Hope, like a candle in a window, can draw travelers out of the dark into the light of Christ.
By Nicole Koehn
Consider the candle. It shines out like a fleck of sunlight on the windowsill. The single flame bobs gently in the gathering shadows, burning brighter as dusk deepens. From a distance it winks like a star in the wide sky, guiding the traveller, and drawing her home. She stumbles to the door and lifts a stiff hand to the knocker.
Perhaps no one will hear. The wind is loud tonight.
She knocks. And waits. Frost burns her nostrils.
The door opens and light streams out, along with the scent of roasting meat and the sound of fiddle music that would make you dance until your very toes fell off. There is a burst of laughter and a big voice, lively as a crackling fire, calls out, “Welcome, stranger! Come in out of the lonely darkness and have fellowship.”
Drawn in, she is unburdened of her snow-ridden coat. Amidst light that dazzles her eyes she hears cries for another plate to be set, another glass poured, and another chair found.
Does the darkness not touch this place? Surely these people know the grief of the world outside. Yes, she sees it in the depths of their eyes and in the wandering tune the fiddler now played as though to himself. And yet there is such life, bodied forth in the light she had seen in their window and now sees in their faces as she is guided to the table.
These people do not cower in the corner, shielding what little light they have until it is spent and the darkness envelopes them. No—they place it in a window as a tangible sign of an intangible but real hope, so that fellow travellers might see it and be drawn to its light.
Candlelight is a profound image of hope in the midst of darkness and evil. The darker the night around the candle becomes, the brighter it shines. It shines because it relies on the oxygen in the air, not on fair weather or sunshine or warmth. It is the same with our hope. Our hope relies on Christ, the true Light. He came into the world and dwelt in our darkness, showing us the way, teaching us truth, and giving us life. He is the lamp for our stumbling feet. It is because He lives, sitting at the right hand of the Father, that we can carry hope in our hearts. This does not mean that we will never doubt, or that despair will never press in around us (as night presses around a candle flame). But it does mean that doubt and despair need not snuff our hope, which relies on Christ (as a candle relies on oxygen). Though hope may flicker and burn low, it need not go out.
Candlelight allows us to see in the darkness: to read, to work, to feast and dance, to gaze into one another’s faces. Hope is like this, too. It enables us to see in the darkness, even to see through the darkness and glimpse the light of the New Kingdom. Hope, deeply rooted in our hearts, manifests itself in tangible ways: in the tone of our voices, the light in our eyes, and the ring of our laughter. Hope manifests in our gentle hands as guiding lonely travellers to the Table as we tell them the Great Story.
Because of Christ, we can light our candles and place them in our windows instead of hiding them in fearful hands. Just as a candle glints silently on the windowsill, guiding the traveller home by defying darkness, so too the hope we have in Christ can shine steadily in the gathering shadows, drawing in those outside. When lonely travellers knock, may our doors open. May light and laughter stream out with cries of welcome. And may hope shine in our faces and warm our hands as we lead them deeper into the Light.
Nicole Koehn is a writer, thinker, and scholar. She is pursuing a Bachelor of Arts at Tyndale University in Toronto, Canada. You can read more of her work at RememberedLore.com, where she encourages readers to un-forget old stories worthy of remembrance.