Speaking of concealing light under a bed or a vessel, I think of a true story from World War II. In the blackout nights of London, families were ordered to cover every window so not a single candle or match lit could be seen by enemy bombers. But one evening, a single crack of light escaped from a house, and the entire neighborhood panicked; it could be a target signal for the enemy. One sliver of light in the dark sky could make all the difference. Isn’t that astonishing? Even the faintest light carries immense weight in the darkest night.
Consider the curious case of Moses after his mountain-top encounter with God. When he descended Sinai, his face shone so brilliantly that the Israelites couldn't bear to look at him directly. What did Moses do? He covered his face with a veil. The veil wasn't permanent; it came off when he spoke with God and when he taught the people, but at other times the veil remained covering his face. Moses learned the delicate art of being a lighthouse, knowing when to beam at full intensity and when to provide gentle guidance.
The paradox Jesus presents isn't really about showing off versus hiding away. It's about the responsibility that comes with illumination. Think about Gideon from the Old Testament, trembling in a winepress, convinced he was the least in his family, from the weakest clan in Manasseh. When the angel called him a "mighty warrior," Gideon probably looked around to see who else was in the winepress. Yet God saw the light that Gideon couldn't see in himself, a light that would eventually rally three hundred men to defeat an army of thousands, not through superior strength, but through creative courage.
The truly revolutionary insight here is that our light isn't actually ours to begin with. We are more like fiber optic cables than light bulbs, designed to transmit brilliance, not generate it. When we understand this, the pressure to perform vanishes, replaced by the joy of participation. We stop asking "What if I'm not bright enough?" and start asking "What if I'm exactly the conduit this moment needs?"
That’s the power of goodness in our lives. We don’t need to be a saint with stained-glass windows around our heads. We need to be the kind of person who holds open a door when no one else bothers, listens when others rush past, and prays when everyone else shrugs. Those are the beams of light that shift the atmosphere around us. Shining means blazing; sometimes it means quietly enduring, refusing to let hope die.
The measure you give, Jesus reminds us, is the measure you'll receive. But here's the beautiful mystery: light doesn't work like money or food, where sharing means having less and less. Light multiplies through sharing. The candle that lights a thousand other candles burns just as brightly as when it began.
Perhaps the real question isn't whether we're hiding our light, but whether we're brave enough to discover just how bright we actually are. So, friends, don’t underestimate your lamp. Even hidden cracks of light can shake nations. God doesn’t ask you to be the sun. He merely asks you not to cover the flame He has already lit.