Light from Light to Light in Light
How precious is your mercy, O God!
The children of men take refuge in the shadow of your wings.
They feast on the abundance of your house,
and you give them drink from the river of your delights.
For with you is the fountain of life;
in your light do we see light. — Psalm 36:7-9, RSV
We take light for granted. It is hard to fully appreciate something we cannot see. None of us has ever seen light, and yet we have never seen anything in this world except by the gift of light. We only see light once it reflects off something or passes through something. We see the effects of light, not light itself. We can see the contrast between dark and bright, shadow and clear, but what we see are the grades of absence of light: A shadow is a fuller absence of light than that which surrounds it.
When light lands on something and we see that happen, we may say that that object has been illuminated. Or, if we see light pass through something, we may say that that which light passes through has been illuminated. In either case, something has been made visible or bright because light reaches it. Even more, we ourselves are seeing this, meaning that that light has also reached our eyes. We never see anything except for light interacting with something and interacting with us. Our visual relationship with anything depends on the medium of light.
We may call illumination the phenomenon of light being cast on something to make it visible, or we may call illumination the phenomenon of light passing through something to make a thing visible from the inside. But neither of these is, itself, the full mystery of illumination because illumination depends on another encounter. The subject who sees is necessary for illumination: seeing the effects of light by the effect of light.
What does it mean then for the psalmist to proclaim to God that “in your light do we see light” (Ps 36:9)? He is not speaking of the phenomenon of seeing the effect of light by the effect of light — as you or I may see a tree because the light of the sun is cast upon it and because the light enters our eyes to make vision possible. The psalmist is not talking about light hitting or passing through an object; he is talking about seeing light itself. We have no experience of this in the natural world; instead, we have the analogous experiences of seeing the effects of light. That’s because seeing the light of God by the light of God is not a strictly physical reality — it is a spiritual reality.
We see God’s grace, God’s presence, God’s charity and love in the gift of God’s grace, God’s presence, God’s charity and love. This illumination is what every other illumination points to: not only receiving God but knowing God as we receive him. It is an encounter between God knowing us and us knowing ourselves as the ones whom God knows. That is how we see light in light; that is true illumination.
There are no adequate examples of this illumination other than the miracle itself. And yet, artistic images woo us and direct us toward this profound spiritual reality. Here are three such images; contemplating them can help us not take light for granted if we allow ourselves to be struck by wonder that matures into gratitude.
1. C.S. Lewis in a toolshed
C.S. Lewis once found himself in a dark toolshed. He was standing on one side, and the entire shed was dark except for a single beam of light coming down through a hole in the roof. He could see the difference between dark and bright. He looked from where he was, though the only thing he could really see was the difference made visible and, perhaps, the particles in the air that the light hit as it passed through. That is all there was to see.
But then he moved. He moved from his peripheral position as observer toward the beam of light itself. In fact, he placed himself directly in the beam, and he looked up. He explains the experience like this in his essay “Meditation in a Toolshed”: “Instantly the whole previous picture vanished. I saw no toolshed, and (above all) no beam. Instead I saw, framed in the irregular cranny at the top of the door, green leaves moving on the branches of a tree outside and beyond that, 90 odd million miles away, the sun. Looking along the beam, and looking at the beam are very different experiences.”
Light had entered Lewis’ eyes when he stood in the dark corner. That was how he was able to see in an otherwise dark room. That, in itself, is a remarkable phenomenon, but not one that amazed him. What amazed him was the way his vision changed when he stepped into the light. Looking along the beam opened up vistas previously closed. He had the same eyes, it was the same light, and yet the thing that changed was his position: He placed himself in the light. And because of that, everything else changed.
2. Rembrandt’s vision of the Prodigal Son
The masterpiece of the 17th-century Dutch artist Rembrandt is, most likely, his famous painting “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” completed within a couple years of his death in 1668. It is a work that has drawn the attention and pondering of generations of people from all walks of life, from art critics to curious passersby. The painting draws in the viewer like few others. It is partly what is presented, partly the colors, partly the varying postures of the figures depicted. But above all, it is the light in the painting that catches the eye, light which seems to come from the painting.
There are two central figures in the painting, and nearly a third. The featured two are the father and the younger son. The younger son, having just returned from his wayward wanderings, collapses on his knees and falls forward into his father’s embrace. The father stands in regal attire but also wears the signs of his old age and weariness: His eyes are nearing blindness, his hair and beard have grayed, his shoulders tilt downward and forward, creating a space in his chest for his son. The light in the painting is squarely on them, together. Their embrace is in the light.
The elder son is nearly there with them, and yet he is not there at all. He stands to the side, some distance removed. Like his father, he wears regal garb but unlike that wearied old man, this virile man in the prime of his life stands erect, almost rigid, looking down upon the scene of this embrace. His backside is in the darkness, for there is no light coming from anywhere else; the light only comes from where the embrace is happening. The elder son’s face — his eyes — receives light from this embrace; indeed, he can see it. And yet, he is not in the light; he is looking at the light.
As Lewis recognized, being in the light and looking at the light are very different experiences. What the younger son sees is fundamentally different from what his brother sees, just as what the father sees is unlike what the elder son sees. Where the elder son keeps himself is what prevents him from seeing everything else along the beam of light that is the embrace of father and son.
And then there’s the rest of us, as viewers. We can look at this painting, study it, even marvel at it as we see the difference that being in the light makes. But do we merely observe this encounter? If we do, we cannot actually see the light that is only made present by being embraced, by embracing.
3. Dante drinking with his eyes
Near the end of the pilgrimage into glory that Dante recounts in his “Paradiso,” he comes upon the very river of which the psalmist exclaimed: “the river of your delights” (Ps 36:8). By his verse, Dante recounts the sight: “And I saw light that was a flowing stream / blazing in splendid sparks between two banks / painted by spring in miracles of color” (XXX.61-63, Musa translation).
To say the least, Dante is enchanted. What his eyes behold is remarkable beyond all reckoning. He gazes on flowing light, moving beauty, the colors of new life mingling and splashing all around. Who could tire of such a vision?
But the point of Dante’s transformation into glory is not merely to behold beauty. He is called to enter in, to take the beauty into himself, to become one with it. Looking at light is not enough; he must be willing to see by this marvelous light. And so, as he remembers, “I bent down my face to make my eyes / more lucid mirrors there within that stream / which pours itself light for our betterment” (XXX.85-87, Musa). He drinks in the beauty with his eyes. He takes it into himself, not as some mere observer, but as one willing and eager to let this beauty nourish and change him. And that’s what it does.
What Dante had seen previously is now seen again immeasurably more glorious than it appeared before, though it had already appeared unimaginably glorious. What was merely linear is now spherical, taking on new dimensions. The splendid movement bursts forth into a “greater festival.” It is as if people at a masquerade remove their masks and their true faces are seen for the first time. Nothing has changed and everything has changed, because Dante has moved into the light. Illumination.
To be willing to see everything else according to the beauty we glimpse from time to time is the meaning of true seeing: God’s light becomes the light by which we see.
