A sweet and salty Epiphany.
I paused at the gates of the feast of Epiphany this year, mining for gold in this ancient marker, and finding it. I watched the dawn, kissed the son, and wondered at the Magi’s journey. Some 900 miles they walked with a focus I struggle to maintain for 1 small mile with my dogs around the park. Ha. And for such as me there is grace. And for such as me a single mile is met by the 3God as keenly as they joined the 900 mile journey of these Eastern kings.
Then came the Ordinary days* of January. House and church empty of sparkle and tat for another cycle. I read that the liturgical colour for Ordinary days is green. I’m grateful for the reminder that growth can begin below the frosty January soil. Hidden, safe, present. Surprising.
During one of those Ordinary days I was tutting at the Christmas mess remaining obstinately in the dusty corners at church: a red bauble, a drawing pin threatening to impale an innocent toddler foot, the stale corner of a mince pie. Yeuch. Then a stray Christmas card down the back of the radiator caught my attention. A white corner of cardboard peeking out. I tugged at it, collecting cobwebs and crawling friends. As I reached to add it to my pile of recycling, the image on the front caught my attention.
The painting on the card was familiar: blues and red and golds. Three camels and their riders stark in silhouette. A night sky and a bright star. We three kings of orient are. Bearing gifts. I hummed. Bearing gifts. These words quickened my spirit, and I was invited to pause my doing for a moment.
The shape of the shadows on the card caught my attention first. I guess the artist imagined the city behind the procession was casting light on the three sorcerers, forming long camel-and-rider shapes on the golden sand. I leant in to the invitation to see, and the card came alive. The shadows changing shape as the sun rose and fell behind them. The ever-present star above the kings who were silent in their wandering. Walking walking through unfamiliar places, under unfamiliar skies, surrounded by unfamiliar people and then miles and miles of no-one and no-where. This is how I saw them. As they walked the shadows shifted and changed shape. The men and camels were at times distorted. Stretching from familiar into ghostly twisted shapes. Shadows dancing. Shadows that told me where they had come from: a land of camels and riders. Of men who followed stars they listened to and learnt from, that promised a new king had come.
I remember a tiny girl that I loved meeting her shadow for the first time while I was looking after her one day. She was walking along a low wall that ran parallel to a brick building. Arms outstretched for balance, she wobbled, then noticed the silhouette that looked like her, and did as she did. She laughed, delighted, and made movements for it to copy. Then I watched in wonder as she leaned forward and kissed the shape of herself on the wall. The sun behind was illuminating and the shadows told their own story to her about her. And she was delighted, kissing her sweet self. I recalled her impulse to kiss, without pause or hesitation, the image of herself, and in the recollection I felt the pang of loss.
Spirit, I pray, what do you want me to see? I close my eyes and whisper the words Paul wrote to the church in Ephesus* that their eyes of their imagination might be opened. I saw myself standing on the sand depicted on the Christmas card I had retrieved from its radiator grave. The blues, reds and golds of a city formed a painted backdrop behind me. I saw my shadow stretched across the yellow ground, attached to me and familiar. The sun moved and my shadow took on shapes I recognised from the accusations of the Whisperer. Distorted, and ugly. Me and not me. Moving, dancing, mocking, the shadows remained with the sun behind me. My eyes were fixed and my heart felt heavy. These shadows spoke of the shape of me. Where I had come from, what had influenced my journey. Just like the kings on the card.
For the Kings, their shadow journey across the desert took them, by way of Jerusalem, to a town called Bethlehem, “small among the clans, but not the least of them”*. To a house, to a child and his parents. And seeing him they knelt and worshipped and brought their gifts to lay at his feet. I wonder how they must have felt when finally they entered the house. When finally their gaze rested on the son, when they leant in to kiss, and to lay their gifts down. Epiphany means the dawn, the rising of the sun, and in seeing him they turned to face the sun. His light touching their faces, and their shadows cast behind them. Behind them.
I remember a tiny girl that I loved meeting her shadow for the first time while I was looking after her one day. She was walking along a low wall that ran parallel to a brick building. Arms outstretched for balance, she wobbled, then noticed the silhouette that looked like her, and did as she did. She laughed, delighted, and made movements for it to copy. Then I watched in wonder as she leaned forward and kissed the shape of herself on the wall. The sun behind was illuminating and the shadows told their own story to her about her. And she was delighted, kissing her sweet self. I recalled her impulse to kiss, without pause or hesitation, the image of herself, and in the recollection I felt the pang of loss.
Spirit, I pray, what do you want me to see? I close my eyes and whisper the words Paul wrote to the church in Ephesus* that their eyes of their imagination might be opened. I saw myself standing on the sand depicted on the Christmas card I had retrieved from its radiator grave. The blues, reds and golds of a city formed a painted backdrop behind me. I saw my shadow stretched across the yellow ground, attached to me and familiar. The sun moved and my shadow took on shapes I recognised from the accusations of the Whisperer. Distorted, and ugly. Me and not me. Moving, dancing, mocking, the shadows remained with the sun behind me. My eyes were fixed and my heart felt heavy. These shadows spoke of the shape of me. Where I had come from, what had influenced my journey. Just like the kings on the card.
For the Kings, their shadow journey across the desert took them, by way of Jerusalem, to a town called Bethlehem, “small among the clans, but not the least of them”*. To a house, to a child and his parents. And seeing him they knelt and worshipped and brought their gifts to lay at his feet. I wonder how they must have felt when finally they entered the house. When finally their gaze rested on the son, when they leant in to kiss, and to lay their gifts down. Epiphany means the dawn, the rising of the sun, and in seeing him they turned to face the sun. His light touching their faces, and their shadows cast behind them. Behind them.
I wonder, as they returned home, was their gaze held by the light of the one they beheld? Would they hold the face of the son in their imaginations in the returning, and how did the familiar look cast in this new light.
As I hold this thought, another desert story enters my wondering. A man, woman and daughters moving quickly, another city-scape behind them. Their haste speaking of flight and fear. They ran towards the sun, in obedience, all shadows behind. The older lady, face twisted by emotions held tight, slowed down her flight. I watched her pursed lips betray the wrestle within as she slowed to a halt, then turned toward the shadow they fled. Captivated, she was locked into a stillness, a statue, only preserving her memory of what was. Salt.*
Ah my heart. I can taste it, the bitterness. I am them, the three with abandon leaving all they have known to seek the king. And I am she. I see.
The Spirit said come.
I was once again standing in the desert, the blue and red and gold city behind me. The sun rose, making its journey across the sky, dipping below the horizon for a time, before the orange glow illuminated the dark desert night again. Hours were minutes as the Spirit stood with me. My back was warmed, then my head was warmed, then my eyes were blinded by the travelling ball of fire. We stood through many cycles, and I began to watch as my shadow changed. First across the desert in front of me it could delight me, and then accuse me by its changing. I felt relief when the sun passed over my head, and cast the shape and story of the shadows behind me. Then my face could be warmed with yellow kisses even while the shadow remained.
As I hold this thought, another desert story enters my wondering. A man, woman and daughters moving quickly, another city-scape behind them. Their haste speaking of flight and fear. They ran towards the sun, in obedience, all shadows behind. The older lady, face twisted by emotions held tight, slowed down her flight. I watched her pursed lips betray the wrestle within as she slowed to a halt, then turned toward the shadow they fled. Captivated, she was locked into a stillness, a statue, only preserving her memory of what was. Salt.*
Ah my heart. I can taste it, the bitterness. I am them, the three with abandon leaving all they have known to seek the king. And I am she. I see.
The Spirit said come.
I was once again standing in the desert, the blue and red and gold city behind me. The sun rose, making its journey across the sky, dipping below the horizon for a time, before the orange glow illuminated the dark desert night again. Hours were minutes as the Spirit stood with me. My back was warmed, then my head was warmed, then my eyes were blinded by the travelling ball of fire. We stood through many cycles, and I began to watch as my shadow changed. First across the desert in front of me it could delight me, and then accuse me by its changing. I felt relief when the sun passed over my head, and cast the shape and story of the shadows behind me. Then my face could be warmed with yellow kisses even while the shadow remained.
I was captivated and held by the beauty of the sun. At first dizzied by the changes, I was soon stilled by the hand of the Spirit on my back. Solid. Peace in the shadow gazing, peace in the glory of the sun. Peace. I grew accustomed to the passage of time marked by the sun, by my shadow, and the stillness. Then a new awareness arrested me. Whenever midday came, the sun for a moment warmed the crown of my head. In that moment, though it was just a moment, he became King. My crown, my head. There was only glory on me. All else was swallowed. Everything. No shadows. And no turning.
I remembered the times I spent on my shadow self. Time well spent on my heart and my hands, me and the Spirit. His hand on my back steadying me. The warmth of the sun behind me, moving though the sky to hold my gaze when a moment longer of looking at my shadow would have rendered me only good for preserving what was. There have been times when I could only gaze at the Son. Bathed in love and longing. Kisses from my beloved telling me I am the bride he looks for, and this knowing doing a far deeper work in me than could be accomplished any other way.
Then there were the times the sun passed over my head unheeded. When the song came: lift up your head o you gate, let the king of glory in… * and I didn’t notice, didn’t pause.
I remembered the times I spent on my shadow self. Time well spent on my heart and my hands, me and the Spirit. His hand on my back steadying me. The warmth of the sun behind me, moving though the sky to hold my gaze when a moment longer of looking at my shadow would have rendered me only good for preserving what was. There have been times when I could only gaze at the Son. Bathed in love and longing. Kisses from my beloved telling me I am the bride he looks for, and this knowing doing a far deeper work in me than could be accomplished any other way.
Then there were the times the sun passed over my head unheeded. When the song came: lift up your head o you gate, let the king of glory in… * and I didn’t notice, didn’t pause.
This time, in the desert I heard the song, and I lifted up my head and said: rest on me, rest on me. You the crown on my head, your light flowing through me. I, a gate for your glory.
And for that moment I was in him. All in.
Wonder.
The card and cobwebs went in the bin, and I continued deep cleaning and contemplating. I’m so thankful for these ordinary days that come and come again. Days that sit between feasts and festivals, high days and holidays, between days of sorrow and decision. Ordinary days of self-absorption redeemed by kisses. Sweet and salty epiphanies. And glimmers of consummation.
And for that moment I was in him. All in.
Wonder.
The card and cobwebs went in the bin, and I continued deep cleaning and contemplating. I’m so thankful for these ordinary days that come and come again. Days that sit between feasts and festivals, high days and holidays, between days of sorrow and decision. Ordinary days of self-absorption redeemed by kisses. Sweet and salty epiphanies. And glimmers of consummation.
Let them be.
*Ordinary days are ways of marking time between feasts in some liturgical traditions, that I didn’t need to understand… but I liked the name, the colour and the rhythm.
*Ephesians 1:18
*Micah 5:2
*The disturbing story of Lot and his wife and daughters can be found in Genesis 19.
*Psalm 24
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