In [the heavens, God] has set a tent for the sun, which comes forth like a bridegroom leaving his chamber. . , . . . runs its course with joy. . . [T]here is nothing hidden from its heat. —Psalm 19: 4b-6 On my way to the North Carolina coast this week, I attended my nephew’s wedding. He exemplified the happy bridegroom, his face full with warmth and longing, his course set straight for his beloved bride. Yes, this is the sun: Its joy reminds us of who we are—divine sparks of creative love. When we allow its light to shine within us, we reveal something of God. At the beach, however, I am less aware of joy and more of heat. Nothing is hidden from it! The beach’s heat makes its raid in three dimensions, aided by white-hot reflections off the ocean, the pale sand serving as a sink for solar gain. This heat is primordial. Scary, a forecast of our possible future. I tend to stay tucked away in the shade, mourning the appearance on my forearms of even more freckles. The sun will do that to you. I’m as vulnerable as anyone. Truth is, we are all mortally vulnerable. At the continent’s edge, it is easy to sense, enveloped in the same elements which God structured to form and sustain the universe—sun-fire and lightning, ocean waters, and wind. How small we humans actually are! Wave after wave after wave crashes the call to attention, each its own peal of thunder announcing God’s message to whoever’s listening. I admit that, under such circumstances, I can’t hear much. I’m likely to be back at the hotel hiding under a pillow. For those who hear waves and fall deeply into a comforted sleep, take care to listen for the “still, small voice” before drifting off. The Almighty is saying something; we all have ears. The fact is that ocean, sun, whipping wind, and sand are perfect for breeding “fear of the Lord” in a person, renewing awe and respect for God’s power. I feel mine as anxiety, with an elevated heartrate and the unlikely beachside impulse to duck and cover. Heat waves and undertow, sand cast everywhere by wind which steals frisbees and hats—I can’t feel neutral about them. I feel cowed, overstimulated, quite sure God is calling me to awaken in a more daunting way than usual. And the beach IS daunting. The ineffable enormity of the ocean proves that. My annual coastal encounters with air, water, light, and earth, help shape me into a God-fearing woman—vulnerable as any creature and undeniably small. At the beach, I rediscover the reality of my true size: I am both greater and less than I imagine, on fire with the divine yet imperfect and tiny as a grain of sand. A weekend of thundering surf brings me back to scale, puts God back in the heavens breathing light into being over a horizon which looks like the end of the world. Here is eternity, where the sun longs to see me and God sets the sky for the wedding—beautiful, dramatic, stressful, life-changing. Overwhelming. Overarching. Over me. Over all. Karen Jessee If you would like to contribute to the reflection and share with other readers, please press on the word "comments" below. Thank you!
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Every exit is an entry somewhere else. --Tom Stoppard Exits lead from familiar places, from scenes which have grown stale, rooms which stifle, too small to hold us now. Relationships sometimes boot us out against our will, as do endings of any kind, whether anticipated or cataclysmic, welcomed or resisted with all the force of our being. I’m not terribly fond of going, of entering new territory which one can never be entirely prepared for. I have, in the past, imagined the other side of that threshold between leaving and launching, applying all my intellectual skill to the task. I imagine choices I will make, my likelihood of success or failure. I anticipate changes in my friendships, how my identity might shift subtly, splendidly. My ideas have the structure of truth, just enough scaffolding to crawl into them for housing, for protection against the real truth: the future is inscrutable. No one knows. Our predictions, providing helpful navigation at the outset of any day, or week, or project, or marriage, are only useful if we remain unattached to them. Nothing beats using our actual eyes and the compass of good judgement to make our way through life, in real time. We are born to pay attention. We possess the God-given capacity to do so. These days, I have the sense that every moment is its own threshold. Not all of them lead into the darkness of uncertainty demanding a story as distraction. Fear of falling into a social abyss at the grocery store because I am bereft of a memory for names, need not prevent me from casting a smile in the cracker aisle at a familiar face. Who can say which souls I’ll encounter? Maybe no one I know. Maybe only trees still flowering late in spring. Maybe only clouds and a cashier. I can handle those. Leaving the safety of trying to understand my life turns out to be the biggest exit of all—entry into the pure, creative energy of the future, a bright light through the doorway of becoming. Iris Reid If you are inspired to contribute to this reflection, click on the word "comment" below and share your thoughts with other readers. Thank you!
"Martha, Martha!"
---Luke 10:41 I've been assured more than once---more than twice, even thrice---that God knows my name and wants to use it. He calls to me like a shepherd calls his sheep, and I can hear him because I know his voice. He leads me into green pastures, knows what's good for me, knit me together in my mother's womb, and sent me out to preach peace to the nations. I'm known as surely as Adam was in the garden when God hollered his name, calling him out of hiding. "All-ee-all-ee-in-come-free!" God has always wanted us nearby, like a mother, and a mother knows her children's names. But who anticipates God calling out our names so we'll snap to attention? "Iris! You get down here this minute!" Maybe you do. I confess to being sentimental, listening only for God to call me like a lover whispering tender mercies. "Stop that right now!" is NOT a phrase I imagine issuing forth from God's mouth to my ears. But what do I expect? It makes sense, especially when I'm ignoring him by being completely distracted. Evidently, a curt call is one way we are ushered to God's side for some loving. I think: Who hasn't collapsed from frustration working too hard, from worrying too hard? Who hasn't despaired fearing that needed help will never arrive? Who hasn't dreaded being crushed in their collapse? "Iris, Iris! You worry about so many things." It's true. I'm upset. My family is demanding, one friend might have cancer and another's son seems to be headed for jail. "Jesus!" I say. "What's the hold up? Set things right!" His answer comes in a name---my name---insisting he is near, always near, and the house is full of friends who have the answer. No matter what grief I bear, no matter the anger, no matter what frustrations I have with people, with circumstances, even with God himself---I was given a name. God speaks it with love. God calls us and calls us out, each of us, by name. We are known by the Mother who bore us. Even so, it's a surprise when she shouts up the stairs. And, there's no mistaking the message: "Snap to it, you! I'm waiting for you!" Iris Reid |
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