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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Recently, again, for the gazillionth time, I wonder whether it is foolish to believe in God. When I was young and inebriated with Divine love, I was convinced of the foolishness of not believing. But that’s a harsh assessment when leveraged against my daughter or my friend Nancy, or a host of acquaintances who are committed non-theists and no more foolish than I am or any of my friends in the faith. The world is roomier than it used to be even if it’s less magical, less celebrated for being intrinsically creative and more celebrated for observable wonders than for mystery.
About mystery: some would say delusion. They are no more right than I was at my least tolerant. They’re "muggles" through and through, the Uncle Vernon’s of Harry Potter’s world, conceited and thick as caked mud---people who, when crushed by circumstance, suggest they'll revert to the dust they’re made of and nothing more will happen. They don't celebrate their share of the fertile dust the rest of us magic folk and sympathizers are made of, capable of nourishing the ground, making our contribution to forest or garden, to cemetery or sea. Some brittle anti-believers sound as if they'll wind up the grey sluice of concrete left over and dumped after a job. We, the willing, thrilled with wonder, assume we are like trees, like grass. We are lilies of the field and mustard plants, sheep and stars and grains of sand. We are, in fact, at one with the universe that atheists and others are so fond of. It is super important to us, too—us fools for Love, us believers. Here is what I say to my daughter: She has a story of life which goes back to the Big Bang and covers history since then; I have a story which precedes the Big Bang and covers all of history and eternity, to boot. “. . . Who was in the beginning, is now, and will be forever” as the Glory be goes. Every person on the planet shares animals and insects as companions. Christian believers, after the example of St. Francis of Assisi, call them brothers, sisters. Native cultures have often done the same, which only proves humans have lived in Narnia since it arose during its first sunrise animated with the breath of Aslan, his mysterious presence the source of all blessing. For those who haven’t read themselves into the fantasy worlds of Narnia and Harry Potter, suffice it to say these elaborate stories are wonderful, if simplified, versions of the Christian myth, its ethos and understanding of reality. Their authors chose language which brings people along into the magic non-believers abandoned when God became just one more character in the Bible books series. But the Bible books are extraordinarily wonderful, infinitely more elaborate and colorful than any fantasy, shot-through with genius and portraits of the ineffably creative universe, full of gifted animals and even more gifted humans. These books haven’t grown old; their living Power never dies. Even if the Bible is fiction, it tells a true story—and I am a believer, a perennial, eternal, fool for God. Iris Reid |
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