I walked out just as the sun broke the horizon. I don’t seek this liminal moment. I don’t hope for extra enchantment. I take my time strapping up the dogs and throwing my coat on. I eat a snack, drink a glass of tea, and check my phone. No I’m not seeking the sun or the minutes where you can feel the earth move as the sun shoots into the sky. By the time I’m turning to go home, I’m amazed at how far it has trotted from the horizon.
The sun is so bright I can’t look. It’s like an eye just open from sleep, my gosh so bright I can’t even look at the fields. I think about how God is much brighter, how in the Great City, there will be no night because God is the light. Even Moses walking down the mountain was so bright, the children of Isreal begged him to put on a veil because they could not bear his face. It’s striking the disciples were not afraid when Jesus and his clothes shone like the sun at the Transfiguration. It was the Father’s voice that knocked them to their faces. “This is my beloved, listen to him.”
When God said, “This is my beloved son” to Jesus, adding “in whom I am well pleased “ at the River Jordan, my pastor said that blessing includes us. Imagine, the Father is well pleased with us. We are beloved sons and daughters. Jesus was dunked in baptismal waters just as we are dunked, in solidarity for our need to be cleansed of sin. The ancients believed everything was made of water, so by letting John baptize him, Jesus, the Son, blessed all of creation. The same Spirit hovered over those waters at the beginning and came flapping at Jesus’ head, driving him to the desert, perhaps driving him to know how he is the Father’s beloved. Maybe we need that desert to get it ourselves.
When he was baptized, Jesus joined the Egyptians who were drowned. He joined the plunging and choking horses trapped by their harnesses. He joined Jonah who sank in the belly of a whale, who sang, “For you cast me into the deep, into the heart of the seas and the flood surrounded me; all our waves and your billows passed over me” (Jonah 2: 3). He joined the Syrian commander who dipped into the Jordan seven times, rising with skin pink as an infant’s.
When we are dipped in the name of the Father and the Son and the Holy Spirit, we die to our old, infected self and rise to new life, hidden in Christ. Jesus, the beloved son, also joined us because we all swim in the waters of our mothers’ wombs. And we all will die. Because of him, death will not have the last word.
So I look down the valley, a clear sightline to the tin can farm, whose grain bins shine like burnished silver because the corn has been harvested. I see how everything is glazed in pink light. I think of the ring with a pink stone that I lost as a young girl, how I searched and searched under the willow tree but never found it.
The fields are coated with frost that gleams in the sunlight. I walk the dogs on the pavement spackled with salt, so I don’t have to turn toward the sun, so I don’t have to look down at the gravel or look up squinting. It’s early to walk past the neighbors’ house, whose dogs run the fence barking, and my own dogs plant their feet, afraid to walk past.
I turn back to walk toward the sun. I look at the sky and the road ahead and my dogs who stop to sniff at deep holes, dirt flung to the side. It seems more appear all the time, making driving Morgen on the road dangerous because I never know when she might step in a leg breaker if we have to pull to the side.
In the distance I see a bright light moving high and toward me, a jet catching the sunlight. I look up when I hear his sound and see him way high on the other side of the haze. I watch another one and don’t bother looking them up on Flight Radar 24. The streaks they leave in the sky are almost beautiful.
My old dog circles around in front of me. She wants to go home, but I hold her leash across my backside, so she doesn’t cross in front and pitch me to the ground. I bring her along because she would pace the house if I took her home after her potty break.
The cold wraps around my legs, but it feels cleansing to walk even though my legs will hurt like a migraine later on.
I turn toward home and the fields no longer glitter. The clouds have veiled the sun so that I can look. I think of the veil Moses put on so the people weren’t afraid. The veil in the temple that kept the people safe from the Holy of Holies, the veil women wear for modesty, covering their hair for the angels, the veil we see in a glass darkly, the mysteries that are being revealed that the prophets longed to look into.
Stephen Freeman writes not only was Jesus’ life revealing mysteries that prophets longed to hear, we too are revealing those mysteries in our lives. We are mini apocalypses. In The Hidden Gospel, Freeman says, “I think, that the Kingdom of God is ‘hidden’ within our own lives. We frequently make the mistake of seeing ourselves only in an outward sense – ignoring the mystery of our lives. When St. John says that ‘it does not yet appear what we shall be’ (1 Jn. 3:2) he is directing our attention beyond or beneath the obvious. The pattern of sacraments (outward things whose inner reality is the Kingdom of God) is also the pattern of our own lives. St. Paul declares, ‘Christ within us, the hope of glory.’ (Col. 1:27) The Kingdom of God, the mystery hidden from all the ages, is presently being made known to the ‘principalities and powers.’ You and I are being observed. May God give us grace that all might see our good works and glorify our Father in heaven – and may the principalities and powers see and tremble.”
To think I am a mystery as deep and mysterious as Jesus, the stories I’m living and writing, perhaps pointing to the Kingdom in ways I don’t begin to fathom. I’m not sure I want the audience, the powers looking over my shoulder, nor do I feel easy with the idea of the communion saints, of my parents and brother and aunts and uncles peering over my shoulder because I have things to say they might not like. But I guess I have no choice. The idea of saints is new to me. And I hesitate to share this, but I’ve even asked for help with my writing, from CS Lewis, whose books sparked my call to write. And the help came, the block loosened, these posts became easier to write. It’s taken some work not to be afraid of my readers. Bad boy Facebook gave me that gift. And of course I am grateful that you read my words
The air is so still and cold it brings jagged joy. I hear another jet and watch its fan tail and wings drawing a line across the sky. He is veiled by the cloud cover, headed west. I hear a locomotive trumpeting as he nears the road crossings. It’s a CSX, not the usual Canadian National. I hear the heaviness of tanker cars a mile long, what some TV show called a “bomb train” as he draws nearer. For us country people watching the jets, the trains is our entertainment. The air so still and cold I feel jagged joy. I pull my thoughts back to “Thank you” and walk on home, both dogs out ahead of me. When I turn in the driveway I see how the sun is shining right through the east side window, through the north side window, his light taking perfect aim.
If you’d like to subscribe to these posts, come on over to Katie’s Ground and sign up.