Quakers love the image of Light. What we observe, though, is not the light itself but rather the objects it reveals, at least within the visible portion of the spectrum. Sources of light – a star, a fire, the flash of a strobe – may be somewhat different, but the lingering afterimage when we close our eyes suggests the perception may be in large part a reaction within ourselves – and not just some intense chemical or physical transformation in the originating body.

This time of year, I begin regarding fire again – we rely on a wood stove to heat part of our house, and the upcoming holidays bring out an array of candles, seriously beginning with the Advent wreath. I’m mesmerized by the flames of a wood fire – the movement of flames and coals takes on its own pathway, no matter what you predict; their flickering dances, and the warmth is, well, captivating, especially in the midnight hours when I come home from the office. Stars, too, are more pronounced in the lengthened nights and sharpened air.

These are reminders, too, of those times in our lives when we’re on fire or given new direction – swept up in new love, the arrival of a baby, religious enthusiasm, a social cause – as well as those times when we sense contentment and comfort. We need both.

In the end, there’s something mysterious about fire, especially. Fire, after all, is a gift to humanity, as endless myths attest. As such, it demands care on our part. I think, too, of the flight of Israelites from captivity in Egypt, how they were responding to a pillar of fire by night and a pillar of cloud by day as they were led into the desert and out of bondage – what a contrast those images offer! Was the cloud dark and stormy, or even glowing from within or against the sun? To be liberated, by following both cooling moisture and drying flames – to be guided toward our true destination, and be comforted along the way. Mind the Light, then, as we go, toward a new Bethlehem, perchance.