The Lighthouse Man

Emelie Thomas | May 4, 2020

Every redemptive story has a redeemer. This should go without saying — should. So often, worthwhile stories are interpreted in the shallows where they seem to satisfy modern affinities for personal affirmation. Their worthy depths wait, unsounded. Enter, The Little Red Lighthouse and the Great Grey Bridge. This classic 1940’s tale by Hildegard H. Smith and Lynd Ward tells the story of a self-important little lighthouse who becomes despondent when an enormous suspension bridge is built by his side. It’s face-value message is that everyone has a pivotal role to play, no matter how small they might seem. Yet, this story contains an often-overlooked redeemer who exposes the book’s central feature — personal pride — for a sham, drawing the reader into a picture of relationship where affirmation is properly placed, and thus redeemed.

The lighthouse begins the story feeling “VERY, VERY PROUD” and ends it, “still VERY, VERY PROUD”. Pride bookends the narrative, and its centrality is reinforced by block capitals (as transcribed here). As I attended to this pride, I found myself feeling wary. Rather than being the sort of pride a parent feels for a child, this struck me as the sort of pride that comes before a fall. “What would the boats do without me?” the lighthouse touts. “Every day it felt bigger and prouder. ‘Why, I am the MASTER OF THE RIVER.’”  The lighthouse’s pride is subtle in some sense. He does his work with boisterous brightness, and the work is incredibly worthwhile; he helps ships stay safely distant from shore. Yet, his puffed up professions make no mention of the relationship that enables his light. His pride is not relational; it is a perfunctory, personal pride.

At the start of the story we learn that there is a man who visits the lighthouse each night, unlocking the door in his side, climbing stairs to turn on the gas for the light, and winding the bell to sound out in fog. The man removes the cap from the light house’s lens, allowing it to shine. Without his relationship with this man, the lighthouse would be little more than a tower. The lighthouse’s earlier question, “What would the boats do without me?” is a good question, but it is not placed in context. What would the boats do without the man, as well? The lighthouse is useful and important, but not in its own right. It is important in its rightful place. And because the lighthouse does not recognize its place within a larger design, his narrow sense of purpose is quickly undermined.

When construction begins beside the lighthouse and towers are erected for a soaring suspension bridge, the little light house suddenly feels “very, very small.” As soon as he is overshadowed, his conceit crumbles into deprecation and despair:

“Now I am needed no longer, thought the little red lighthouse. My light is so little and this one so big! 
Perhaps they will give me up.
Perhaps they will tear me down.
Perhaps they will forget to turn my light on!
That night it stood waiting and waiting.
It felt glum and anxious and queer.
The night grew darker and darker.
Why did the man not come?
The little red lighthouse could neither speak nor shine.”

A storm rolls in, dark and cantankerous, striking a chord with the lighthouse’s fears and filling the river with deep, menacing fog.  Because the man has not come, the lighthouse cannot sound or show warning. The man’s absence solidifies the lighthouse’s fear, simultaneously drawing our attention from the lighthouse’s shallow concerns to those embedded in their depths.

The lighthouse is largely concerned with himself; “Now I am needed no longer… Perhaps they will give me up… tear me down… forget to turn my light on.” Without the lighthouse’s “FLASH! FLASH! FLASH!”, a blinded tugboat is wrecked upon the rocks with a “CRASH! CRASH! CRASH!”  The tugboat’s ruin answers the lighthouse’s earlier question: “What would the boats do without me?” The question was posed glibly, and it is answered disastrously. In the lighthouse’s work and presumptive self-sufficiency, it has lost sight of relationship, through which and for which all things are accomplished.

Each of us has a lighthouse man, one who stands at the door and knocks, one who holds the keys. Our light streams from him as he removes the blinds from our eyes. He is the one who beckons from the midst of the storm, and the one who calms the winds and seas. This man is the true man, Christ, and he is made known in his relationship with us. He is also made manifest in our relationships with one another, enabling any intimacy and humility we are able to enjoy.

From high above, the great grey bridge speaks to the lighthouse in the midst of the storm. The bridge does not give credence to the centrality of the lighthouse man, but he speaks to the lighthouse on a previously unbeknownst relational plane.

“Then the great grey bridge called to the little red lighthouse:
“Little brother, where is your light?”
“Am I brother of yours, bridge?” wondered the lighthouse. “Your light was so bright that I thought mine was needed no more.”
“I call to the airplanes,” cried the bridge. “I flash to the ships of the air. But you are still master of the river. Quick, let your light shine again. Each to his own place, little brother!”’

The great grey bridge awakens the little red lighthouse from his stupor, nudging him toward discovering his proper place. He exhorts the lighthouse as “brother,” reminding me of another who calls us brother, sister, and friend. Our light man has gone to prepare a place for us, and he calls us to himself. He is our founder and perfecter, and we are made perfect for His purposes, not our own.

“So the little red lighthouse tried to shine once more, but though it tried and tried and tried, it could not turn itself on. 
This is the end of me, it thought. 
This really is the end.
My man will not come. I cannot turn myself on. Very likely I shall never shine again. 
Dark and silent it stood.
And it was VERY, VERY SAD.”

When we come to the end of ourselves, we see that we are like the moon, dark and cold. The light does not exist within us. Without the man, we are helpless against the storm’s schemes. The storm is reminiscent of the works of Satan, who seeks to steal, kill, and destroy. He clutches and captures helpless boats in the dark deathly fog, and, in this hour of darkness, mischief and despair reign. There is only one who can break this power. At last, the lighthouse hears his door open — the man ascends the stairs.

“Where have you been, man? I thought you were never coming?”
“Oh, those boys! Those boys! They stole my keys! This will never happen again!”

Our lighthouse man is different from this man; he is always in control, even when his humility and silence might make us think otherwise. He enters the scene humbly and inconspicuously, beginning his work to right Satan’s theft. Though the forces of evil are pitted against him, they can not prevail; when they crucify him, he bursts the bonds of death. Christ recaptures the keys, breaking death’s power in the Resurrection.

“Now the little red lighthouse knew it was needed.
The bridge wanted it.
The man wanted it.
The ships must need it still.
It sent a long, bright, flashing ray out into the night…
Flash, flash, flash!
The little red lighthouse still had work to do. And it was glad.”

The lighthouse is wanted and rescued, and the boats on the river are rescued in turn. He shines with a light not his own, and it is a darkness-defeating, redemptive light. This new flash is not flagrant, it is proportioned and purposeful; the lighthouse has discovered its true place — in relationship.  Although the story’s mention of the man stops after he shows up with the keys, our man who saves us and gives us life becomes inseparably entwined with our work, and it makes us glad.

“And now beside the great beacon of the bridge the small beam of the lighthouse still flashes.
Beside the towering gray bridge the lighthouse still bravely stands. Though it now knows that it is little, it is still VERY, VERY PROUD.”

Like the lighthouse, may we be aware of our smallness, and may we rejoice in the one who transcends it. May we boast not in ourselves, but in the Lord. [1]

Emelie Thomas is a nuclear trained Naval Officer with a degree in English Literature. She is married to Jay Thomas, who shares the same odd pedigree, and they are parents to three children. Emelie spends her days with the Nuclear Navy and spends her evenings celebrating literature and liturgy with her little ones.

[1] 2 Corinthians 10:17, Jeremiah 9:24, Psalm 34:2