That Saturday had to count as a bad day for me. Though it was part of a long holiday weekend and seemed to offer much restful leisure, somehow I felt tense all during the morning and much of the afternoon.
Part of it happened because I made a bad decision in the early morning. A friend had called and invited me to come sailing with him in Boston Harbor. His boat was ready but his original companion had dropped out. Clearly, he craved sailing that day and was anxious to have me accompany him.
But I turned him down without adequate discussion of what the outing would entail. The unexpected offer had frozen me and made me answer too quickly. Right after hanging up, I regretted my decision and wanted to change my mind. But I felt the opportunity gone; I could not bring myself to call back and tell my friend that I would go with him after all.
For much of the rest of the day, I fantasized about the sailboat excursion. The day was ideal for sailing, warm and bright, and I would have loved to be on the water. Being with my friend would have been enjoyable, I was sure. He is a theologian and we share many interests. Surely, I reflected, the experience would have provided rich material for my weekly column on spirituality.
In an effort to find interior calm, I turned inward in search of consolation. To my astonishment and relief, I became aware of words that form the title of a famous hymn. Those words I had not thought of for years and could not remember the last time I sang them. Yet, the three words took root in my mind that day and brought me peace of soul that was indeed welcome.
The words are “Lead, Kindly Light,” and they were written by John Henry Newman in 1833. At the time, the future Cardinal and great prose stylist was a young Anglican priest in search of spiritual enlightenment.
He had been away from England for several weeks but was finally heading toward home. While traveling on a boat from Palermo, Sicily to Marseilles, France, he was becalmed for a whole week in the Straits of Bonifacio, between Corsica and Sardinia. This marked the second long delay for one who had been recently sick, felt ill at ease and aching to get home.
In this frame of mind, he wrote the words which later, set to music, formed the beloved hymn. Much of the language is Victorian and sounds dated to modern ears. However, the first two lines in their simplicity give expression to feelings that anyone who has been through difficult patches might make his own:
Lead, kindly Light, amid th’encircling gloom, lead Thou me on!
The night is dark, and I am far from home; lead Thou me on!
For me, the first three words form a beautiful prayer that can be repeated many times for their spiritual relish. They are addressed to the Spirit of God by one who feels in need of direction. The poet is asking for the grace of a path through the gloom and darkness that surrounds him. Newman does so with trust in the Spirit who has his well-being at heart.
The word “kindly” carries an altogether special meaning. It describes the Spirit (feminine in Hebrew) as divine lover, the one whose lovingkindness characterizes all her dealings with human beings. The man standing on shipboard in the dark on a boat making no progress turns with confidence to the God who cares so deeply about him.
And that divine being is identified with light. There is no darkness in God because he (or, we might say, she) is pure being and pure love. His (or hers) is a brilliance that outshines the sun.
So these three words, four syllables in all, can serve as a simple prayer worthy of unlimited repetition. In fact, a distinguished New York Times writer of an earlier generation, John Kieran, is reported to have been singing these words on his deathbed. For other spiritual seekers also, this prayer has the power to lift us out of darkness and confusion.
That’s what those three words did for me that day on which I felt myself tense and uncertain. For me, “Lead, Kindly Light” is a legacy of spiritual longing and consolation.
Richard Griffin