The Prophet’s Candle, Symbol of Hope
By Deacon Dan Wagnitz | For On Mission
The birch and aspen trees swayed so gracefully in the summertime breeze; their leaves caught the currents like the sails of so many schooner ships. Now, however, that the leaves have fallen, the same trees look more like they are shivering.
The birch and aspen trees were like bouquets in the summertime breeze, their slim trunks like so many long-stemmed roses, and their leaves at the treetop came together like flowers made of thousands of shimmering rich, green petals. But, now in winter, the birch and aspen trees are like long, thin fingers of empty hands, unable to hold back the cutting northwest wind.
The birch and aspen trees sang of life in the summertime breeze, richly alive to the eye and the ear. Now, in winter, the birch and aspen trees are silent except for an occasional creaking groan in the bitter, chilled winter winds; they seem to speak of lifelessness and hopelessness.
Still, if one draws near and looks closely, next year’s buds — although hard and shell-like — are already set upon each branch. The birch catkins, now hard and solid like the very heartwood of the tree, are already poised to soften and flower in next spring’s warming May.
Even winter, as it gathers strength in the earlier and earlier gathering darkness of December, must speak to the promise of rebirth. Sometimes the prophet speaks in words. Sometimes the prophet speaks in silence. Sometimes the prophet speaks in actions. Either way, the prophet speaks.
The Bethlehem Candle, Symbol of Faith
When the diocese owned the retreat house on Chambers Island, the diaconate community gathered there for an annual retreat. I recall one visit, as we made our way from the little marina to the retreat house, when we passed a huge oak tree poised on the edge of the high ridge, looking back across the waters of the Bay toward Fish Creek.
The oak had been hit by lightning in a storm just a few weeks prior. There was a long, twisting scar that ran from 20 feet up to the ground, where the white inner heartwood was exposed; the upper edge of the scar was charred black.
The leaves of the tree had begun to curl and wither. It was obvious that the great tree, so strong and solid weeks before, was in the process of dying. Its very existence was struck down in the instant of that fatal lightning flash.
Like that oak tree, we sometimes carry our scars on the outside where all can see them. But much more often we attempt to conceal them from others, from God, and even from ourselves. We bury them deep in our hearts, deep in shame and regret.
Sometimes we succeed for years. But even when we do, others close to us can see us slowly curl up into ourselves — more and more isolated, more and more alone. Our remaining days become a process of withering and dying.
But if we dare to trust in love — if we dare to have faith in God, who is love — then we are graced with enough faith in others, and enough faith in ourselves, to seek out and receive healing. We can dig those scars up from shame and regret and transplant them in the fertile soil of repentance.
The Shepherd’s Candle, Symbol of Joy
I stop and look across the marsh at what should be evening. It is one of those sullen December days — the gray clouds are thick and low, pressing down on the horizon.
The ponds are stiff. Their icing over has evicted the ducks, the geese and the sandhill cranes that gabbled, honked and trumpeted all through late summer, through the mellowness of autumn, and even during the gathering of those iron-gray clouds of November. For two weeks now, the marsh has stood brown and empty.
Sunset proves to be just a darkening. The clouds begin to fall upon me and the marsh as snowflakes begin to swirl in the last of the day’s breeze. If you listen, you can hear them at first — almost an imperceptible tick, tick, tick as they fall on the brittle cattails and marsh grass. Soon, though, all is hushed in the deepening whiteness. All is calm. Silent night, sacred night; holy night.
In the morning, I return to look out over the marsh as the sun edges the eastern horizon. It seems barren. Then a trio of chickadees bursts from a snow-laden spruce and alights in the white ash tree, bouncing from branch to branch. One spins to the underside of a branch and, hanging there upside down, cheerfully buzzes, “chick-a-dee-dee-dee.” A mere tuft of feathers, perhaps an ounce — yet unmeasurable joy to the world!
The Angel’s Candle, Symbol of Peace
A strong oak, limbs like arms raised in the orans position, seems to lead evening prayer. Its blue shadows, almost violet upon the snow, stretch farther and farther eastward. A trio of blue jays in undulating flight crosses the open field and alights in the oak. Their screeching calls pierce the stillness; they hop from branch to branch, finally settling into silence, looking westward as the sun slips below the horizon.
Thin, wispy clouds overhead are underlit with soft pinks and purples that spread the hues of sunset across the full sky — north to south and west to east — as if in a blessing to all who pause and gaze upon it in wonder. Sunset is a celebration that God has come to his people.
The cloud wisps evaporate soon after the sun slips below the horizon, and the sky deepens — the blue — at first light, pale, then azure, then royal, and finally cobalt as it continues to darken, becoming the gateway to the heavens. The moon, glittering silver and full-orbed, rises in the east. The shadows of the great oak, now blackish-purple, reverse course and stretch westward upon the snow that mirrors the moon’s light, like an exchanged kiss.
The sky grows still deeper and darker, seeming to set the stars afire as it opens higher, higher and still higher. The vast night sky sings of the vastness of God: “Glory to God in the highest!” And yet, even the vastness of God seeks out every simple heart that offers awareness, that offers welcome, that offers love, and dwells there. God is present in his creation. God is present within his creation.
Night must yield to the dawn. Darkness always yields to the light. Eastern reds and oranges announce the coming of sunrise. As the fire breaks above the horizon, one of faith can imagine angels, flaming swords at the ready, shoulder to shoulder, marching the eastern edge of every dawn, prepared, should this be the day of return.
The snow-covered field in view of the great oak looks like a crystalline sea, its drifts like frozen waves that never break upon a shore. Out in the field, a flock of snow buntings takes flight, dipping — now banking in near unison this way and that, as if the flock was but one multi-winged being recalling those first dawns, when the Spirit swept over the waters. The flock sweeps once more around and then settles.
The sun breaks free of the horizon and climbs into a new day; its light embraces creation that continues to await in eager expectation to share in the freedom of the children of God (Rom 8:21).
Not this day, perhaps. Not this day. But one day the Messiah, the King, will return in glory, riding upon the dawn.