Light-Holders by Wm. Penniman

Seventh-day Adventist Publishing Association · Battle Creek, Mich. · Nov 26, 1872

Light-Holders.

By Wm. Penniman

The annexed article having this caption, published in the Review of May 24, 1864, so forcibly sets forth the duty of Christians at the present hour in letting their light shine, that it seems to me worthy of republication. Would that all who can, would imitate the example of the poor pensioners of Greenwich Hospital, in the proper distribution of tracts, and thus let their light shine in this direction. Wm. Penniman.

Light-Holders.

Every voyager through the British Channel will remember the famous light-house, that stands near the gates of the Atlantic. It rises from a rock in the midst of the waves; its beacon-blaze streams far out over the midnight sea. The angry waves, for many a long year, have rolled in—thundering against the tower's base. The winds of heaven have warred fiercely around its pinnacle; the rains have dashed against its gleaming lantern. But there it stands. It moves not, it trembles not; it is founded on a rock. Year after year, the storm-tossed mariner looks out for its star-like light, as he sweeps in through the British Channel. It is one of the first objects that meets his eye, as he returns on his homeward voyage; it is one of the last which he beholds after his native shores have sunk beneath the evening wave. On the base of its tower is this inscription: “To give light and to save life.”

That tower of Eddystone is a light-holder to all who come within its range. It does not create light, it only sheds it, and “giveth light” to every passer-by on his watery way. This image of a light-house may have been in the apostle's mind, when he wrote to the Philippians of the surrounding heathen and idolaters, and said to them, “Among whom ye shine as lights in the world.” Some translate the word, torch-bearers. Others hold that it refers to stars in a dark night. All the interpretations look to the same idea, viz., that Christians are Christ's light-holders to their fellow-men.

The lantern of a light-house is not self-luminous. It has to be kindled by a hand from without itself. By nature, every Christian is as unfitted to give spiritual light as the empty tower on Minot's Reef or on Sandy Hook would be to guide the mariner at midnight. God creates the natural power, the mental faculties, as the builder rears the stone-tower of Eddystone or Sandy Hook. Neither natural heart or stone-tower are self-luminous. A hand from without must bring them light.

Conversion by the Holy Spirit is a spiritual illumination of the soul. God's grace lights up the dark heart, sometimes suddenly, as in the case of Paul. Sometimes, as in the case of John Newton, there is at first a feeble germ of light, like the little blue point of flame on a candle-wick, and this germ of light grows into a clear, full blaze. The beginning of true religion is in the first acts of sincere penitence—the first breathings of earnest prayer—the first hungerings after God—the first honest attempt to do right and to serve the Lord. God's grace, remember, is the only original source of the light that makes any man a luminary in society. And when a man has once been kindled at the cross of Christ, he is bound to shine.

And, in order to do this, he need not be conspicuous in society for talents, wealth, or intellectual culture. The modest candle by which a housewife threads her needle, shines as truly as does the great lantern that burns in the tower of a City Hall.

A humble saint who begins his day with household devotions, and serves his God all day in his shop or at his work-bench, is as truly a light-holder as if he flamed from Spurgeon's pulpit, or illuminated a theological class from a professor's chair. To “shine,” means something more than mere possession of piety, or the enjoyment of piety; it is the reflection of gospel religion that makes the burner.

Martin Luther was an Eddystone-tower to bewildered Europe. On the other hand, the humblest tract visitor, or mission-school teacher is a lantern-bearer, to guide some lost wanderers toward Heaven. Harlan Page, the pious carpenter, never talked with a person for ten minutes without saying something to benefit his soul. He was a steady burner; so was Deacon Safford, of Boston. Thomas Dakin, a poor pensioner of Greenwich Hospital, distributed over one hundred thousand tracts every year, and when at last death smote him down suddenly, his pockets were found filled with tracts entitled, “Are you prepared to die?” Dr. Nettleton carried his gospel-lamp from town to town—held it forth every evening to gathered companies of anxious souls—and during his lifetime guided many thousands to a knowledge of the Saviour. Oh! what a Heaven Nettleton will have!

If every Christian who trims his lamp, and keeps the oil of grace up to its full supply, is such a blessed benefactor to others, what a terrible thing it is for a Christian to let his light go out! A traveler who once visited a light-house in the British Channel, said to the keeper, “But what if one of your lights should go out at night?” “Never,” said the keeper, “never—impossible. Sir, yonder are ships sailing to all parts of the world. If to-night my burner were out, in a few days I might hear, from France or Spain, or from Scotland or America, that on such a night the light-house in the Channel gave no warning, and some vessel had been wrecked. Ah! Sir, I sometimes feel, when I look at my lights, as if the eyes of the whole world were fixed on me. Go out! Burn dim! never, Sir, never!”

How closely this incident comes home to us all. Perhaps in eternity I may hear that some precious soul was wrecked, because my pulpit was not a faithful light-holder to my congregation. Some gospel-burners were neglected and grew dim. One man, perhaps, stumbled into a drunkard's grave, because I did not warn him soon enough against the peril of the first glass. Another broke God's Sabbath, for want of keeping the fourth commandment trimmed and burning. Before another was not held up the exceeding sinfulness of sin; and Jesus, the light of the world, may not have been set forth aright to wandering sinners. “Go out—burn dim!” God help me to say, “Never—never!”

I know of certain households in which I fear the lamp is out. That boy would not be seen so often on his way to the theater, or the drinking-saloon, if father and mother held up the torch of loving warning! That giddy daughter, who was once thoughtful about her soul, might now be a Christian, if there had been a light-holder near at hand, to guide her to Jesus. There was a lamp of profession in the house. It did not shine. The oil was out. Love of the world had extinguished it. That dark lantern left the house in midnight.

Thank God! some lights never go out. Death cannot quench them. They shine forever. Luther's great lantern, “the just shall live by faith,” still gleams from Wartburg Castle. John Bunyan's lamp twinkles through the gratings of Bedford Jail.

“Then gird your loins, my brethren dear, a That distant home discerning; Our absent Lord has left us word, a Let every lamp be burning!” —Cuyler.