and our hearts to the light above. Standing under this light I felt the dim shadows that had been lingering over me begin to fade. I was seen—all of me—by the Divine and by others. And I saw them. And the Divine saw us. And it was so good. This was the beginning of my way back to the light.

Light is abundant, and resurrecting, and all around us. Light doesn’t need to be created, only revealed. Our work, especially in this season, is to remove the barriers and raise the blinds. Creation isn’t in this tunnel because the light has left, but rather because so many are not in a position to see or value it.

I saw the light in Mexico because I was in the right position, in the right place, and with the right people. And I didn’t get there on my own. I was there because I was invited and welcomed and loved in. It was the day of my rebirth. A baptism of light. Like water poured on a dying plant, or sprinkled graciously on a child, the light soaked my spirit and immediately my being began to rise.

And this is why I am turning off the light at the end of the tunnel. To live in the light here right now. To build and strengthen connections with those around me. To invite others in, especially those who have been told that tunnels are lessons to learn or crosses to bear or punishments to endure. And those who have been taught to believe that if we just wait long enough and suffer hard enough and work diligently enough the light at the end of the tunnel will come.

I’m turning off the light at the end of the tunnel to continue embracing the light within me. To cultivate creativity. To nourish community. To nurture healing. To water seeds of resilience. To buoy hope. To reflect peace. To bring forth justice.

Death happens in isolation. Resurrection lives in community.
This is why community is so threatening.
This is why we’re taught to focus on the light ahead, so we’ll miss the light right here today.

There is no denying our tunneled reality.
And I’m turning off the light at the end of it.

Committing to living in the light of now.
Light that fills us and warms us.
Guides our steps and our stillness.
Light that isn’t a reward for those strong enough to survive until the end, but light that is a gift for all within its path.

Will you join me in illuminating this gift, allowing it to sustain our energy, and energize our efforts to birth the world we long for; a world where children are able to live and grow and play free from fear; where we are no longer beholden to broken promises of fragile hope flickering like lights at the end of an empire’s tunnel?

With Water and Light,
Rebecca & 10 Camels

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