Mystery and Glory
"A golden light fell on them from the left. He thought it was the sun. He turned and saw, pacing beside him, taller than the horse, a Lion. The horse did not seem to be afraid of it or else could not see it. It was from the Lion that the light came. No one ever saw anything more terrible or beautiful.....And of course he knew none of the true stories about Aslan, the great Lion, the son of the Emperor-over-the-sea, the King above all High Kings in Narnia. But after one glance at the Lion's face he slipped out of the saddle and fell at its feet. He couldn't say anything but then he didn't want to say anything, and he knew he needn't say anything.
The High King above all kings stooped towards him. Its mane, and some strange and solemn perfume that hung about the mane, was all round him. It touched his forehead with its tongue. He lifted his face and their eyes met. Then instantly the pale brightness of the mist and the fiery brightness of the Lion rolled themselves together into a swirling glory and gathered themselves up and disappeared."
The Horse and His Boy, C.S. Lewis.
Are you like me and hunger for the mysterious presence of God .... seeking some tangible presence of the unseen world...the lustre of His glory and the intimacy of His presence? We think of radiant light, deeply stirring music, warmth of colours, all the insignia of majesty, symbols that express what our words fail to express, and the presence of ancient days. It may be that you have never visited such a place but have gone to that Heavenly Court that exists in your mind....where the mysterious presence of God resides...where His glory resides. This was Moses's cry: "And he said, I beseech Thee, show me Thy glory."
Many years ago, in my early twenties, I spent many hours walking the streets of St. John's in Newfoundland. I loved exploring and studying its many oddly shaped and coloured buildings. I followed crooked streets which trailed down to the harbour where the fishing boats came from Spain, Portugal, France, Russia, the islands of St. Pierre and Michelon. Then I would walk up to Signal Hill past the Queen's battery which had guarded the harbour in days past and always finished my day of exploring at the Basilica of St. John the Baptist.
The basilica sat on a hill and from it one could see the colourful city spread out beneath it. Standing at the entrance to the basilica, under a huge granite arch supporting a marble statue of St. John the Baptist, one could look across the harbour to the narrows where many sailors had passed through over the years.
Coming to the massive doors of the sanctuary, one entered in. Out of a brightly lit sky, I came into a damp, darkened and what always felt like an ancient space. At the entrance, sitting in marble fonts was the Holy water. As you dipped your fingers into the water, your mind spoke, "I have come," and you placed the sign of the cross on your forehead. Sitting down, I would gaze at the images of saints- exquisitely carved from marble, touches of alabaster, candlesticks of bronze, the Greek monogram of Christ from the catacombs, and so many more adornments. Most of the images in the stained glass windows, I recognized from my childhood. As I continued to gaze at these magnificent windows, I could hear the gentle cooing of the pigeons outside. Making my way to the front alter, I would sometimes have to side step a bucket, placed there to catch the drips from a leaking roof. At the front of the high alter was the carving of "The Dead Christ." I always sighed as I sensed its mood of dignity and peace. Nearby, the lamp next to the tabernacle remained always lit. In one of the corners was a grouping of statues made of chromed and gilt plaster with the Virgin Mary at its centre. This had been a gift from the Portuguese White Fleet that had visited St. John's for 400 years. It is a touching tale of human perseverance as these men spent long days in their dories until sunset, when they were summoned to the mother ship where they would spend hours splitting, gutting and salting the day's catch. In the mid 1950's, 4000 Portuguese fishermen carried this statue of "our Lady of Fatima" up to the basilica and presented it as a treasured gift. In 1974, the last of the White Fleet, "the Novos Mares" left St. John's harbour for home. Many of the ships had already burned at sea while returning home over the years. But the "Lady of Fatima" remained, reminding not only the Portuguese fishermen but the Newfoundlanders of the union of humanity with God's son in the mother of Christ.
But the most precious sight for me was watching the people enter in. As I lingered, preparations for mass would begin, another mystery. People of all descriptions would come with weighty burdens and leave them in this sanctuary where many before them had left theirs....and they came, kneeling.... as if they were whispering into the very ear of the Lord himself... a place of mystery. The word basilica means royal hall, designating it as the dwelling place of the King of Kings. I wonder how many of those who stood at the door of the basilica believed they were entering into the glory of God.
I too stand at the entrance to the unseen world and sometimes hear myself whisper, "can this be real?" Can we measure the reality of our experience by the deepness of our longing for this external home. I sincerely believe that everything I have done in my life has been in one way or another, to search for this home. C.S. Lewis writes of this longing for the presence of glory much better than myself.
"In speaking of this desire for our own far-off country, which we find in ourselves even now, I feel a certain shyness. I am almost committing an indecency. I am trying to rip open the inconsolable secret in each one of you- the secret which hurts so much that you take your revenge on it by calling it names like Nostalgia and Romanticism and Adolescence; the secret also which pierces with such sweetness that when, in very intimate conversation, the mention of it becomes imminent, we grow awkward and affect to laugh at ourselves; the secret we cannot hide and cannot tell, though we desire to do both. We cannot tell it because it is a desire for something that has never actually appeared in our experience. We cannot hide it because our experience is constantly suggesting it, and we betray ourselves like lovers at the mention of a name."
Deep within us, placed there by our creator, is a longing for the eternal presence of the glory of God. The mystery of entering into His glory is not the sanctuary..... it is the call of Jesus in our hearts to enter into His eternal presence. From the unseen, He calls out to us, but inside this mystery lies another. We begin by yearning to be in His presence; yet are not content till we desire only His thoughts for our own. He speaks to us, "Tell me your sorrows." Tell me all. Learn to value that place and time you go to meet with Him, in your home, in your garden, in your car, while you walk.... in your mind. Be like Joshua; place yourself near His glory and remain there. Be like Moses and beseech God to show you His glory.
"Now show me your glory," Exodus 33:18
...to be continued.
1 comment:
Keep em coming!
Post a Comment