Having spent the last 55 years looking for stories “that’ll preach,” I can’t describe the delight of finding one by Robert Louis Stevenson in an essay by Megan Craig in the May 3, 2020 issue of the New York Times. The story tells of a group of young boys who form a secret club of “Lantern Bearers” who hide small tin lanterns under their heavy coats as a secret emblem of participation. From the outside, they look just like anyone else hurrying by on a cold night. But when they meet one another, they open their coats to reveal a hot burning light hanging from a belt loop. Craig writes, “I have always loved the image of these kids hiding their fire, their faces momentarily illuminated in the lamplight, triumphant in their allegiance to the game.”
Truth be told, I don’t know what the game was. But I am beginning to comprehend what the darkness is. Not seasonal darkness mind you. After all, it’s May. And with Mother’s Day behind us, we’re jogging toward June. Light comes earlier and lingers longer. Morning now breaks on the way to my 6:30 AM study group at the church. Except we do not meet at the church, given that the church is closed … it has been closed for seven weeks … and probably will be closed for several weeks more. So, we meet on Zoom, as many as 30 of us. Which works, but it’s not the same.
No, this is a deeper kind of darkness requiring a different kind of light, one that is carried, not on our belts so much as in our eyes … our minds … our hearts. Call it an “inner light” if you like. We all have some, but most of us wonder whether we have enough.
Which brings to mind another story about a young boy. This lad is considerably younger than the “Lantern Bearers.” I picture him as being eight, maybe nine. It seems that he was visiting his grandparent’s farm during several weeks of his summer vacation. Accustomed to his life in the city, where there were street lights, store lights, headlights, traffic lights, not to mention multicolored, blinking neon lights (their aim being to entice rather than illuminate), he was more than a little fearful of how dark it got when the sun went down in the country. It was darkness deeper than he had ever felt (yes, “felt”) before.
One evening, he wanted to retrieve something that he had left in the barn. But his grandfather was, at that moment, disinclined to make the trek with him. Suggesting that there was no reason the lad couldn’t go on his own, the boy said to his grandfather, “But it’s dark out .”
“All you have to do is stay on the path,” said his grandfather.
“But I can’t see the barn from here,” countered the boy.
So, his grandfather rummaged around in his box of tools until he found a flashlight … an old flashlight … a small, old flashlight … a semi-rusted, small, old flashlight. Which, all appearances to the contrary, still worked (obviously the Energizer Bunny must have been there). Whereupon, he gave the flashlight to his grandson, who turned it on … pointed it down the path … only to turn once more to his grandfather and complain, “But I still can’t see the barn.” Leading to the old man’s wise response, “Just keep walking to the end of your light and you’ll get there.”
*****
I have light. I sang about it in Sunday School. And then I read where Jesus said that I was the light of the world. But he also said that you were too. Walter (Billy) Schurr wrote a beautiful anthem, entitled “You are the Light of the World,” which was commissioned by my friend, Mel Rookus, for the Nardin Park United Methodist Church Choir.
Then concerning our light, Jesus added, “Don’t hide it.” Like under a bushel. Or inside your coat. But will it be enough? That’s what we want to know. How far will it penetrate? How long will it last? We’re talking distance and duration. For it is becoming clearer and clearer to me that the phrase “All Clear” is not one that we will hear any time soon. And in a recent telemedicine appointment with my neurologist, she said, “When you finally do hear an “All Clear” announcement, you need to stay home for at least two or three additional weeks.” In a world where a lot of comfort is being taken by people who note that the greater percentage of the fatalities are folks who are elderly or have preexisting conditions, I am almost 80 and have a preexisting condition. So, it looks as if I will require illumination for the long haul.
•••••
Which I think I have. I can do this. Kris and I can do this together. “One day at a time,” she says. And my good fortune is to be holed up in the house with someone like her. So, I relish family, read books, reach out to others via phone calls and screens, and rejoice that the Forsythia, Cleveland Pears, Viburnum, and Iris are already in bloom in the garden. Better yet, we have solved the matter of food delivery. And last Tuesday, there was even a Cinco de Mayo dinner.
But back to matters of light. Near the end of my career, I told my church that I still had “fire in the belly.” And if it has all gone out, I wouldn’t be writing this. But does “fire in the belly” make one a “Lantern Bearer”?
God, I hope so (that’s a prayer in addition to being a statement). For while there have been circumstances in my life that have nearly doused my flame, I have lived and served among other lamp-lighters … like some of you … who came to my rescue.
•••••
In 1833, a young Church of England priest named John Henry Newman was sick and detained in Italy, unable to travel, and far from home. He penned a prayer that, in time, became a cherished hymn.
Lead kindly light amidst the encircling gloom.
Lead me on.
The night is dark, and I am far from home,
Lead thou me on.
Keep thou my feet, I do not ask to see the distant scene,
One step enough for me.
Among other places, “Lead Kindly Light” was sung in the dining room of the Titanic before it went down, and then in one of the lifeboats after the ship sank. It was also said to be the favorite Christian hymn of Mahatma Gandhi.
I first sang it in a wonderful arrangement by Professor David Strickler, written for the Albion College Choir in 1958.
So, I will go … one step at a time … as far as the light that is in me, takes me. And I will cling to the promise of Verse 3 of the hymn to take me further still.
So long thy power has blessed me, sure it will
Still it will lead me on.
O’er moor and fen and crag and torrent ‘til
The night is gone.
And with the morn, those angel faces smile,
Which I have loved, long since, and lost awhile.
May 15, 2020
Northville, Michigan
