How to Be a Lighthouse

This story begins last year, the year of the novel coronavirus and racial awakenings and climate change prophecies that have marked all of us. On a summer day in our Texas town, with the heat so intense the locals call it “hair dryer weather,” I made a decision to purchase a Black Lives Matter yard sign. It has the famous slogan in a bright white font surrounded by other statements in primary colors that speak of justice and mercy and love, echoing the words of our Old Testament prophets.

As an employee at a public university and a trauma survivor, I can’t attend protests or rallies, but I wanted to show my support in a meaningful way. Witnessing the deaths of countless precious black and brown bodies, seeing Christ lynched over and over again, I longed to do something to show my love, respect, and care for their lives. I wanted to be a lighthouse to my neighbors.

From the Psalms to the Gospels, we as Christ followers are called to be lamps, lights, and shelters against the darkness of sin and disconnection in the world. In one of the most beloved passages of Scripture, the Sermon on the Mount, Jesus preaches on the power of light, teaching us that through his power, we have the ability to provide a safe harbor for each other against the storms of life that threaten to drown us. Jesus says, “You are the light of the world. A town built on a hill cannot be hidden” (Matt. 5:13 NIV). Through our holy participation, allowing God’s power to shine through us, our light burns in the darkness of a hurting world that desperately needs to experience the love of our good and merciful God.

The BLM sign sat between the fragrant rosemary and lavender in our tiny herb garden with butterflies, dragon flies, and grasshoppers keeping it company. I had a strange sort of knowing that the sign needed to be placed by our front steps, near the sidewalk. My husband balked at the placement; he was concerned our landlords would remove the sign as they had the previous yard sign that read “We’re glad you’re our neighbor” in three different languages. Undaunted, I insisted the sign needed to be seen: like light, its message communicated that we hold in high esteem the lives of our black and brown neighbors and friends.

Would that sign be a light in the world? Half a year later I found that it was.

One Friday afternoon, at the end of a long work week, I saw a young black girl in our front yard. It was a cool spring day, the early afternoon thunderstorms giving way to clouds scuttling across a gunmetal-grey sky. The child, no older than twelve, caught my eye as I was between sessions, her curly black hair and blue sweatshirt tangled together as she hunched over her legs and sat on our front lawn. With her little mauve purse lying next to her on the ground, the child texted someone on her smartphone. As I watched, I felt a rush of concern and wondered where her parents were. But my pondering soon ended as I had one more client to attend to. After my final session, as the afternoon light slowly ebbing away, I saw the child was still waiting in our yard. It was almost six o’clock. What would she do when night came?      

As I spoke with my husband about the girl, I sensed the birth of her existence into my consciousness, what twentieth-century philosopher Hannah Arendt called “natality.” The notion centers on just action, that our neighbors are birthed into our consciousness through our noticings and movements toward them with love and concern. Maybe this is what the writer of the Gospel of Mark meant when Jesus saw the rich young ruler and “loved him” (Mark 10:21 NIV). Something about the girl’s needs touched me deep inside. I felt her fear at being alone in an unfamiliar place and hoped that the BLM sign signaled a safe place for her to rest until her parents came.

Praying for courage, I went outside and introduced myself, asking if we could call her mother. Afterward, we sat together on my porch and chatted as the sky turned a deepening shade of indigo punctuated by drifting clouds. As we shared our stories, I learned we had many shared interests: the outdoors, spending time with friends, and much-needed vacations. Our encounter energized me and made me glad I follow a religion that calls me to welcome the stranger and be a light to the world. My own fears were obliterated when I softened into the chair and relaxed in the presence of the Holy found in the sacred dynamic of two souls just being.

We are called to be light to the world for others, but what if there’s an unexpected gift for us, too? What if by being light to the world, we flood our own hearts with the goodness that’s found in giving back? That little girl I helped reminded me of myself when I was a child waiting for my parents to pick me up from school. What if the stranger we are scared of is actually just like us? What if the boundary between the helper and the helped blurs when we are fully present with and devoted to another person? Maybe that’s why Christ calls us to be lighthouses: we taste our own goodness when we allow the goodness of God to flood into others, our acts of service becoming fragrant offerings to God.

When the girl’s mother arrived to pick her up, I reminded her that my husband and I are here any time she needs help. Her mother thanked us, and as they drove away, the child safe and reunited with her family, I stared out at the evening sky over the porch chairs and the BLM sign, my soul filled with wonder. Our lives offer us many holy moments to be light to the world; we just have to say yes to God’s nudges and respond creatively, trusting we’ll be given the next right thing to do. And once we take that first step of compassionate action in the world, our souls will flood with light, gifting the world with joy.

Jenn Zatopek is a recovering perfectionist, writer, and psychotherapist from Texas. Her work has been featured in magazines such as FATHOM, Ruminate, SheLoves Magazine, The Glorious Table, and elsewhere. Jenn studied theology at Brite Divinity School. When not writing, you can find her planting flowers and herbs in her tiny porch garden. More at theholyabsurd.com and across all social media accounts at @theholyabsurd.

Photograph © Gayatri Malhotra, used with permission