Only One Candle

image by Nathan Mullet on Unsplash

 

I never intended to mention light again this soon.  If one writes too often about the same subject, folks begin to whisper about obsessions.  And, one-track minds.

That’s why I usually ignore little nudges to write about the things I’ve mentioned recently.  Readers don’t need much of an excuse to poke each other and say, “I told you so.  He’s taken leave of his. . .”

Well, you get the idea.  Still, I did go to the Candlelight Service at the local university yesterday.  And, the lights on the tree onstage at our local fellowship shorted out this morning.  And, it’s Advent.

So, lights it is.  Again.

Did I mention the Candlelight Service?  I went to hear the brass.  And the choir.  I wasn’t disappointed.

But, they lit candles first.  I watched the students carry their brass poles with the adjustable wicks down the aisles toward the platform which had scores of candles awaiting the flame at the ends of those wicks.

Just so you know, I really did want the brass poles to have a special name so I could impress you with my knowledge of said designation, but I’m informed by reliable sources they’re just called candlelighters.

Imagine my disappointment at learning that the candlelighters carry candlelighters to light the candles.

But, as they walked the long aisles to the front, at least 3 of the young folks had the misfortune to have the flame extinguished from their wicks.

I watched one young man whose lighter was burning healthily until he was halfway to the front, but it suddenly turned to a brightly glowing ember as he walked.  The ember dimmed for a few steps, then disappeared into a stream of smoke which quickly thinned to a wisp and then, nothing.

The two young ladies striding down the opposite aisle had a similar experience, each arriving at the front with useless candlelighters in their hands, as well.

Do you suppose the young lady who found herself the only one with a flame took the opportunity to excoriate the others about the pace with which they had walked, causing their flames to blow out?  Did she spend the next few minutes reminding them how precious that flame was, and how careless they had been with it?

Perhaps, she just went ahead and lit all the multitude of candles herself.  Without any help.  Clearly, it was all up to her.

She didn’t.

Stopping at the base of the steps, she motioned all three of them over and had them light the lifeless wicks of their candlelighters from her flame.

And for all the help she offered them, her flame was drawn down not the slightest bit.  It blazed and shone as she ascended the steps, ready to light all the waiting candles on their stands.

They also mounted the steps, lending their aid in lighting the forest of candles, making short work of the task.

The candles were all set ablaze to the background of the violins, violas, and cellos.  Then I heard the brass music.  For over an hour, I reveled in the music of the choirs and even the organ pieces played by the Lovely Lady’s brother.  All of it was lovely.

But the lesson of the candlelighters was what I carried from the Cathedral last night.  It was a lesson reinforced by the traditional candle-lighting ceremony at the end of the evening.

From that one candlelighter—yes, every flame in the room that night could trace its origin to that single young lady—each person in the seats eventually held high a flaming candle as we sang the sweet words of “Silent Night.”

And, it cost her nothing.

Nothing except kindness.  And generosity.

I want to preach.  I want to hammer the message home, reminding all of us of those around who have not tended their flames as well, perhaps, as we have.

There would be hypocrisy in my words.

And, dishonesty in the telling.

It is, as I have said before, a season of lights—the time of remembering the coming of the One who is The Light that has, and will, shatter the darkness, sending it scuttling back into the emptiness from which it emerged eons ago.

His Light is ours to share.

It was never ours to hoard.

 

“Carry your candle, run to the darkness. . .
Take your candle, go light your world.”
(from Go Light Your World by Chris Rice)

“Don’t be selfish; don’t try to impress others. Be humble, thinking of others as better than yourselves. Don’t look out only for your own interests, but take an interest in others, too.” (Philippians 2:3-4, NLT)

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2023. All Rights Reserved.

Offerings

The young voices sing in tight harmony, the air surrounding us almost trembling with astonishment at the beauty of their song.  We in the pews are in agreement with the atmosphere; to a person it seems, holding our breaths, not wanting to miss a note or a chord.

The carol began as a common Christmas song—with familiar words and melody—but it has become much more than that.  The young artists, led by that genius with a stick in his hand, started with the simple familiar tune and turned it into a symphony, a masterpiece of beautiful music and brilliant poetry.

Quietly, scarcely louder than a whisper, the voices draw us upward until, with more volume than seems possible from those young throats and greater skill than seems imaginable from musicians so inexperienced, we are overcome with wonder and with awe.

We who sit in the hard seats and listen have been carried far beyond the restraints of our time and circumstances.  For a moment which seemed an eternity, our spirits soared with the melodies and harmonies that have drawn us into the very presence of the King of Christmas.

It has always been so for me.  This music has power—power to soothe the spirit—power to move the soul—power to draw the heart from its deepest, darkest hiding place and lay it open before the Creator of all the Universe.

I know it is not the same for all.  My life has been full of music from the day I was born, until now in my waning years.  Many have had different experiences and have also lived joyfully.  I freely admit it.

Still—music moves me.

Can I go a step further and tell you what else moves me?

Just as much as the music.

It may come as a shock to the reader.  It did to me.

You see, I sit in the beautiful cathedral and am moved to tears by nothing more than sound in the air—that and the Spirit of God—and somehow, it feels natural and right.

But just this week, in my place of business, I was also moved to tears. . .

The old man had been in before.  He had The Look.  You know, that look in his eyes—almost empty, but a little wild, a little confused, and perhaps even, dangerous.  He shuffled in, shoulders slumped, a defeated shell of a man, without hope.

He is homeless, or nearly so.  Drifting from one relative to another, living under the stars when the weather permits, he calls no place home, but any place he lies down his bedroom.

He had a guitar to sell.  I’ve told his story before.  Well, not his, but the same basic story anyway.  No money, no food, the urge to find funds has led him to my door.  The guitar would feed him for a few days anyway.

Or, so he thought.

I didn’t want his guitar.

It is damaged and worn now.  It was not much better when it was new.  If I had bought it, the guitar-shaped-object would have found a semi-permanent home in my back room, a room which is already packed full by too many cheap, broken guitar-shaped-objects.

I didn’t want the guitar.  I told him so.

The wild eyes turned angry for a few seconds, and I worried that things might get ugly.  Then, he shrugged his shoulders and looking dejected, turned to go.

I wasn’t done, though.  I know, after years of sleepless nights and remorse-filled days, that it was not my place to turn him away without help.  I reached into my pocket and pulled out a couple of bills which I laid on the counter for him.  Immediately, the angry eyes were back and he waved away my offer disgustedly.

He didn’t want my hand-out.  He wanted to sell his guitar.

Quickly, I explained my dilemma.  Motioning with my arms at the guitars leaning against the back wall and the cases stacked in the aisles, I told him that I can’t—just can’t—acquire another guitar to repair.  Without disparaging his instrument, I made it clear.  I simply don’t need his guitar.

Again, I held out the money and begged—yes—I begged him to take it.  I suggested he could still sell the guitar to someone else who needs it.  For a moment, his demeanor brightened, as he saw a way to get more than he expected when he first came through my door.

Then another idea came to him.

“I’ll accept your gift.  But, I’m not going to sell this guitar.”  The old guy proudly gestured with the instrument.  “I know this guy who’s staying down by the tracks.  He says he plays, but he doesn’t have a guitar to use.  I’ll give this one to him.”

He reached a gnarled hand across the counter, first to take the gift I offered, and then again to grip mine in that ancient symbol of equality and respect, a handshake.

I looked into his eyes.

That’s funny.

They were as clear as a bell.  No anger.  No confusion.  No defeat.

Did I say they were clear?  I meant to say that they were clear except for the tears that welled up in the corners of each one.  As he let go of the firm grip he had on my hand, there were tears in my own eyes, as well.

He headed for the door.  I’m pretty sure he was taller than when he came in.  At least, his head was held up and the slump he had when he arrived was gone.

As he stepped outside, I heard his voice,  “God bless you, friend.”

I can’t explain it, but I felt chills.  Something like I felt when I listened to those young folks singing last night.

Something like it.

The apostle said that when we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma, as He did when His Son came for us.

When we walk in love, our God smells a sweet aroma Click To Tweet

This Christmas, as I worship in the beauty and opulence of the cathedral, with its stained glass windows and high ceilings, and all of it trimmed in oak, I’m going to remember that somewhere, out there in the cold and dirty world, a man plays a guitar.

The music inside might be prettier and more skilled.

I don’t know.

Somehow, I think the Savior of the world—the One who came as a baby on that first Christmas—I think He might consider the sound of that guitar playing down by the railroad tracks just a little sweeter.

Just a little.

A sweet aroma.

 

 

A song will outlive all sermons in the memory.
(Henry Giles ~ American minister/author ~ 1809-1882)

 

And walk in love, as Christ loved us and gave Himself up for us, a fragrant offering and sacrifice to God.
(Ephesians 5:2 ~ ESV)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2016. All Rights Reserved.

The Same Baby

It is dress rehearsal night for the annual Christmas Candlelight service at the local university.  As usual, nerves are frayed.

The veteran director, at other times a jovial prince of a man, is unhappy with what he hears.  The handbells aren’t balanced well with the brass, nor even with the choir.  His stress is handed off to the technical staff as they scramble to set up the correct microphone array. 

Lighting, entrances, even the correct height at which to hold a music folio—all of these details must be attended to.  A spectacular presentation depends on the tiniest of details.

There was a day when I too was caught up in the stress and nervousness of the moment.  My part is so small, minuscule even, but the charged atmosphere has a way of affecting everyone.

Tomorrow, this has to be perfect!  We can’t miss a step! 

Funny.  Tonight, I sit in my place and, instead of worrying about the details, I wonder when I got old.

No, really.  

I was a young man when I started doing this.  The members of the student choirs were my peers, young adults who had been sitting at their parents tables just weeks before.  That’s no longer the case.

These students could be my grandchildren.  My grandchildren. The thought hits home and I let it sink in.

What am I doing here? What purpose can be served by my presence in this gathering?   

My mind forges ahead as I consider that many—perhaps most—of these young people would not agree politically with me.  In fact, they would most likely oppose some of my most cherished ideals vociferously.  

They probably even eat sushi!

Once started down this road, it is easy to barrel on to the bottom at full speed.  I enumerate mentally all the differences I can see (and some I can’t) and suddenly, I feel as if I am surrounded by aliens.  We are so different.

What am I doing here?  I ask the question once more.

I jerk into cognizance, realizing that the white-haired man with the baton is back on the podium and the aliens, I mean—choir members,  are standing and ready to sing.

Quickly finding my place in the printed music on the black stand before me, I begin to play the horn along with my fellow ensemble members.  With a gesture here, and a short comment there, the man with the stick draws each musician further into the composition.

Before I know it, the answer I sought mere moments before is all around, literally all around, me.  Beautiful music, no—soul-moving tonality, emanates from every point of the compass.

It is not seamless.  One can sit back and pick out the trumpet notes.  The bass voices singing in the back may be distinguished from the sopranos standing closer.

Not one of us—not one—loses his or her identity in the mingling of voices which has occurred.  A mosaic, yes, even a patchwork of sorts has been assembled from all the diverse human voices, the odd shapes of brass instruments, and the different sized bells.

Did I say it is not seamless?  I’m not sure that is true.  The end product, for all its variegated shading and changes in texture, is truly unified.  All parts, equally, are integrated into the stunning result.

This.  This is why I am here.  

Old man that I am becoming, I was intended to be here, at this moment.  Each of the youngsters in the choir was destined to be part of this memorable composition of voices and instruments.

A short time later, as the instruments sit quietly and the voices begin an acapella piece, I marvel.

So many different voices.  Such varied family backgrounds.  Such diversity in religious doctrine.

All singing about one thing.  One person.

One Baby.  One Savior.

I close my eyes, listening to the young, yet ancient, voices.  I can’t help it, I seem to hear angels singing.  I’m not saying the choir sounds like angels.  I have no evidence to base such a statement on, having never heard an angelic message.

The shepherds, on the other hand—the shepherds heard it. (Luke 2:13-14)

Do you never wonder about the eclectic mix of folk who knew about the little Baby’s birth?  Angels certainly, and shepherds, and an inn-keeper.  The magi would come, in time.  Of course, there was Mary and her husband, Joseph.

All worshiping the same Baby.  The One who came to save all of us.

All of us.

Soon, hundreds will sit in the hard wooden pews of this beautiful cathedral.  Side by side, they will sit and sing, and listen, and worship.

Rich and poor, educated and illiterate, liberal and conservative, white and brown and black—they will worship. Together, they will worship.

candle-633024_1280Still worshiping the same Baby—the One who came to save all of us.

And then, from one candle, a thousand will be lit in this auditorium.  What a picture!

A brilliant picture of His purpose in coming to earth.  From one Light, all who live in darkness will live in light. (Matthew 4:16)

I’ve watched the worshipers with their candles.  Some boldly hold them up high.  Others sit gazing at the flickering light with their hands on their laps.  Still others look to see what everyone else is doing with their candles before they position theirs.

It matters not.  The whole room is awash in light.  Every corner is illuminated. 

The voices stop and again, my musing ends as I am brought back to reality.  Tomorrow, we will make music together again, if the Lord wills it.  

We will worship the child.  Together.

Still, I wonder. 

What if we held our lights high through all of our lives, blending the brilliance together?

Would it be possible to make beautiful music with folks who are different than us for all of the years we live?

I would love to see that beautiful patchwork quilt—and listen to that heavenly music.

Glory to God in the highest.  Peace on earth to men.

It is what we were made for.

 

 

 

Worship changes the worshiper into the image of the One worshiped.
(Jack Hayford ~ American author/pastor)

 

 

. . . so that you will prove yourselves to be blameless and innocent, children of God above reproach in the midst of a crooked and perverse generation, among whom you appear as lights in the world . . .
(Philippians 2:15 ~ NASB)

 

 

 

© Paul Phillips. He’s Taken Leave. 2015. All Rights Reserved.