a dimly burning wick

 

Often, when we hold services at church, we light candles, as a visible reminder that Jesus is the Light that shines in the darkness of this world. At this time of year, when it is dark when the 8.00 a.m. Sunday service starts, this symbolism is especially profound.

This morning, the member of the congregation who was setting out the space came to light the two candles that sit on either side of the windowsill behind the altar. The first candle lit, as normal; but the other would not light. And so he spent several minutes trying to coax it into flame, trimming the wick, to no avail. It sputtered into life, only to give up the ghost. Eventually, it was time for the service to begin, and so he needed to leave it, for now, and return to it later.

This was not planned, nor had I spiked the candle so that it would not light, yet this was a visual aid to what God wanted to say to us today. In Advent, Christmas, and Epiphany, our Old Testament readings mostly come from the book of the prophet Isaiah, much of whose poetic vision is rehearsed, six hundred years later, by Jesus in the role of the Servant. Today we read:

‘a bruised reed he will not break,

and a dimly burning wick he will not quench’

(Isaiah 42.1-9)

A dimly burning wick he will not quench. Rather, like Ray this morning, Jesus holds us with tenderness and compassion, coaxing the flame of faith.

And this morning it was a gift to us to have two candles, one burning brightly, the other cold. Because, there are times when our faith is sure, when we know that God loves us, loves our neighbour, and so, we are able to love our neighbour too. And there are times when our faith burns dimly, sputters and fails. When we find it hard to accept — to imagine that it is possible — that God could possibly love me, unliveable as I am.

But we do not come to God on our own, we come together. Sometimes, my faith shines bright, when yours does not; at other times, it is your faith that shines, when mine is dim. Yet there is room on the windowsill for both candles. And the one that cannot ignite today will yet be tended into flame, whether today or later.

A bruised reed he will not break, and a dimly burning wick he will not quench.

There are times when we are all bruised. Sometimes by the way we witness the world handling others — overly roughly, without appropriate care. Sometimes we are bruised by the circumstances of our own lives, or the lives of those close to us. Sometimes we are bruised by those sides to our personality we find hardest to live with. We are not always bruised, but we bruise easily. And we are tempted to harden our hearts: I have been hurt before, I will not allow it to happen to me again. But this will not save us, for the more we harden our hearts, the more we bruise one another. It is not hard hearts we need, but gentle hands. And here, again, we are reminded that Jesus cares for us with tenderness and compassion.

When we are bruised, when our faith is dim, at these times and in these places may we have epiphanies of our own. May we encounter Jesus, and may the eyes of our hearts be opened to his healing love, making us whole again.

 

Image: photo shows the altar in the Lady Chapel at our 8.00 a.m. service this morning. There are two brass candlesticks on the windowsill behind the altar, one at either end with a brass cross between them. The candle on the right is lit, the one on the left is unlit. Our curate, Katherine, is seated behind the altar. The altar is set ready for Holy Communion, with a silver ciborium (holding bread wafers) and chalice (for wine) and a brass bookstand holding the Book of Common Prayer.