Carrying the Light
I'm worshipping at a new church on the mountain, and one of my favorite moments is watching the acolytes carry the light to begin the service, and then carrying it back out at the end. The acolytes I've seen in my few weeks of attendance are between the ages of 8 and 12. They take their role in the service very seriously.
Have you ever used one of those finicky acolyte wands? It's the brass candle lighter with the adjustable slider. You have to keep the wick just long enough for the flame to stay lit, but not so long that it becomes a flamethrower. It's a delicate task, akin to a liturgical version of walking and chewing bubble gum. Not to mention, the whole congregation is watching to see if the Holy Spirit will survive the journey to the candle and back out into the world.
Last week, Brandon was intent on keeping the wick just right, and the beautiful flame just at the end of the wand remained unwavering as he walked intently to light two candles on the altar. The Christ candle is always about two inches taller than the child's line of sight. But Brandon knew what he was doing: how to adjust the wick on the fly, at the right angles, and what to do if the flame faltered.
What I noticed last week was that as he made his pilgrimage to the front, conversations stopped, attention focused, and it felt like the whole congregation was silently supporting and encouraging him. There was almost an audible exhale as the Christ candle was lit. Brandon slid the wick down and walked back with ease, his mom's nod affirming him.
I was struck in the moment by the perilous journey we are all making, carrying our light and the myriad circumstances that cause us to slow down or look aside, by those pausing to cheer us on, and by the moments of exhale when we know the grace of a well-lit path. Some days, the light is consistent, and the path is smooth. Other days, it seems no amount of tinkering and attentiveness can keep that flame burning.
As the service ended, I turned to tell Brandon's mom how impressed I was by his attentiveness, and she told me that with more children in the congregation, the rotation between opportunities to be the acolyte is longer, so he's not getting as much practice. The more often he practices, the more comfortable he becomes carrying the light.
Isn't that the way it is? The nature of our contemplative life is practicing. Walking with our attention on the light, learning to adjust when the circumstances for prayer and meditation aren't ideal, and remembering that a community of saints gathers to support and encourage us.
Some days it's our turn to carry the light; some days we offer silent prayers of support. There are days to teach others how to practice, and there are days when we can exhale together in response to answered prayers.
Each week, I encounter "acolytes" arriving at St. Mary's Sewanee, ready to practice, in need of an encouraging word, intent on the journey, however faltering.
As the days grow shorter and the light begins to change, may we remember that we don't have to walk this journey alone. There are days when our light burns brightly, and days when we need someone to help keep the flame alive.
Let's keep carrying the light together.
PRACTICE: Carry and Be Carried
This month, notice the ways you are both an acolyte and part of the congregation.
Notice one practice or commitment that matters to you, whether prayer, meditation, creativity, service, or learning. This is your light to carry.
When it's your turn to carry the light:
This week, tend it with intention. Adjust as needed. Keep going even when it's hard. Feel the community silently supporting you.
When it's your turn to affirm:
Notice someone in your life carrying their light, showing up for what matters to them, practicing their craft, maintaining their commitment, despite obstacles. Let conversations stop. Give them your attention. Offer a silent prayer of support. Affirm them when you can.
When you can exhale together:
Notice moments when a practice is bearing fruit, when a commitment has paid off, when a light has been kindled and is shining brightly. Breathe together. Give thanks. Rest in that grace.
The nature of our contemplative life is practicing, and practicing together.
