Faithful Flames
The pages of Scripture smolder with metaphors of God as fire. The God who speaks in these stories dwells in flame or shines in unapproachable light. In the early pages of the Torah we hear, with Moses, God calling out to us from a bush ablaze but not consumed. Remarkably, this holy shrub is less kindling and more candlewick. It stands steady, glowing with the presence of God while remaining what it is.
This intimate exchange between the God of Israel and the prophet Moses reveals that God’s presence, blinding as it may be, is also gentle. God descends to share his glory-–to place it within dry twigs–-without destroying the creation he loves.
Moments later, God leads his people as a pillar of fire. The fire of God shines brightly in the wilderness night, blazing a trail through the unknown and unwalked landscape. God’s fire stands sentinel, not only pointing the way but providing warmth and comfort in the vast, dark expanse that is neither Egypt nor Canaan.
When God comes to us in Christ, the metaphor persists. God is called “the light of the world,” the burning fire of love that cannot be quenched. In Christ, God’s light dwells among eyes that have become so accustomed to the darkness that they dare no longer look. This fire descends into Mary’s womb and enters the world in smallness and obscurity. Those who have no home or hearth find warmth around the holy fire of God resting on a bed of straw on a starry night.
As followers and friends of Jesus, God turns to us and teaches that we, too, will be lights in the world. But in our ambition, it is easy to assume too much of ourselves. We might fall into the folly of the disciples, believing that God asks more of us than he does. If we are to be lights in the world, we must do so in God’s own way.
Jesus asks us to “let our light shine,” and that this light is meant for many. But what is Jesus asking of us here? He doesn’t ask us to become bonfires, trying to stoke ourselves into a brightness to rival the pillar of fire. Jesus does not imagine the story of Mt. Carmel, where the fire of God fell and false prophets were scorched by the flame. He does not recall the Babylonian furnace, where God’s friends endured an ever-intensifying heat.
Jesus could have thought of all of those stories and images, but he chose none of them. Instead, he says that our lights shining before others are like oil lamps.
It is surprising that Jesus teaches that our endurance as little lights matters more than how brightly we blaze. We are not judged by how many oil lamps we had, or whether we found enough kindling to turn the small flame into a blazing bonfire in the heart of the city. Strangely, Jesus’ imagination goes elsewhere. His stories are filled with invitations to be watchful and ready; guarding the gentle, fragile flame. He warns us to make sure that we measure our oil well and have enough. But even if what we have is not enough, that we can trust God to miraculously multiply more.
This tender flame is enough. In the window of a home, this small lamp gives light not only to its inhabitants, but also to those who travel the city by night. It is the sign that God’s eyes search for: little lights shining while the night persists and we wait for the dawn. Steady witnesses that know this light is what God has asked for, and that our call is to have an enduring flame.
Make no mistake: this little light is of incredible value. It honors God because these are the lights that will keep burning long after the bonfires run out of fuel. Those blazes consume too much, too fast, providing neither light nor warmth. Instead, endure in quiet faithfulness. The persistence of your light is a great witness, because it imitates the enduring love of God that cannot falter nor fail.
Let these little lights shine, and cherish them. They are enough.
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