On June 21, Joseph Augustine McDaniel passed away unexpectedly at the age of 30. His family shared this reflection he wrote in memory of his late father, who died in 2021 from ALS.
Joseph was a brilliant intellect whose love for learning and teaching carried him across the continent—from his home in West Vancouver, where he graduated from West Vancouver Secondary and led salmon preservation efforts with the Streamkeepers, to teaching with the Oblates of St. Francis de Sales in the northeastern U.S., to working with Indigenous communities in northern B.C.
He faced the challenges of trauma and mental illness with courage, and his strong sense of justice and deep Catholic faith shone as a beacon to all who knew him. As we prepare for Christmas, the season of Christ’s coming as “the light of the world,” this reflection reminds us of the enduring hope and love that faith brings, even in the darkest moments.
Keepers of the Light
In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God. All things came to be through Him, and without Him was nothing made. What came to be through Him was light, and that light was the light of the human race. The light shines in the darkness, and the darkness has not overcome it.”
When I was young, my father loved taking us camping. We would pile into our old Peugeot and drive across the province—from the dry Ponderosa pine forests of the southern interior to the shadows of the Rockies. As evening fell, my father would sit at a picnic table and light his old Coleman camping lantern, its gentle hum whispering into the night, its wick glowing brightly like a torch in the darkness.
Years later, while packing for a hard-earned camping trip with friends after our first year in the fish and wildlife program, I was consoled to find that same Coleman lantern, still tucked away in its old green box.
Many years and experiences had passed since my father had last lit that lantern. I had graduated high school, gone off to college, entered and left seminary, and, for a time, lost both my faith and my sanity—only to miraculously find them again. My father had passed from this world and was buried in a grove of cedars, much like the ones that had surrounded those campgrounds we once visited.
On that first night camping with my friends, as the evening deepened, I tied a new wick into the lantern and prayed it would light. I hoped this relic from my father’s time with us could serve as a living memorial. To my joy, when I opened the propane valve and struck the lighter, the lantern ignited once more.
There is something mysterious about the light from a gas-powered lantern. It burns far brighter than any electric lamp. Like the burning bush, the wick burns and gives light, yet it is not consumed.
Many sources of light in this world demand our love as fuel but leave us consumed in the end. Such is the mark of earthly loves separated from their supernatural source—they glow brightly for a time but ultimately leave behind dust and ashes. The light of faith, however, is different. The brighter it glows, the more it transforms rather than consumes. It makes us more fully who we were created to be, shining into the deepest corners of this beautiful world darkened by sin.
As my father’s lantern glowed brightly in the darkness, I was reminded of the Exsultet proclaimed at the Easter Vigil: “a fire into many flames divided, yet never dimmed by sharing of its light.”
I believe we live in a world where many hearts have grown cold. Too many feel they must build their own light or face the condemnation of darkness. But faith is a gift—not something we construct ourselves. Often, our hands are too cold, our limbs too weak, our vision too blurred to build our own lantern. The light must be given to us. All we need to do is light the wick and watch it burst into flame.
My father’s faith sustained him through the darkest nights—through alcoholism, loneliness, betrayal, and imprisonment by an authoritarian regime. However dim it might have been at times, the light of faith continued to glow and guide him.
As I sat around the campfire with my friends—people of goodwill from diverse walks of life—their faces glowed with peace and joy in the firelight. Nearby, my father’s lantern burned brightly on the picnic table. In that moment, I knew he would be happy to see his son sharing such warmth and happiness.
“Be of good cheer, I have overcome the world.” The light of faith is not dreary or sombre. It warms the heart, lifts the soul, and even makes the most stoic faces crack into smiles, songs, and laughter.
As we journey together through this life, may we take up the lanterns of love and faith given to us by those who have loved us. May they “persevere undimmed to overcome the darkness of night,” and “may their flame be found still burning by the Morning Star, the one Morning Star who never sets.”
Thuy Oanh (Mary) McDaniel is a member of Christ the Redeemer Parish in West Vancouver.
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