One Light Through Broken Glass

One Light. One Cross. Many broken pieces—made whole only by the Light behind them.

When you look at a stained-glass window, it’s easy to think you’re seeing many lights. Reds, blues, golds, greens—each piece glowing with its own brilliance.

But that’s an illusion.

There is only one light.

The colors do not come from the light itself. They come from the glass. The light remains unchanged—pure, undivided, constant. What changes is what the light passes through.

How Stained Glass Was First Made

In the early centuries of the Church, stained glass was not decoration. It was proclamation.

Glassmakers would begin with raw sand and ash, heating it until it became molten. While the glass was still liquid, minerals were added—cobalt for blue, copper for green, gold for red. The color was not painted on later; it was fused into the glass itself. Once cooled, the glass was deliberately broken and cut into pieces, shaped according to a design that already existed in the mind of the artist.

Those pieces were then held together with strips of lead, forming images—scenes from Scripture, the life of Christ, the saints, the story of redemption. Every break was intentional.

Every fragment had a purpose.

And then the window was installed not to be admired up close, but to be lit from behind.

Without the light of the sun pouring through it, the window was dark and dull. Its beauty only appeared when light passed through the broken pieces and brought the story to life.

Why Stained Glass Was Created

Stained-glass windows were often called “the Bible of the poor.” Most people could not read. So the Church taught theology through light and color. These windows preached sermons without words. They told the gospel visually—creation, fall, redemption, restoration—every day as the sun rose and set.

The goal was never to draw attention to the glass itself.

The goal was to reveal the story the light was telling.

The Meaning Beneath the Metaphor

The glass did not begin shattered. It was broken by the designer—intentionally. Cut, shaped, and colored with purpose. What looks like fragmentation was actually preparation.

But without the light behind it, the window is just glass—dark, lifeless, undefined. Remove the light, and the image disappears.

The power was never in the glass.

The glass does not illuminate the light. The light illuminates the glass.

And if even one piece is removed, the window is no longer complete. The image fractures. The story loses clarity. Not because one piece mattered more than the others—but because every piece was essential to the whole.

This is how God works.

He is the light—singular, undivided, unchanged. We are the glass—colored, shaped, fractured, restored. Our differences do not divide the light; they reveal it. Our uniqueness does not compete; it contributes.

But only when we remain positioned where the light can pass through us.

Apart from Him, we are fragments. Together in Him, we become a witness.

The beauty is not that the glass is perfect. The beauty is that the light still shines through it.

And it always has.