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There is something about light in a dark place. Light that gently quiets the soul and keeps on shining no matter what. God is such a light, and Scripture gently leads us toward that light.

Oh, how we need it. Light that’s not harsh or blinding, but steady, pure, and faithful. A light that does not waver when we do. A light that continues to shine, even when our faith feels small.

For we are fragile creatures. Quick to question. Quick to doubt. Quick to rely on our own understanding and slow to rest in grace.

In this week’s story, Percival, a proud and wealthy young man, comes face to face with a flame he cannot extinguish. Slowly and quietly, he discovers that the greater miracle is not the lamp that keeps burning, but the grace that keeps reaching for him, too.

The Lamp

By J.K. Stenger

The oil lamp in the little country church was famous; not because it was beautiful, for it was not. Just an ordinary oil lamp with a copper base, glass reservoir and a wick holder. There was even a touch of rust near the base. It was the sort of lamp you’d find at a flea market or in a dilapidated thrift store.

Still, it was famous.

People came from far and wide to behold its glorious light. 

Why?

They claimed it was a miracle lamp. It burned day and night and never needed fresh oil. Ever.

The faithful caretaker of the church, Old Ezra (a bearded man who looked like he’d stepped right out of the Bible), claimed he’d never once needed to replenish it. And so the lamp cast its wondrous, soft glow near the altar as a beacon of hope for the faithful.

Everyone stared at it in wonder.

Everyone, except Percival.

Being an intelligent banker, Percival had long ago decided he’d only believe in the things he could see and prove, and a so-called miracle lamp did not fit his theology. Whenever the discussion about the lamp came up, he burst out laughing and cracked mocking jokes about the fairy tales of a loving God who created such a miserable world.

It all came to a head one day at Lady Catherine Pemberton’s garden party. While sipping his fourth glass of champagne, Percival argued again about the lamp with Old Ezra, who’d been invited to the party as the local clergy’s representative.

“That lamp story is hogwash,” Percival claimed, suppressing a bubbly burp.

Old Ezra shrugged. “Just look for yourself. We never see you in church, anyway. Might do you good to let the spirit of holiness soak into your very fibers.”

“I have enough holiness of myself. I don’t need church,” Percival said while casting the old caretaker a dark look. “No lamp can always burn. It’s not possible.” 

“Just look for yourself,” Old Ezra said again.

Percival finished his champagne. “Alright,” he said while shaking his finger in Old Ezra’s face. “Tonight, I’ll end this story once and for all. Tonight, I’ll expose the fraud.”

Word spread like wildfire. 

That night, the entire town gathered to witness the event.

When Percival entered the church, a deep hush fell. He stood at the threshold like a Roman conqueror surveying his people with a benevolent smile, then slammed the doors for impact.

Old Ezra approached through the aisle, arms outstretched in welcome. “Anyone welcomed by God is welcome in this church.”

“Spare me your holy talk,” Percival sneered. “Just show me the lamp.”

“Follow me.” 

While nobody dared to speak, they strode to the altar where the miracle lamp burned, bright and cheerful.

“Is that all?” Percival raised his brow at the simple lamp.

“That’s it,” Old Ezra said.

The light flickered brighter as Percival approached.

“Where’s the opening to pour in the oil?” He narrowed his eyes and his nose twitched as if he could smell fraud.

Old Ezra shrugged. “There’s no opening. It doesn’t need more oil, remember. It always burns.”

“That’s stupid.” Percival scowled. “I’ll see for myself.” Without asking for permission, he reached out and grabbed the lamp.

“Ow!” he screamed. “Hot!” Cursing, he dropped the lamp onto the stone floor, where it rolled toward the front row, still burning brightly.

“You shouldn’t have touched it like that,” Old Ezra muttered. “That’s not the way to do it.”

Percival glared at him. “I need to investigate. You said I could, but that stupid lamp seared my hand.”

Old Ezra shook his head. “It’s a holy lamp. You’re not supposed to touch it without reverence.”

“It’s just a lamp,” Percival roared. “I have degrees from the best universities in this country. If there’s anybody who knows right from wrong and wrong from right, it is me.” His eyes flashed with anger. “I’ll show you what I do with your lamp.” He walked to where it had rolled and lifted his boot to crush it.

“No!” cried Old Ezra.

“No!” cried the congregation.

“Yes!” roared Percival, bringing down his large boot with a crash on top of the lamp. It didn’t break but Percival slipped, stumbled and fell backward. As he crashed to the floor, for just a second the light seemed to go out, but instantly it flared back up, brighter than before.

Percival lay sprawled on the cold stone, groaning. His tailbone throbbed, his pride hurt even more. The congregation sat in stunned silence.

What had just happened? 

Percival tried to make sense of it all as his glance shifted between Old Ezra and the mysterious lamp on the ground that was still casting its joyful glow.

While nurturing his wounded hand, he saw how Old Ezra walked over to the lamp, bent over and picked it up. Percival expected a raw, piercing cry of pain to erupt from the old caretaker’s throat, but nothing happened. He just lifted it, wiped some cobwebs off the glass and reverently placed it back next to the altar where it continued to shine.

“H-how did you do that?” Percival muttered. “It must be a trick.”

“No trick,” Old Ezra replied with a serious expression. “It’s all about God, the One you claim doesn’t exist.”

“W-what do you mean?” Percival stammered. “I don’t understand.”

“It’s simple,” Old Ezra explained. “God’s oil fills the lamp. The light does not come from the lamp itself. It comes from what the lamp receives. His light never dies.” 

“What nonsense,” Percival cried. “God doesn’t even exist.”

“And yet,” Old Ezra said gently, “the lamp still burns.”

There was silence for a long while. At last, Percival mumbled, “I-I don’t understand.”

“Nobody does,” old Ezra replied. “It’s called grace, Percival, and it surpasses all understanding. God lives, He gives day and night to both the just and the unjust.” He paused. “Kind of like how He keeps offering us grace, even when we keep kicking against it.”

The old man’s eyes twinkled. “Though I’ll admit, most people don’t respond to grace by trying to stomp on it. That’s a new one.”

“I don’t…” Percival started, then stopped. For the first time in years, he had no answer. He closed his eyes, wished he were back at the garden party of Lady Catherine Pemberton, sipping champagne, but the cold tiles beneath him told another story. He turned to Old Ezra and said barely audible, “You said… grace?”

Old Ezra nodded as he stared warmly at him. “Yes, Percival. Grace.”

With a painful expression, Percival clambered up from the floor and, while ignoring the staring eyes of the church, he leaned over to old Ezra and lisped, “Can you… tell me more about it?”

Old Ezra’s weathered face creased into a smile. He nodded toward an empty pew near the front. “Sit there. And listen.”

Percival, still half in shock, stumbled towards the pew that old Ezra had shown him and sat down. The old man raised his hands and led the church in the singing of an old hymn.

In the day of trial, in the hour of need,
I have found a friend indeed;
Yes, a faithful friend, whom I have often tried,
Jesus, who was crucified. *

The singing was not particularly beautiful, but the words spoke to Percival’s confused heart. He turned around and stared at the glorious faces of the people singing. Simple people. Not the people he commonly associated with, but their faces were radiant and warm, and as he studied them, a strange, unfamiliar hunger rose. They were singing of a light, of a friend that he did not have, but desperately needed too.

When the singing ended, Percival found he couldn’t speak. The words caught in his throat, not from pride this time, but from something else entirely. Something that felt almost like hope.

The lamp on the altar continued to burn, steady and patient.

And for the first time in his life, Percival did not try to extinguish it.

*A friend Indeed (Public domain)

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