The Light That Does Not Move

Intro:

"Hidden Past" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Outro:

"Galway" Kevin MacLeod (incompetech.com)

Licensed under Creative Commons: By Attribution 4.0 License

http://creativecommons.org/licenses/by/4.0/

Transcript

SPEAKER_00 0:00

Good Friday morning, dear friend, and welcome once more to the Parson Piper podcast. Sorry again for being a little bit late this week, but we are here at Week's End. We gather together in the quiet with pipe in hand and scripture before us to walk the old paths again. We'll set our mind upon the stories of holy writ, trace the faithful footsteps of Christ's Church through the ages, and consider that call to return, simple, true, and steadfast. And as the ember glows, we will speak a word or two of good leaf and honest blends, and the fine folk who keep their craft alive in shops near and far. So settle in now, take a breath, and let us begin. Now if you will come in a moment, good friend, and sit with me awhile, I shall tell you a tale of the sea, not of conquest, not of glory, but of something far more necessary. The moulding settles quiet upon the room. Light falls across the shelves. Soft, steady, unchanged. A chair waits. You may take it. The pipe is lit, not in haste. The smoke rises slowly as though it has nowhere else it needs to be, and for a moment nothing is said. Because what we are about to consider is not something a man rushes into. Welcome to the Parson Piper Podcast. If you have a pipe near in hand, you may take a moment, pack it slow, tamp it down, and light it if you are so inclined, not because the pipe matters itself, but because the slowing down does. Come now, sit a spell. There are places along the coast where the land itself seems uncertain, where what appears firm gives way without warning, where the sea does not merely move, but takes. Now among such places, there stands a light off the coast of Cape Ann, on a stretch of rock that has taken more ships than it is welcomed, there stands two lights, the twin lights. They were built because one was not enough, because sailors could not tell where they were by a single beam alone, and where two were set to give distinction, to say clearly, you are here. Now understand this. Those lights were not placed for beauty. They were placed because men were dying, ships broken, crews lost, not because the sea was unknown, but because in the storm a man could not tell where he stood, and so the light was raised not to move, but to remain. Now consider that because the light does not come to the ship, the ship must come into alignment with the light. Now let us turn to another shore. Along the coast of Cape Hatteras where currents meet and shift beneath the surface, there stands another light, tall, unmistakable, a black and white spiral set against a restless sea. They call that stretch of water the graveyard of the Atlantic. Thousands of ships gone, not always from great storms, but from hidden shoals, shifting sands, unseen danger. And so the lighthouse was built, not to calm the sea, but to reveal what could not be seen. Now this is where we must think carefully, dear friend, because many misunderstand what the light is for. It is not there to remove danger. It is there to show it, and more than that to show the way through it. Now let us turn to the word. In John eight twelve Christ says I am the light of the world. He that followeth me shall not walk in darkness, but shall have the light of life. Now that is not a poetic statement alone. It is a claim. I am the light, not a light, not one among many. The light. Now consider what that means. A lighthouse does not argue with a storm, it does not chase the ship, it does not adapt itself to the sea. It stands unmoving, unchanging, and in that it gives direction. Now this is where the world begins to press in, because we are told truth must move. Belief must adapt. Faith must change with the time. But a moving light is no light at all. If the lighthouse shifts with the tide, it cannot guide. Now Christ does not shift. He does not adjust to the storm. He does not soften himself to match the darkness. He remains, and because he remains, he can be followed. Now consider another word. In Psalm twenty seven one, The Lord is my light and my salvation. Whom shall I fear? Now notice. Light removes fear, not by removing danger, but by removing uncertainty. A man can face the storm if he knows where he is going. Now let us return to the sea. A ship in darkness without reference, without direction, is not merely lost. It is in danger of destruction not because the sea is evil, but because it is indifferent. Now this is where many find themselves today, not in open rebellion, but in quiet drifting, no fixed point, no steady light, only movement, only change, and they call it freedom. But it is not freedom. It is exposure, because without a fixed light there is no way to know where you are. Now consider Hebrews six nineteen, which hope we have as an anchor of the soul. Now an anchor and a lighthouse serve the same end. One holds you in place, the other shows you where to go, and both require something. Trust. Now let me speak to you plainly. What is your light? What do you align your life to? Because if it moves, you will move with it, and if it changes, you will not know where you stand. Now Christ does not move, and that is why he can be trusted. Now think again of Cape Hatteras, the storms come, the waves rise, the currents shift beneath the surface, but the light remains, and men who trust it live, not because the sea changed, but because they followed something that did not. Now this is the call not to admire the light, but to follow it. Now as you sit here a moment longer before the day begins, consider this carefully. Have you been trying to make the light move to match where you are? Or have you been willing to move to where the light is? Because only one of those leads to safety. Now if you would understand that more clearly, if you would know what God has said plainly, you must return to his word, because the light is not found in feeling, it is found in truth. And so, good friend, as the morning moves on, I leave you with this. The storm will come, the sea will not settle for your sake. But there is a light that does not move. Follow it and you will not be lost. And before you rise, if you will allow me just a little longer, there is one more matter worth considering. We're going to move into some other matters, still keeping with Scripture, but if you need to leave or want to leave, you are free to do so. Now this matter is not urgent, not loud, but steady. The pipe has remained lit while we've spoken, not hurried, not pressed, only tended, and in it this morning is a bowl of Peterson O'Doublin pipe tobacco. Now this is not a bright tobacco. It does not greet you with sweetness. It carries something darker, smoky, a little like wood long burned, or a fire that has seen weather. There is depth to it, something that does not reveal itself all at once, and that is fitting. Because the sea does not reveal itself all at once either. Now if a man were to judge the ocean by its surface alone, he would misunderstand it entirely, and the same is true of many things in life. Now the pipe itself rests easy in the hand, nothing elaborate, nothing distracting. The sort of thing a man might carry not for display but for use, and that matters. Because what we are speaking of this morning is not something ornamental. It is something necessary. Now let us return for a moment to the lighthouse. Not the idea of it, but its purpose. A lighthouse is not built where the sea is safe, it is built where it is not, where ships have been lost, where judgment fails, where what appears steady is not. Now consider that carefully, because a light does not exist for those already secure. It exists for those in danger, and it does not change its position to make the journey easier. It remains where it must be, so that those who look for it may live. Now as the tobacco burns, there is something steady about it. No sudden flare, no sharp turn, just a quiet, consistent presence, and it is not unlike what the light must be. Because if the light flickers, if it shifts, if it changes with the wind, then it ceases to guide. Now this is where we must be honest. There are many voices in the world today that offer direction. Many lights, many claims, and yet if they move they cannot guide. If they change, they cannot be trusted. Now Christ does not move. That is what makes him the light. Not merely that he shines, but that he remains. Now think again of a ship at sea. A storm rises, the waves break, the light gives no clarity, and in that moment a man at the helm is not looking for many lights. He's looking for one that is fixed, one that tells him not where he feels, but where he is. Now this is where many go wrong. They look inward for direction. They trust feeling, they follow preference. But feeling shifts. Preference changes. And what is followed must be stronger than that. Now the scripture says I am the light of the world, John eight twelve. Now that is either true or it is not. But if it is true, then there is no other light that can replace it. Now as you sit here a moment longer, consider something carefully. What have you been using as your reference? What have you been aligning your life to? Because if it moves, you are already drifting. Now the bowl burns lower, the smoke thins, and there is something about that moment when the end is near that brings clarity not urgency, but clarity. Now the lighthouse does not shout, it does not demand, it simply remains, and those who see it must decide what to do. Now this is where the matter becomes personal, because the light is not hidden, it is given, but it must be followed. Now consider one last word in Psalm twenty seven for the Lord is my light and my salvation, not a light, my light. Now there is the difference, not acknowledgement, but alignment, not awareness but trust. Now the morning has moved forward, the quiet is beginning to give way, and soon you will rise. But before you do, hold this thought. The sea will not steady itself for you. The storm will not lessen because you wish it, but there is a light that does not move, and if you will keep it in sight, you will not be lost. Now if you would understand that more clearly, return to the word, not all at once, but steadily. Now the bowl is finished. The room is still, and the day is waiting. So I will not keep you longer, but I will leave you with this. Do not follow what moves, follow what remains, until we sit again. Keep your heart open, stay rooted, and walk in the light that does not change. This has been the Parson Piper Podcast, where we slow down, think deeply, and stand firm on what is true. May the truth of Scripture walk beside you in the days ahead, and may your heart be ever drawn back to the ancient path, simple, faithful, and sure. We meet together here each week on Friday mornings, so I bid you return again, where story, church, and quiet reflection await you once more. Until then, keep your pipe well tended, your mind set on good things, and your soul steadfast. This has been the Parson Piper Podcast. Grace and peace be with you until we meet again.