The Wayfarer's Light: A Festival Devotional

The Wayfarer's Light: A Festival Devotional

Lanterns in the Rubble

The generator had died three days ago, plunging the refugee camp into darkness. Jonathan sat outside his tent, watching families gather around small oil lamps and homemade candles. The Festival of Lights was approaching, yet here, in this corner of a war-torn nation, electricity was a distant memory.

He thought of Amira, the widow he'd met during his first deployment some twenty-one years ago. Her village had been destroyed, her husband killed, yet every evening she lit a single candle in her makeshift shelter. "For hope," she'd told him simply, her weathered hands steady as she struck the match.

There was Miguel in the Haiti after the earthquake, who sang hymns while pulling debris with bleeding hands. There was young Fatima in the Syrian border camp, who taught other children to read using Bible stories traced in the dust. There was old Thomas in South Sudan, who forgave the soldiers who'd taken everything from him because, he said, "Bitterness is heavier than any load I've carried."

These people had nothing -no homes, no security, no certainty of tomorrow. Yet they carried something. Jonathan, with all his resources and education, had struggled to grasp: an unshakeable knowledge that the true Light wasn't dependent on circumstances.

The Master's hand had been in every success, yes. But more importantly, the Master's light had been in every failure, every setback, every moment Jonathan felt inadequate for the task. The light wasn't something he brought to broken places. The light was already there, in the image of God reflected in every suffering face that still chose love over hate, forgiveness over revenge, hope over despair.

As the Festival of Lights drew near, Jonathan no longer grieved his unemployment as a loss. Instead, he saw it as an invitation, to reflect, to remember, to recognize that he'd never been the light-bringer he imagined himself to be, but He'd been a witness. A fellow traveller. A student learning from masters of faith who had far less and believed far more.

The festival would come with its lamps and celebrations, its symbols, and traditions. But Jonathan knew now what Amira had tried to teach him in that dark refugee camp: the Light of the World doesn't need our candles to shine. We light candles to train our eyes to see what has always been there- the Master's presence in the darkest places, shining through the most broken vessels.

Tonight, Jonathan would light his own candle. Not to create light, but to remember. To give thanks. To celebrate that in every distant place, every disaster zone, every war-torn village, the Master had been there first before he himself reached. And the Master remained, long after the aid workers packed their bags and flew home.

The true Light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has never overcome it.

Takeaway: In a world shadowed by war, disaster, and despair, the Master's light still shines through faithful hearts. This festival, may we have eyes to see His unquenchable light.

Jonathan had asked her once, during a particularly difficult week when food supplies were delayed and tensions ran high, "How do you keep your faith? How do you still find light here?"

Amira had smiled, the candlelight reflecting in her eyes. "Jona Jan (brother Jonathan in Persian), you think the light comes from this candle? No. The light was here first in my children's laughter, in the neighbour who shares his bread, in you Jona Jan, who came from so far away. The candle only reminds me to see what is already there."

Now, unemployed and sitting in his quiet apartment, Jonathan understood what she meant. He'd spent years chasing the light traveling to disaster zones, conflict areas, places where darkness seemed to reign. He'd thought he was bringing light to others, but the Master had been teaching him to recognize the light that was already burning.