We are back on the beach for the winter. This is where we’ve come for fourteen years.

We enjoy the sun. We’re surrounded by friends. We can walk together most days.

These three months are always a time to do more reading. And thinking. And praying.

I have needed this respite since the election one month ago. A time to remember that God still rules this Universe and that my primary allegiance is to Him.

I count my blessings every year at this time. Among the many gifts God has given, I believe my friends are the most precious to me. In our day when forces seem bent on dividing us from one another, I pray we will find common ground in our shared humanity and in our hope for a better future for all.

I dreamed about Kentucky a couple of nights ago. I don’t know why. But it was so vivid, so filled with the color and the rhythms of nature. There in front of me as I stood on that windy hillside were open fields and wooded hills all around. I could smell the fresh air even in my slumber. As I gazed at the panorama, I noticed one spot that seemed familiar. I then realized I was near the Abbey of Gethsemani, the monastery where Martha and I have enjoyed many days and nights of retreat.

Why Kentucky? I lived there only a short while when I attended seminary in preparation for the pastoral ministry. Most of my seventy-seven years have been in Pennsylvania, California, Indiana, Virginia, Washington State, and Ohio. But this night vision conjured up memories that have in many ways shaped my life.

It was in Kentucky when I twice fell in love. Sixty years ago and then ten years later. Most of you know how the memories of euphoric and passionate moments will never leave our minds. I thought of making the Bluegrass State, that charming Commonwealth, my home. But then destiny moved me away from that joy.

When a significant world event came to Knoxville, Tennessee, forty years ago, I remember seeing billboards probably sponsored by the Department of Tourism. Those signs shouted the message, “The World’s Fair, but Oh Kentucky!” I never got to that fair, but I found myself proclaiming that breathless message often as I traveled. Attempts to describe the splendor of the state often would fail, and all that was left was “Oh.”

And there were so many other reasons for my praise. I had never known country music until that mountain girl introduced me to it. I had my guitar with me often, but her father expressed disappointment that his future son-in-law couldn’t play “Wildwood Flower.” He was right, but I did learn to play Willie Nelson, Waylon Jennings, Loretta Lynn, Conway Twitty, Merle Haggard, and several others. It was the music of the highlands and “hollers.” It told real stories. There were painful tears in the lyrics. It was “three chords and the truth.” It was filled with heartache, faith, earthy humor, and laughter. And my love for this music is still in my heart and often in my voice these many years later.

The memories continue to flow into my mind’s eye. I recall the houseboating trips on Lake Cumberland with our friends from Cincinnati. We were together in a large and loving church family where we were allowed to be “real,” and to party without fear of censure. Marty and I loved those times, and later we would bring our girls to the Lake for family vacations. I will always smile over those recollections…as I am now.

Perhaps my fondness for the state was reinforced when I drove my green Camaro from Marine Corps Base Quantico, Virginia, to Asbury Seminary near Lexington in 1971. I had survived Vietnam, where I believe God had called me into ministry. I really had no idea what that entailed, but I had the confidence I would be led in a direction that was right. I’ll never forget approaching those stately, austere buildings of that Christian institution and hearing Rod Stewart’s voice blaring through an open window as he sang his hit song “Maggie May!” I felt immediate relief with the assurance I was in a “normal” place, where I could study theology and still enjoy what all young men need in order to feel fully alive.

Those years on the verdant blanket of the Bluegrass hosted my rebirth. The war would always be with me, but the pain began to subside. I breathed the life-giving air of freedom, and a future opened to me as I spent many afternoons looking down on the Kentucky River. It flowed on, just as I knew my life was moving toward a larger purpose.

Then there were years in Cincinnati when our family would take trips across the Ohio River into the land I knew so well. Mammoth Cave, Bowling Green, Lexington, and other destinations brought delight to all of us. And indelible memories of happier times. I even saw a UFO for the first (and only) time in my life!

But some of the best came later. When I met Martha and learned of her deep roots in the hills of Kentucky, I had a strong sense that this was where I belonged. As our love grew, I met her mother’s side of the family. And I became acquainted with Somerset and Poplarville. And Bluegrass Music! I hadn’t ever been exposed to this genre. 

Growing up in Northern Pennsylvania meant that I didn’t know that a Bluegrass band needed at least a guitar, a banjo, a mandolin, a standup base, and a fiddle. I learned quickly to appreciate these songs of the mountains and the lyrics, though hard to decipher, that spoke of home, family, Jesus, love, pain, hard work, and underlying joy.

So my love for the the Thoroughbreds, the spacious farms, the Bourbon Trail, the limestone-flavored grasslands, and the hills and valleys of the Commonwealth continue to hold my heart.

And I can say with millions, “Oh Kentucky!”

We sang a song with that title when we were in Sunday School. The words are deep in my memory vaults. ”I’m gonna let it shine. Hide it under a bushel? No! I’m gonna let it shine. Won’t let Satan blow it out.” And more.

The themes of light and darkness are found in the Collective Unconscious of humankind. We all struggle with darkness as it symbolizes evil, fear, confusion, hatred, death, and several other human events and emotions. At times this enemy seems to overwhelm us and bring us to our knees.

I find it fascinating and comforting that in this sun-deprived season of the year, we turn to festivals and celebrations of light to remind us that there is hope. Christmas, Hanukkah, and several others. After the New Year, Christians will observe Epiphany, to remember how the Light that began in Bethlehem gave hope to the human race, beginning with the astrologers from the East who came to pay homage to the Christ Child.

How do we overcome the shadows and the shades that are part of our existence? We look for whatever little flame we can find and we let it guide our steps into the future. Then we share it with others.

Two sayings have comforted and challenged me for decades. The first is from my mother, spoken often to me when I complained about how bad this world had become. These words came gently from her lips, “It is better to light a candle than to curse the darkness.”

And this one that came more recently. “There isn’t enough darkness in all the world to snuff out the light of one little candle.”

So God, please help all of us to see the radiance of Your presence and feel the warm glow of your love. And then enable us to carry our flickering flame out where the blackness is thick with violence, poverty, sickness, and pain. Our little light can indeed make a difference.