Come into the light

Come into the light

(A devotional reflection as we approach the summer solstice. As this reflection is a little abstruse even for me, I’m splurging it out all in one go. I am struggling to put something into words – and may simply have failed – but if you care to read to the end, here it is.)

As the earth tilts its face to the sun, so I lift my face to you.

As the immense weight of the world hangs by gravity weightless in its orbit through space, so I teeter on the curve of possibility, chasms of darkness on either side, but on this one line of momentum, heading into light.

As the world, as though swinging on a string, rises higher and higher to the furthest extent of its potential, so I inch towards realising all that is possible.

Just as the earth edges each day a little more into the light, but must then immediately start to move a little more into darkness, but for one glorious day shines in the maximum capacity of light, so I seek to move, step by tiny step, a little more into the light of God, not fearing any move away into darkness, for the darkness is not dark to the Lord, but simply rejoicing to at last, if only for a moment, to bask in the fullness of light that he is.

It’s very strange, to stand feet planted firm on the good earth to appreciate that we are hurtling through space, both turning at a thousand miles per hour, and moving ever outwards at speeds beyond my ability to understand those who tell me.

Yet at this time of year, I have this strong sense of the world reaching out towards the light, swinging each day at giddy speeds – and only such speed can enable it to reach so far – yet always under complete control. We are not unhinged, heading into outer darkness, but in perfectly controlled computable arcs doing what we must, as nature has set our bounds for us.

I do not move at giddy speeds. My dull plodding is so pathetic that, graceful as ever, the Lord has given me the ability to laugh at such dim incomprehension, such cautious hanging back, such lethargic backwardness. But, in grace, I revel to be where I am; I chuckle with mirth that someone so far off the pace has received such joyful insights into where our journey is taking us. The Lord has hung back to keep me company, and in the deep gladness of his presence I feel no loss, but only gain to know him, and to have even the slightest intimation of the horrendous, burdensome weight of the world held weightless in the hollow of his hand. More than gravity, it is the puff of his breath that holds us up.

I too have an arc, a trajectory to follow. I have my bounds, set by nature – but these are not limitations so much as capabilities to reach out for. I hate to think that I might fail to reach far enough, might turn away from the light, and never know the fullness of it. Not simply all that can be seen in the light – though that is precious enough. Somehow, the key is not for us to see all – as though we are on a race to maximise our consumption, but our task is to face into the light so much, that we reflect it back like a perfect mirror.

As we know, we cannot face the sun without closing our eyes, so we can never fully see it. Likewise, with eyes shut, we will never see the reflection of light on our faces. But God sees it, and in a great mystery, this is the purpose of our lives: that God, who is perfect light, should be able to see his light reflected back from our faces. Though we cannot see, and never can, the understanding that this is happening is perfect joy. We trust that God can see, and that is enough – we do not need to see ourselves.

As the earth reaches out on its arc, as though reaching out for something just out of reach – or is it reaching for something that it can reach? – but is not really reaching out for anything, but is always held securely at the centre, so we do not fall back to earth prematurely, but we come to rest wherever the speed and direction of our travel can take us. Like the fingertips of God and Adam on the Sistine ceiling, on such a vast expanse of heaven come so very close that surely they must brush – but we cannot be sure, so we are left wondering. The image of God and Adam is a snapshot in time; we must impose our understanding of their motion. Are they heading towards each other and so, as they are already so very close, they are bound to touch? Or is that achingly small chasm as close as they got before human nature drew inexorably away again? It is notable in that image that it is God who is straining every sinew to reach us, while Adam lounges back in idle lack of interest, deigning to lift up a hand, but leaning back, not forwards, as though, if God should reach him, well enough, but Adam is not willing to exert himself to ensure that he does.

Is this us? Still fingertips apart? Still uncertain, even now, whether our momentum will, like spaceships inching forwards to docking, clinch the deal? Or will we fall back into darkness, a whisker from holding hands, but, ultimately, not quite there. By a whisker. How can our fate depend on a whisker’s gap? Breath of God, give us a final puff to land us safely in your hands. Perhaps even a kiss, in the vacuum of space, has enough power to draw us to yourself.

As for me, I reach out with all my heart and soul and mind and strength. Not that my reaching you depends on my reaching out, but still I want to show you that I understand the importance of reaching out to the light. Drawing closer, drawn by you, with you exerting all your heart and soul and mind and strength, I shut my eyes against the light, in order not to be blinded, that I may rejoice in the light, and know you, more than close, at last as one.