And the Word became flesh and dwelt among us, and we beheld his glory, the glory as of the only begotten of the Father, full of grace and truth. John 1:14
Yesterday morning I read Luci Shaw's poem "Rocky Mountain Railroad, Epiphany," and these lines have stayed with me:
Through the glass the epiphanies reel me in, absorbed, enlightened.
I'm relatively new to the church calendar, and Epiphany is a holy day I've not yet learned to observe in the traditional ways, but I do try to mark the beginning of the season by taking a walk some place where there are trees.
I find among the sturdy trunks and fallen leaves a series of small revelations:
A cardinal rises up from a grave like a flame from a pyre and alights the bare branch of a beech tree. Smoke spirals into the sky from somebody's chimney, filling the air, cold upon my cheeks, with the scent of maple wood, dry and crisp and sweet.
A plane whistles low overhead as it makes its descent; a dog collar jingles; paws pad softly on pavement. A couple walks round the block in easy conversation, and I think of a goodbye hug from a friend that followed two days of chatting comfortably in half-finished sentences while making soup, washing dishes, fielding questions, sorting sisterly disputes.
These are the small epiphanies that reel me into the presence of God who took on flesh and tethered himself to the very earth he created; who, to everyone's surprise, revealed himself in the humility of a body bearing the marks of a life of willing sacrifice.
Behold our God, seated at the feet of his followers, washing away the residue of the day the way I scrub my children's grass-stained knees.
Behold the glory of the Lord as he spits in the dust, stirs it with his fingers, making mud, then spreads it on the blind man's eyes restoring his sight the way my daughter restores mine when she glories in the handfuls of clay she's found beneath the cracked crust of winter earth.
Behold the Light of the World holding the soft, cold hand of a small girl, whispering words of life like my dying friend who rocks my baby boy while he's tethered to a hospital bed, humming songs of restoration.
Behold the Son of Man wrapped in skin, a body in want of rest from so much giving like every mom who props her broken body on a pillow at 2 am to hold her newborn baby to her breast.
Behold the Word of God, a still small voice, full of grace and truth, speaking life wherever there is death.
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