April 11, 2024 Dear siblings in Christ, Peter and I spent a few days earlier this week in central Indiana, where we traveled to witness the total solar eclipse. It was glorious and beautiful and astonishing. Something I won’t ever forget. We were gathered with about 25 or so others in an open field, all of us equipped with our special glasses. And in the hour or so before the total eclipse, I held those glasses over my usual glasses, watching as the circular moon-bite, taken out of the sun, grew larger and larger. On one of those checks, I made the mistake of lowering my glasses before I quit looking at the sun. Not smart and not intended, but there you have it. I was more careful after that. Our eyes are physically incapable of taking in that much light. I’ve been wrestling lately with how unable we are to take in God. All language fails. Every metaphor, though maybe getting closer, eventually stops working. Each concept, teaching, story, or idea of God gets close, but never seems to be complete. We speak of the mystery that is God, but even that approach has been misused and leaves some feeling cold. We are left unable to look at that Light, spiritually incapable of taking in God. As the pre-totality hour progressed, things changed. Particularly in the last ten minutes or so our surroundings looked odd. Strange shadows cropped up. The colors around us looked like you were seeing the world through a polarizing lens. The world looked different, but the sun, if you didn’t have those special glasses, just looked the same – really bright. The light around us changed, too, in that last handful of minutes. It was darker, kind of like just after the sun sets but the sky is still illuminated. And then, as we all watched the last sliver of the sun disappear behind the moon through our glasses, it happened. Suddenly, in place of that light that was too bright to look at, was a glorious crown, safe to view directly – no glasses needed, easy to see, thrilling and moving to stand under, present all along. I keep trying to crowbar the eclipse into this Sunday’s sermon. You know, something Easterish about the light dying and rising. Something about the return to life. Fear. Awe. But the more I think about it, the more I think the eclipse isn’t a metaphor for resurrection and the sun isn’t a symbol for Jesus. I think maybe the eclipse is a metaphor for incarnation, and the moon is a symbol for Jesus. I have no idea how to speak of or access this entity we call God. God is too much for me. Then along comes Jesus, blocking what I cannot take in, revealing the always-present glory that I can. With Jesus' arrival, I have a way to look at something glorious about God directly. God is easy to see. Safe. Thrilling. Wondrous. Accessible. Our collect this Sunday asks God to “open the eyes of our faith, that we may behold him…”. I think I will also be asking God to block out the overwhelming Light so that I can see God’s glory, there all along, to which I am blind. Jesus isn’t so overpowering. And you don’t need any special glasses… With love and in faith, |
Jenny+ |
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