A seed pod from our morning run. Milkweed. A gigantic Asclepias.
Creation making me know holy truth. That God is reaching out to me.
The prayer book says the creation itself is sacramental. It is God reaching out to us through material things, and that the church simply makes patterns of this with material things of choice, like bread and wine and water and oil, to celebrate that God does this all the time ~ reaches out to us through the material of creation.
Like with my pod. The visible manifesting the invisible, the way the featherweight tuft lifts the seed from it’s tiny sarcophagus. White silk wings for the wind to convince me of invisible holy presence and unimaginable promises and evidence of God’s reaching. The Holy One breathing, playing, creating, resurrecting, and sweeping through, but because this is all invisible, I collected this pod. To help me know.
Looking at the pod makes me hear my grandmother’s singsong voice reciting Wynken Blynken and Nod when I, like the three in the shoe, was a wee one. The first whimsical notion of peregrination, introduced with ease and matter-of-factness, at nursery age.
This beautiful pod, shaped like a coracle for setting out on pilgrimage with the Holy One. Every Celtic peregrini, just thrilled at the notion that the journey is worth it, simply, for the love of God. To be out and about in the world, anywhere at all, for the joy and company of the Divine.
That’s the journey of the day. Of any day. Of this day. To greet the rising of the sun and set out with jubilation because, wherever my little pod takes me, it is the Holy Spirit in wind on water that puts me out to sea for a sacred journey and holy adventure.
That’s the journey of this day. Today was a good day, filled with beautiful, holy presence.
I had heard of it before, views where earth meets sky at every degree of 360, but I think I had never seen it. It never occurred to me that mountains, hills, and forests, block your view. I always thought they were the view. It never occurred to me that sky could be seen by looking straight ahead. Pittsburgh was all mountains and valleys, everywhere. To see the sky, we had to look up. Hence, “the dome”.
And God said, ‘Let there be a dome in the midst of the waters, and let it separate the waters from the waters.’ So God made the dome and separated the waters that were under the dome from the waters that were above the dome. And it was so. God called the dome Sky. And there was evening and there was morning, the second day.
We see, breathe, take flight, and lie down at night, in the context of the dome. We are ever and always, sleeping or waking, present to and stirring through the dome, while never actually seeing it. The dome is as ethereal as the element we call Air, the element that breathes, sways, inspires, fills, moves, lifts and gives us life. Air is the element that is seen only by what it animates, like the hair on your arm, the leaves on a tree, or Adam, when Adam became a living being. We can see the air by how it takes a shape, in a balloon, or in a lung. We can smell it, by its lifting of a scent and wafting it our way, or we can hear it by its rapid vibration with humming bird wing or violin quartet. We feel it on our skin when someone whispers in our ear. Always, its effects, rather than the thing itself. Dust mites, in a shaft of light, float. Such is God when we find God in the elements of creation, and it makes us call Air: Holy Spirit.
Air is every moment, our holy necessity. God, from one breath to the next without thought, or intent, the dynamic of inhale and exhale, a sort of Holy Spirit resting sustaining presence. God is the effervescence in a toast, a sort of Holy Spirit joy. God, the encapsulated fullness of a child’s bubble blowing, or the lift of a dragon fly wing, a sort of Holy Spirit playing. God is the saying of our names out loud when we are brought into being, a sort of Holy Spirit animation. We gasp for air in our birthing and in our dying. This gasp for God . . . this cry for Holy Spirit. This subconscious want for God. This constant rest in Holy presence; this laughter, this joy, this play and our coming to life, with Holy Spirit.
The poet who penned Psalm 104 says that God wears light as a cloak, and stretches out the sky, for his tent. If we can see sky, then we know we are in God’s tent, and we are at home, and God is at hand. Vistas and broad expanse make me breathless with Holy Presence and elated about the ridiculous blatancy of God’s omniscience. From now on, whenever I engage my Celtic practice of praying the sky, I will think of that Holy vastness, and me, inside of it. Me, inside the Holy Dome.
Reverend Ruth Pattison
Rev. Pattison serves the people of Highpoint Episcopal Community Church as the Parson, exercising her gifts for collaborative leadership through preaching, liturgy, and the pastoral arts.
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