By Joanne Brokaw

For several years now my husband and I have been friends with a lesbian couple who live down the street. Like most new neighbors we started by waving hello as we walked our dogs, and eventually got to chatting and realized we had a lot in common.

One woman is a writer, for example, and we’ve been trying to spur each other on to finish some projects. As couples we’ve watched “Lost” together, gone to dinner, watched each other’s dogs, and met each other’s family and friends. We’ve shared good and bad times, laughter and tears, and developed a close friendship that comes not only from proximity but a genuine fondness for each other.

I wonder what you think when I tell you that story. Most of the time, Christians tell us we’re “brave” to be so intimately acquainted with gays. “I could never do that,” they say, sometimes visibly squirming.

I’m always bothered by that response. What, you can’t be nice to people? You can’t take time to find out what other people like or dislike, what foods they eat or what kind of dog they have? You aren’t interested in what makes someone laugh or cry? Can’t take five minutes to help out a neighbor?

That’s not very Christian, is it?

I’m not trying to judge or point fingers. Anytime we’re out of our comfort zones we get, well, uncomfortable. I get that. But we’re called to love our neighbors, not just the ones who go to the same church, and that sometimes means being stretched beyond our safe boundaries.

A few weeks ago, during a freak windstorm, sixty-eight mile an hour winds ripped through our town, bringing down power lines and trees. We were without electricity for two days.

And that’s when I realized something: darkness is very, very dark. Sure, it’s dark every night when you go to sleep, but even then you’re not in total darkness. Lights from the DVD player, the alarm clock, streetlights, your watch, your iPod all provide light that seeps in unnoticed.

But on this night, without a light on for miles, I literally couldn’t see my hand in front of my face.
And that’s when it hit me.

When we’re surrounded by light all the time we take for granted that it’s there and we forget that, in the absence of any light at all, darkness is really dark.

And when you apply that to faith, I think that’s how Christians become comfortable in their secluded communities, where they all gather to shine their lights on each other. They limit their contact with gays and drunks and pregnant teens and annoying coworkers and, in the process, forget we’re not called to huddle in one place and invite people to come to us but to step out into the darkness so the world might see the light of Jesus in us.

On this powerless night, I fumbled around and found a candle, then lit a match and stood for a moment with the small flame flickering, watching as the warm light fell over the room. It folded itself around the table and chairs and over the books and pictures on the shelves, and seeped deep into the corners and crevices.

One little light, not yelling at the darkness or taming it into submission or judging it, but falling softly, gently caressing away the shadows and illuminating the night.

Are you huddled with other light bearers, where it’s safe and comfortable? I challenge you to be brave and let your light illuminate your corner of the world.

There’s nothing to be afraid of, and you might be surprised by how much you have in common with the people you fear and the true friendship that awaits you when you step out in faith.