The Question Spiral #8: An Unscheduled Reflection
What’s your torch? What do you lean on, or turn to when the darkness descends? And how does that shape your daily life?
The Question Spiral -
An Experiment from Joe Nichols
For my regular readers wondering what this is all about, here’s what I’m up to today:
A Collaborative Writing Series for the Incurably Curious …
Welcome to a six-week writing experiment built on wonder, not answers. In the Question Spiral, writers will take turns exploring big, unsettling, beautifully human questions, each one sparked by the last. There are no prompts, no blueprints, no neat conclusions. Just a living chain of curiosity, where each essay responds, provokes, and invites the next. It's not a ladder. It's a spiral. And we're writing our way through it.
If you’d like to follow the trail from the beginning, start here.
The spiral has grown to eight weeks with fifteen writers, and I am honored to be a part of the journey. Each question has opened a window into the diverse beauty and wonder of the human soul…. and now, it’s my turn to carry the torch.
The question posed to me by our previous writer, MJ Polk, is:
What’s your torch?
What do you lean on, or turn to when the darkness descends?
And how does that shape your daily life?
A Word of Context
For those who don’t know me, a quick caveat:
I write from a Christian perspective, but I also deeply value and appreciate interfaith dialogue. Mutual respect and understanding across traditions does not diminish our distinctiveness. It enriches us all. It reveals a beautiful tapestry in which the Divine is at work through all of humanity.
For those who are not Christian, some of my language may feel unfamiliar or even uncomfortable. But I hope you will find glimpses of wisdom and resonance here, just as I continue to be deeply blessed by the stories and insights you share from your own traditions. And for those who carry wounds inflicted in the name of Christ, I am truly sorry. I hope this reflection might offer some small measure of healing.
Timing is Everything
The last few posts in the Question Spiral explored light and darkness in various ways, but MJ had no idea just how poignant the image of a torch would be to me at this particular moment.
The question came early. I wasn’t expecting to see it in my notifications on Sunday morning. At first, I thought I should ignore it until later. I’m a pastor, and I was literally getting ready for worship. I didn’t have time to dig into it.
But I’m also insatiably curious and I couldn’t resist looking at the question.
What’s my torch? What do I lean on when the darkness descends?
On Saturday evening, I stood at a downtown prayer vigil on behalf of our local immigrant community in the face of unjust detentions and deportations. MJ’s reflection closes with the lyrics of “This Little Light of Mine”, the song we sang by candlelight at the close of the vigil.
Sunday morning, I read a meditation from Fr. Richard Rohr about holding light and darkness together as part of the mystery of our human experience.
On the way to church, I listened to a podcast featuring Rev. Dr. Otis Moss III reflecting on the blues classic Stormy Monday. He shared Howard Thurman’s insight that the church often tries to keep the darkness of Monday out of their joyful Sunday celebrations.
And I was on my way to preach about the dangers of a popular Christian cliché: “God won’t give you more than you can handle.” My sermon was a reminder that God doesn’t cause our suffering, but does shine a light into our darkness, helping us find our way when life becomes too much.
So yes, the question of a torch in the darkness couldn’t have come at a more fitting time.
Jesus is Not the Answer
Growing up, I was taught that “Jesus” is the answer to every question. And it would be easy to give the “right” Christian answer here: that Jesus is my torch, the light of the world and my salvation. Or perhaps I could quote the Psalms and declare that God’s word is a lamp unto my feet and the light unto my path.
But neither of those answers would be honest.
I see the torch as a gift I’ve been given to carry… something that helps me find where the Divine Spirit is already present in the darkness, inviting me to join in the work.
Some Christians carry Jesus like a spotlight, shining it into the eyes of others like an interrogation - to expose their sin, their flaws, their unbelief, and causing them to recoil from the blinding light.
This is not the Jesus I find in the gospels. Jesus tends to hang out in the shadows: among sinners and tax collectors, prostitutes and demoniacs, lepers and outcasts. Among the poor, the widows, and the orphans.
My torch is not the source of light. It is a tool that helps me see. I pan it slowly along the walls of a shadowed world, hoping to catch a glimpse of Jesus’ face among “the least of these.”
As the soft glow falls upon the immigrants we prayed for on Saturday night, the brown and black bodies huddled in fear, I notice the glimmer of light reflecting in the tears on Jesus’ cheek.
What Is My Torch?
A few months ago, I’m not sure I could have answered this question. But now I can say with confidence:
My writing is my torch.
Entering the Substack community this spring was like lighting a torch and stepping into the unknown. And in the darkness, my light has landed on a remarkable gathering of wounded, wise, and hopeful people from all walks of life.
My torch has revealed writers from different religions, races, genders and cultures, and nations… people who have somehow found one another here in this strange and beautiful corner of the internet.
What we share is our humanity, and a longing to speak that humanity into the world with clarity, honesty, and hope.
When darkness descends, I no longer feel alone. I write. I light my torch. And eventually, a fellow weary traveler sees the light and joins me for a while on the path.
I never know who I will meet, but like the disciples on the road to Emmaus, I have learned that hospitality often leads to divine encounters.
Christ in Unexpected Places
Some tell me I’m wrong. “You can’t find Christ there in the darkness,” they say. “Look to the heavens. Jesus reigns in power and glory.”
But I don’t need a torch to find Jesus in the light of glory.
It’s here on earth that I need help to see.
Some get offended when I shine my torch into a forgotten corner and recognize Christ in the face of the “wrong kind of person.” But that’s nothing new. Jesus was condemned for eating with sinners and tax collectors. He was shamed for speaking with a Samaritan woman. He was rejected for offering grace to an adulterous woman while her accusers slipped away.
The message of the cross was a scandal. How could God’s son hang, bloodied beyond recognition, naked and ashamed, alongside common criminals?
And yet, Jesus died as he lived, beside the least and the lost.
The light they extinguished on the cross didn’t go away.
It still shines today.
Not as a floodlight, striking fear into the hearts of his enemies. But as a candle or an oil lamp that lights the path for all of us who wander in darkness.
The more I shine my little light into those dark places, the more I see his reflection in the faces of those I was taught to fear and despise. And the more I become despised myself, by the very ones who introduced me to Christ.
“They will hate you because of me,” Jesus said.
“But they will know you are my disciple by your love.”
The Darkness in Me
My torch helps me navigate the darkness of the world. It helps me find my fellow travelers and wounded healers along the journey. It is a way of extending grace. And by its light, I catch glimpses of the divine in unexpected places.
But it also exposes the shadows in me.
Writing has become a regular spiritual practice for me, both healing and restorative. It draws out the infections in my soul… the hollow places filled with anger, fear, pride, self-doubt, apathy, and isolation. It gives me the courage to be more honest, more vulnerable, more real.
Through writing, God has given me eyes to see and ears to hear… gifts that help me perceive things I couldn’t before. And this practice has opened doors and relationships I never would have imagined… including this very writing spiral.
Passing the Torch
And so, as I pass the torch to my fellow writer and companion on the journey, Boo Pfeiffer, here is my question for the spiral:
How do you wrestle with the mystery of light and darkness co-existing in your life,
and what blessings or gifts have you found in the darkness?
I’m excited to see where this spiral takes us next. I am grateful to Joe Nichols and all of you for allowing me to share this journey with you.
_________
If you are interested, I’ve included a poem below that I wrote after the prayer vigil. It’s my attempt to process the strange, sacred blending of darkness and light I experienced that night.
Enjoy.
When the Storm Prayed with Us
Not a protest —
but a prayer.
_
Then again,
_
perhaps a protest after all:
a protest of faith when trust has failed,
a protest of hope when all is despair,
a protest of love when the thunder of hate rolls in.
_
Dark clouds gathered.
Lighting flashed —
daring us to stay,
threatening us to leave.
_
But humanity gathered in one voice:
Namaste.
I bow to you.
I see the Divine in you.
We see the Divine in them.
_
Denominations faded,
religious lines blurred,
and politics…
well, that had no place at all.
_
This was about people.
People with stories of hope fulfilled —
immigrants who found freedom,
who cried that others
might have the same.
_
People with stories of beauty —
the living tapestry of our community:
over twenty nations
learning from one another
in our local schools.
_
Even the land and the buildings,
planted, built, cared for by dreamers —
told the stories
of those who journeyed far from home
to make a life for themselves and for their families…
and who make our lives richer in return.
_
This is our home,
All of us.
_
How can those who shouted “All Lives Matter”
now say our neighbors’ lives never really did?
_
Those we detain and deport
have sacrificed as much as any citizen —
maybe more —
to call this place home.
_
Candles lifted in hope.
as soft glimmer of sunlight broke through.
Dark clouds dispersed by a song of light.
Thunder quieted by a chorus of hope
_
The rain fell softly on the city streets,
but I could not rush to the shelter of my car.
_
This was a moment for slowness —
to let the rain wash over me,
cooling the summer heat
of fear and rage.
_
The thunder had shouted for justice.
The lightning lit up the truth.
Now the rain wept with us,
falling gently
in lament.
My next regularly scheduled post drops Thursday on Hurry Sickness and the church’s response. Hope to see you then.
I may not have known about your torch, but it was known✨
I am constantly in awe of what most people call "coincidences", however I myself do not believe in coincidences. I have so enjoyed this essay Craig. Happy Writing brother! 🤠🤙
Your poem really captured the essence of the vigil. Your writing is so full of meaning. I always see your light.