Scott Schuleit
My wife and I were on the way to church for the annual Christmas Eve candlelight service. The traffic was dense in the night, a dissonance of glaring white headlights, fuming red taillights, and a looming, bristling pall of impatience.
I was at a traffic light; I could sense anger towards me from the driver in the car behind because I had failed to sneak through a yellow signal, which I knew was just about to turn red. By obeying the traffic laws, I had blocked this individual’s intention to fly past a red and avoid the dreaded waiting time. For my audacity, I was punished with a blare from the horn—longer than a mere quick rebuke. In the unspoken language of drivers, it was a clear expression of intense frustration. Along with this, I sensed at an intuitive level the unpleasant experience of irate eyes boring into the back of my head. I offer no empirical data to support this conclusion.
I waited for the red to turn green, experiencing the building tension from the expectation of the driver, and possibly others, behind me. And this is what was expected of me: I was to immediately hit the gas pedal as soon as the glowing green signal appeared. When that green flared in the dark, I had better bring the pedal down. If I dared hesitate for one second when the light changed, a storm of horns would ensue (so I suppose), blasting me for my insolence.
Instead of standing up against the perceived pressure and calmly easing through the light, I acquiesced to their unverified demands and floored it, speeding away. Well, maybe not floored it, but I did drive away quicker than normal. Cognizant of the disturbing cultural phenomenon known as road rage, I resisted the alluring temptation to stare with disdain at my detractor who, after rushing past, cut sharply into my lane in a final stinging criticism before roaring away.
While continuing my drive to church, I noticed a few souls distracted by cell phones, the pale glow of the devices hazing faces, mesmerizing eyes. One driver was switching back and forth between staring at his phone and watching the road. Though this kind of behavior is increasingly common, it is still alarming to behold.
Passing by a billboard invited criticism. The looming, vibrant, sensuous ad consisted, in part, of illusions and colorful theatrics designed to engender a discontentment that allegedly could only be alleviated by purchase. It was yet another attempt by worldly marketers to bypass reason, stir up the old nature, and incite my emotions. This was all done, of course, under the thin ruse of concern, as if they genuinely desired to enhance my life with their product. In reality, behind the festive façade, greed seeped through.
I reached my exit, turning, and then a couple of streets later finally made it into the parking lot of the church. Stepping out into the cold, we entered the foyer, shifting from one world into another. Greetings and hugs from various friends and acquaintances, along with some small talk before we sat in a pew in back of the sanctuary. It was quieter in here than out there, some of the tension from driving in traffic dissipating immediately, the atmosphere peaceful, serene.
The message was edifying, offering yet another angle to deepen our understanding of the mystery—the beauty—of the Incarnation. Music sounded here and there in the service as well. A young woman sang a popular Christmas song, graciously deepening our comprehension of Jesus Christ, the second Person of the holy Trinity, and the wisdom of his coming in the flesh. And then there was a reading by a young man from Scripture, one of the narratives regarding Christ’s birth. Following this, silence, a calm river of silence, the refreshment of its quietude flowing over us. And then there was more of the same.
Click. A button was pressed on a lighter, and a small flame appeared in the dark sanctuary. It was like a seed of light, its flame bright with the energy it contained. Wand of the lighter dipping towards a man, candle in hand; magically, it flourished. He stood up, passing his flame to another individual with a handheld candle. Participants began transferring their flames to others until, in time, the flare made its way to my wife and me in the back, the room blossoming with petals of light. The sanctuary was enchanted with hands half-aglow beneath floating white candles topped with raindrops of fire. Light was flowing around the room, rippling, soft and luminous, stirring shadows, drawing forms out of darkness. Soon faces were lit, gently flickering, and glistening eyes revealed, touched with fine points of fire.
There, in the cool, yet warm, dark of that sanctuary, candle flames burned lustrous, gorgeous, exuding a glow through the translucence of the candle, fire expressing fruit of its delicious light through waxy flesh.
On top of the candles, the flame was undimmed by wax, burning in the fractured dark, specks of illumination dotting the sanctuary like a constellation, like city lights at midnight, bringing warmth and light wherever willing hands carried them.
Aureoles like haloes surrounded the flames, glowing spheres of glory reflecting the greater splendor from which they sprung, notes brought forth from radiating instruments, playing a quiet symphony of light.
Candles dripped wax like dross from silver, impurities from gold, chaff whisked away by wind, leaving behind golden grains flecked with sun—ephemeral elements disintegrating, consumed by the purity, the power of the flame. The worthless aspects succumbing to death, kindling the blaze a little brighter until refulgent, brilliant.
Some people brought their candle flames together, a strong, deeper, richer flame resulting. Those candle fires separated from others teetered on the verge of dying out, drowning in the night like sparks in the ocean, hands of darkness choking them, depriving them of oxygen, smothering the fragile, orange-yellow embers.
The ascending smoke in the sanctuary was invisible, rising ribbons unseen in the atmosphere of that place, unraveling, soft, humble plumes sweet as perfume sent to the heavens like a petition, a profusion of sincere adulation.
At the front of the sanctuary, a single, large, great candle was burning, bearing a great burden of black, fighting against the darkness, pushing back against the gloom, at one point completely forsaken, flickering out, only to flame anew, the fire of its beauty now brighter than before, rising in glory.
And further back in the sanctuary, something was veiled, hidden—a single, tiny radiating spot of fire, a whisper from heaven, perfect convergence of candle and flame. The uniqueness of its presence swallowing up a sense of the vastness of space as if all eternity, the great weight of it, stood hushed, gazing. Curtains began rippling, unveiling grace, parting at just the right time, its peerless light a gentle emergence forever displacing the dark.
Scott Schuleit (M.A., Knox Theological Seminary) is the Associate Pastor at North Palm Baptist Church. His poems have appeared in The Penwood Review, Christianity and Literature, and Critique, and his non-fiction has been published in Tabletalk, Reformed Perspectives Magazine, and Modern Reformation. He is the author of A Pernicious Correspondence: Letters from a Devil (Prevail Press).
Image: Martin Ferdinand Quadal, By the Light of Candle