The Sting of Rebellion

Through the eyes of a child, there it was, a solitary light that filled the room. It flickered at the center of the table, a solemn flame on a spire of melting wax. A chill was in the air. The draft followed us home after a day of errands, a clattering train ride, and a smelly bus. Bedazzled by the flame, I stood there in silence, staring at the candle while wearing a child’s golden cape and cardboard crown—a gift included with a fast food “Happy Meal.” 

As night settled in, a winter breeze whistled through an old windowsill as Mom tried to light the burners on the kitchen stove. I think she wanted to warm the room; it was a bit cold. She held a little tin rod in her hand, a small cup and contraption at its tip. Clickity-click went the tin scepter as I peered with a childhood fascination at Mom’s new toy. It sparkled as she waved it above the stovetop burner, which hissed but returned no flame. The subtle taint of gas wafted in the air as she tried again. With a clickity-click, a flash, and then a puff of air, the blue flame flared to life. As the warmth spread outwards, she glanced my way. Then, with a motherly elegance and grace second to none, she moved onwards to the next burner and then the next, until all four were finally lit.

Our home was Building 789 in Brooklyn, New York—also known as the projects—and this was our stone castle, high above the urban sprawl. I was a Prince, and Mom was the Queen, dressed in her royal robe. The King was away, to where I do not know. Perhaps in a distant land in search of pirates and villainy. This evening, through the frosty window, there was a strange darkness over the land as far as my eye could see. As a child, I’d never seen such a sight. The street lamps were all unlit and the dark outlines of other castles against the night sky separated the heavens from the earth. With my nose pressed against the glass, I watched many little lights moving slowly along the roads, weaving through the shadows, each light seemingly on a journey all its own.

While the King was away, I was the brave and noble protector of this realm. I had to keep an eye on things, and I took my role seriously. I don’t remember how old I was, but I do remember being a youngster with a sense of adventure and way too much imagination. So as if beckoned, I stood on my chair and reached out to touch that glowing candle on the kitchen table. After all, it seemed harmless and innocent—even somewhat welcoming. Yet the burn that resulted branded that moment in my memory forever, as did my tears, and Mom’s tender embrace.

I think God’s purpose for pain is to serve as a reminder of what not to do the next time. Such a valuable lesson is then sealed in our thoughts for all time. Mom told me not to touch the little candle as she walked away to light the other flames, but I just had to find out why not. Today, I still wonder, If she hadn’t told me not to, would I have touched it at all?

This tiny moment in history was the first time I’d felt the sting of rebellion. A relatively small crime in itself, but one that resonated throughout time. Yet, the question I now ponder is, why do some of us reach out and touch that candle again, and then again?

Repeating such an act sears one’s soul, eventually forcing the victim to gaze into the raw, untamed face of reality—a very unpleasant one. Yet, with God’s blessing and much prayer, what arises from within that flame can be a purifying grace whose wounds become a lasting reminder and an everlasting testimony.

“So when the woman saw that the tree was good for food, that it was pleasant to the eyes, and a tree desirable to make one wise, she took of its fruit and ate. She also gave to her husband with her, and he ate” (Genesis 3:6).

Sometimes the truth comes with a dose of agony, which is perhaps the greatest teacher of them all. For many decades, I’ve thought of that candle on the kitchen table. Many candles have since passed. Each was both a lesson and a light.

“… ‘Assuredly, I say to you, unless you are converted and become as little children, you will by no means enter the kingdom of heaven’” (Matthew 18:3).