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“A lighthouse keeper who worked on a rocky stretch of coastline received his new supply of oil once a month to keep his light burning.”
That’s the opening line of a brief story told by William Maxwell in his book So Long, See You Tomorrow.
The keeper occasionally welcomed guests from the nearby community.
One night a woman knocked on his door and begged for a bit of oil. She had no way of heating her cottage. He graciously shared some of his supply. A few nights later a man came seeking oil as well. He needed to relight the lanterns in his house. A mechanic came calling late one day. Could he have a few drops of oil to lubricate some gears? His business was at stake.
These were good people with legitimate requests. The lighthouse keeper was glad to do whatever he could to help them.
Toward the end of a particular month, however, his supply of oil had run dangerously low. Soon it was gone. The beacon went out.
That very night, several ships collided with the rocks in the darkness. Lives were lost.
When the authorities held an inquest, the lighthouse keeper openly acknowledged what had happened. He expressed heartfelt sorrow and remorse.
If he expected mercy and understanding from the authorities, however, none was forthcoming.
“You were given oil for one purpose,” they said. “Your job was to keep that light burning!”
In a broken world, compassionate people are always at risk. There are so many needs. So many shattered hearts. So many mouths to feed and spirits to console. How can we ever take care of everybody?
The problem is that you will run out of you long before you can help all of them.
In Luke 10, the Good Samaritan in Jesus’ parable heroically stops to help a fellow traveler who has been mugged. He pours oil and wine onto this stranger’s wounds, takes him away on the back of his donkey, and pays for his lodging at a place where he can heal. It is a deeply touching illustration of what it means to be a neighbor.
But the story raises several vexing questions.
How many times can the Good Samaritan stop to help someone lying helpless on the road? How soon will he run out of oil, wine, and hotel money? How quickly will his donkey require the services of an equestrian chiropractor?
Caregivers are often the world’s worst practitioners of self-care.
Christmas Evans, the famed 19th century Welsh Baptist preacher, habitually pushed himself so hard that concerned friends begged him to slow down. He replied, with great flourish, “I’d rather burn out than rust out!” That sounds impressive. But when you think about it, what were his options? Either way, he was “out.”
We can’t help others reach the finish line unless we ourselves are still in the race.
Nor can we ignore the very reasons that God called us into ministry in the first place.
If God has assigned to you a particular “lighthouse” and granted you the precious gift of oil – your gifts, your energy, and a current place of influence – remember the most crucial light.
It’s the one that by God’s grace and power always needs to be rekindled inside you.