A Bruised Reed He Will Not Break.
“A bruised reed he will not break, a faintly burning wick he will not quench”
- Isaiah 42.3
This Advent I have found myself lighting candles at every possible opportunity. The traditional wreath adorns our table, and another has appeared on our coffee table; still more candles lighten our bedside table at night and our prayer room in the morning. After a few weeks of this almost subconscious practice I realized: sometimes the darkness is so great that a tangible, visible reminder of the Light is the only thing that helps us to believe it has not been snuffed out entirely.
This is, after all, how the Story begins: in darkness. We wait—indeed we long for the Light of the world to enter into our pain, our loneliness, our dysfunction— for we know that apart from Him, we are hopeless. Advent reminds us that the incarnate Christ is not merely a cheerful addition to our peaceful world, a pleasant addition to a middle-class Eutopia. Rather, the coming of our Savior is His entry into a battlefield. It is His willingness to condescend to our bloodstained, tear-filled, chaotic world and to mingle His own blood, sweat and tears with it. It is His commitment to be baptized into our very darkness and death so that we might be baptized into His light and life.
Sometimes the relative peace and joy of our circumstances obscures the ferocity of this Story from us. When we—blessedly!—experience the embrace of friends and family or the health and happiness of loved ones, the holiday season is characterized by joy. But at other times, the pain of our personal situations can cause “holiday cheer” to seem jarringly out of place and the only thing that seems appropriate is to sit in a dark room with one small, faint candle burning. In those moments, the tiny wick is both a hope and a prayer: let this be true. Let me not be abandoned to this despair, to this darkness. Please, O Lord, let the light not be overcome.
As I lit my prayer candle this morning I was reminded that He has indeed promised not to abandon me. In my weakest moments, when all I can do is strike a single match, He will not quench me. He will hold my feeble hope in His nail-scarred hands and wait with me in the gathering dark. And in the times when I want to run away, when I want to disbelieve that He has indeed come and will indeed return, I remember: “Where else could I go? For You alone have the words of life.” I remember that He too waited in darkness as His Father turned away from Him on the Cross; that He too was broken, body and soul.
And so I remain in Him and He in me. I entrust myself again to His lordship and His love believing that in the long, dark, wait for redemption, He will not break me. For “we are afflicted in every way, but not crushed; perplexed, but not driven to despair; persecuted, but not forsaken; struck down, but not destroyed.” It is not a triumphal declaration, but a silent prayer whispered in solidarity with all whose hope is hanging by a thread.
“A bruised reed he will not break, a faintly burning wick he will not quench; He will not grow faint or be discouraged till he has established justice in the earth; and the coastlands wait for his law.” Is. 42:3-4