keep my lamp trimmed and burning...

We were without power for a month in the aftermath of the April tornados that roared through Kentucky. National Guard kept watch on our corner with a campfire for warmth and light
in a neighborhood cloaked in complete darkness. The only light available for those of us who elected to stay in our homes was lamp light, the old fashioned oil lamps with wicks and glass chimneys. The soft light just barely illuminated one room with circles of light ever dimmer radiating to the outer edges. We would cook and eat early, in keeping with the outside light so our evening tasks could be completed before total darkness. After bathing Megan and tucking her in, I would move about the house with the lamp held high. Michael would go to the basement office with the camping lantern to work on his master’s thesis until his bedtime. Light became a precious commodity and one that required tending daily. Oil needed to be replenished, chimneys needed to be washed and wicks needed to be trimmed. If you ran out of oil, the chimney covered in soot, or the wick mostly burnt fabric, the light would be inferior, dim. Light in evening darkness was not available at the flick of a switch.
As our choir sang "Keep Your Lamps Trimmed and Burnin’" in worship this morning, I time traveled back to Louisville, Kentucky and remembered/felt the presence of cold darkness and the absence of warm light. The fragrance and warmth of my grandmother’s old oil lamp linger in my memories of that time, the soft edges of objects lit by a gentle glow of light that warmed body and soul. I learned to trim the wick, smoothing away the black sooty edges, and adjusting the height of the wick so the flame would burn brighter. I began transferring the image of trimmed lamp wicks to my own soul work as worship moved on around me.
Our church is not much on the eschatology of the last days, so making ready for the end of time is not on our liturgical preaching schedule. As a child I often heard the Book of Revelation read and discussed with much emphasis given to preparation for the Second Coming and being ready. Woe to those who were caught short like the New Testament bridesmaids who ran out of oil for their lamps before the bridegroom came. One’s personal spiritual journey was seen as preparation for not only heaven but also, perhaps, for the end of time in our time. The pendulum has swung, as pendulums do, I think, to the other extreme.
Somewhere, somehow, we should be trimming our lamps and making ready for the coming darkness, even if it is only the darkness of our approaching deaths. It is not an easy image to consider, this picture of our own ending. And how do I trim my lamp so that the light that shines through me reflects the Source of my Light? What is it that is oil for my lamp? And what is the quality of my light?
I trim my lamp by some rather simple practices. I read the Bible. I try to read it every day. In keeping with my ADD, I read it like a Roomba vacuum; back and forth, over and under, around and about until I am satisfied. Sometimes I read two translations for the same passage. If I am feeling energetic, I’ll read three or four. I read devotionally, lectio divina, or in scholarly fashion using reference books. Sometimes I read just for the sheer pleasure of letting the words and images and ideas flow into and around my heart and mind like a crisp cold mountain stream that takes your breath away when you jump in.
I pray. My last conscious act before sleep claims my restless soul is a prayer, often a child’s prayer. "Now I lay me down to sleep. I pray the Lord my soul to keep. If I should die before I wake, I pray the Lord my soul to take." As a child I remember such comfort in the assurance of God’s presence in my daytime life and my night time sleep. Sometimes it is just a name or a worry that I hand off to God as I slip away in sleep. Evening prayer, even if it is just "Please" or "Thank You", completes my day’s journey towards God.
I have a Covenant group, the Homecoming Group. Born in anger and desperation, we are being redeemed and transformed into a family of faith. As we met last night at our house, we heard the laughter, touched the tears, prayed for those of us who have heart hurts, shared the struggle, had communion with biscuits and mayhaw jelly and sweet tea... and we remembered. Memory... to remember... another way to trim my soul’s wick. Michael played a record his dad gave him, a record of the Washington March in 1963. We closed our eyes and let Martin Luther King’s preaching roll over our souls like rivers of mercy and justice. His black preaching style, call and response, his voice, his language, his effortless use of Scripture from memory, stirred our souls.
We shared our earliest memories of racism and injustice connected to skin color. Some of us, born in the deep south, had memories of signs and mason jars for glasses, segregated schools and movie theaters, communities that were equally divided in numbers of black and white. Others in our group grew up where there were only one or two people of color or in an interracial community where people of all colors stood on level ground, were all of one piece in the community. As we shared, only one in our group now has close relationships with African Americans through her work. She counts them as friends. Some of us had been members of churches that worked to establish and maintain relationships with African American churches, sharing food and preachers and choirs and going on retreats together. Most of us have had or have now some relationships with African Americans. But, none of us have a long term committed group interaction with people whose skin color is different from ours right now. We asked some hard questions and heard some painful answers. Sometimes it isn’t racism but inertia that keeps us separated.
Like Dr. King, we dreamed last night. We dreamed of having faith friends whose skin color is different from ours, whose worship culture is different from ours, who share our belief in One God, Jesus Christ and the Spirit who moves among us breaking down the dividing walls of inertia and apathy. At least two or three of us are committed to doing something so I am holding fast to the Biblical promise... Where two or three of you are gathered in my name, there shall I be also. Perhaps we could find some African American Christians who would join with a few of us to provide mentors for the men in prison next door to our church. Some in our group are single parents, struggling to just keep up with the financial and emotional demands that come with raising children alone. Could we reach out to other single parents, African American and Hispanic, share the load and lighten our hearts in the process? Maybe we could start with a shared meal in each others homes and let our lamps shine for one another. Sooty chimneys, untrimmed wicks and low on oil though we may be, we are called to follow the Light of the World and shine ourselves as witness to the One who keeps our darkness at bay. Keep my lamp trimmed and burning, Lord, the time is drawing nigh.