This time of year, half of the miles I hike each week happen before sunrise. So, I hike in the dark or in low light a lot. Because I’ve memorized most of my circuits, I often don’t turn on my headlamp unless I know a section has lots of roots and rocks.
On mornings without pressing work deadlines or on nights when I’m luxuriating in a full moon, I regularly add some trails to my standard routes or follow whimsy to paths less traveled. I keep a trail map on my phone and sometimes carry a paper backup copy in my hydration pack. Even with the map and a headlamp, I’ve struggled at times to orient myself in the woods.
In the past few years, the university that owns the land illustrated on the map has made it easier to pinpoint where in the forest I am. They divided the map into squares. Across the top of the map, numbers go west to east. Down the height of the map, letters run north to south. Then, on trees along the trail, they’ve posted white, reflective signs about a fourth of the size of a highway mile marker. On these signs are printed the letter-number combination that indicates the square in which you’re standing.
I typically hike without my glasses. So, I can’t see the orienting information until I get to the trees that hold the signs. But I know one of these tiny waypoints is coming long before I get to them because my headlamp turns them into glowing beacons from two hundred feet away.
I’ve been thinking a lot about these trail beacons lately. More specifically, I’ve been pondering a metaphor they represent.
Big Lights, Big Problems
See, celebrity pastors, worship leaders, and influencers keep creating headlines. And not the good kind. Scandals tarnish their shiny platforms. Well-lit people of faith are falling prey to doubt or disillusionment. People in the limelight wobble off their pedestals or wrap their ministries with controversy. Seemingly hours later, podcast segments and online think pieces guess at what their downfalls or defections cost American evangelicalism. Eventually, those thoughtful monologues give way to pitiless memes. The spotlights that enlarged the influence of those in the headlines later magnify their faults and limitations.
In the vacuum created by their dismissals and resignations a batch of hungry “leaders” stand ready to step in. One person’s evacuated spotlight is another person’s opportunity. The on-deck circle is full of people who’ve gone beyond praying like Jabez. They’re creating a constant stream of fodder that social media platforms use to expand their territories.
Candidly, I’ve often craved standing in front of crowds. I’ve longed for the stage and its spotlight. If my words were as valuable as people told me they were, I thought they deserved more ears. I assumed that if I got great feedback in conversations with friends or in the comments on my blog posts that bigger audiences would benefit from my observations. With more than a decade as a ministry leader, I figured some sort of Kingdom meritocracy should be rewarding me any day now. If my actions were bearing fruit, it made sense that it should accrue via multiplication instead of slow addition.
Content in the Dark
Sometimes, Jesus does multiply loaves and fishes. Sometimes, he puts booming voices in front of large crowds. Sometimes, lives are changed by words said on bright stages. My life has.
I’ve learned over the past few years, though, that Jesus does a lot of work outside of the spotlight. That has proven especially true on my journey with him. Some of the most fulfilling conversations of my years in ministry have happened when hikers’ headlamps have lit up my J7 reflector or R9 sign. One of the most affirming things that happens in my life is when someone trusts me as a safe holder of their pain, their questions, or their secrets. A dude will stick around a fire pit after everyone else leaves and unburden his heart. My daughter will climb the stairs to my office and declare, “I have a question.” A sibling will request help reading the topography map of the newest section of their life. Someone will tell me that the card I sent as obedience to a Holy Spirit prompt arrived at a sovereign time.
My contribution matters to the kingdom, but it’s discovered by headlamps and iPhone flashlights—not by stage LEDs.
And you know what? There’s a lot less pressure when you’re just a reflector on a tree instead of an orator on a platform. I don’t have an aura to maintain, a profundity to curate, or a piety to showcase. Shortcuts don’t tempt me as much. I don’t have to stress about growth strategies or crowd management. I’m less likely to measure my impact for the kingdom by counting the butts in chairs or on my Instagram followers list. I don’t have to figure out what I can monetize next to the money changers’ tables. I can be just a curious soul, constantly absorbing books and podcasts and interesting conversations. I don’t have to mine every surface of my life for lessons or analogies or quotes that fit perfectly in Canva-crafted squares. I can wait for all of that to find me. Or for me to find it.
And I do—especially on the dusty trails of the tiny mountain I often traverse before work.
