There are (well there are for me) moments in nature that take the breath away. The deanery spoils me: morning after morning the predawn light-show is beyond words beautiful, and because it is beyond words I shall not try. I am no pious dean, but there is no doubt there are moments when my gasp at the beauty of the rising sun becomes a stuttered prayer of thanks to God. For life. For the universe. For love. For beauty. “For skies of couple-colour as a brinded cow.”
An afternoon 25 years ago on the Awhitu Peninsular. A recent walk on the beach at Aramoana in Otago. A desert moonrise in Australia or an ocean one from the Deanery (again). Cape Reinga, as the oceans clash (or nearby Tapotupotu, where once I camped with about 7000 mosquitos). Occasionally they are human moments: Salisbury Cathedral rising from the plains, St David’s Cathedral nestling in a hollow, and I’m sorry to say some of the great temples of Mammon: the Willis (formerly Sears) Tower in Chicago. Or the beauty of a butterfly’s wing, a bird in flight, a riroriro in song, a haunting human-made musical passage (and yes, rock or classical, massiv or minimalist).
All these and myriad more will hint to me of the majesty of creation and its Creator. They won’t, however take me to the Cross, of which Paul writes so eloquently in this week’s slice of his struggle-correspondence with the Corinthians (1 Cor 1:18-25). The riroriro will take me to awe, but not redemption. Nabucco’s “Chorus of the Hebrew Slaves” will take my heart beyond the clouds, Vaughan Williams’ “The Lark Ascending” will take my heart above the clouds (and Meredith’s poem ain’t bad, either). Arvo Pärt’s “Spiegel im Spiegel” (we use it on Maundy Thursday) will place my heart in my mouth. Dylan’s “With God on Our Side” or “All Along the Watchtower” or Jewell’s “Foolish Games” or … or. .. Or. And so on.
Taste is a funny thing. I have Australian Indigenous friends for whom western music is blah, but the vibrated drone cycles of the didgeridoo (or more accurately, the mandapul, at least in the Yolŋu languages in the regions I was recently living: “didgeridoo” was a derogatory balanda— = pakeha—term) are a foretaste of heaven. I get that. I’m not sure I get vuvuzelas though.
But none of these will take us to the Cross of which Paul was writing. In many ways not even the great Passions (Matthew or John) of Bach or the Passio of Pärt will, though they may take our focus crosswards. The great twentieth century theologian Karl Barth was right: the Cross in all its foolishness must always be revealed, not gleaned, and it is the Cross alone that takes us to the heart of God’s eternity.
Benedictus
It startles.
Not in unpredictability –
of chronology at least.
Kairology, perhaps?
Nor even unexpected grandeur.
Ginger, first, to the east.
Westward hues of violet, indigo –
blue, too, I guess.
To the east: ginger.
Exploring, licking surface of
drought burnt earth.
Silence blankets. No cough
disturbs this drama. No fly,
no breath of wind. Silence.
Ginger melts yellow, licks further,
kissing gidgee tops, gnarled survivors.
Teeth even dare not chatter
until divine breath and obedient angels bid.
Unlikely herald: a far-off wagtail chatters.
Still further magpies answer. Ubiquitous both.
Benedictus benedictus benedictus
Day breathes.
FARRARS CREEK (QLD)
29th June 2004
outback dawn
