Whereby the Sunrise Shall Visit Us (4.1)
My favorite thing to do as the sun just began to rise upon our little home in the icy wintertime was peer out the window each morning to see if it snowed in the night.
My eyes would open, groggy from sleep, and I would lie in bed, listening to the gentle creakings of the house waking up. Tea kettle slowly bubbling, cereal bowls like drums for spoons. And it all seemed to have a certain softness, like the hard edge of the day hadn’t made it there yet, potential of goodness still filling the air.
I loved to lay in bed and let those morning sounds wash over me like a blanket, the heater rumbling on and off and on again. Then slowly, pajama-clad and gingerly, I would climb down the ladder and peek at my little sister, still asleep under her blue quilt. Tip-toe to the window, pulling apart the shades to see what I somehow already knew was there: a glorious blanket of snow falling from the sky. Not silent, exactly, but quiet, like an exhale. A sound of hope. Like a blank canvas. And, like the gentlest symphony, like open arms, the snow covered world made space for me to add my own song.
I remember those early December mornings in snippets, like small vignettes all blurred around the edges, corners rounded and hushed. Usually late, I remember dashing up the stairs, past the massive painting of Lot’s Wife, and tossing my backpack on one of the chairs in the back of the room. I remember sitting in the makeshift chapel in the cozy, low-ceilinged top story room of the art building, the high pitched ringing of the golden bell, the icons of Zechariah and Mary and Jesus perched on the wall, watching us, listening to us. And a candle? Yes, there was a candle too. I remember the awkward silence as we waited for someone to volunteer to read the daily texts aloud from the Book of Common Prayer that awaited us on our chairs, and my soaking wet hair slowly beginning to thaw after the long walk from my apartment in the bitter wind of the Chicago suburbs. I remember staring out the window as the Old Testament was read, watching the tiny figures below, like ants all bundled up in their black coats, already busy, tight, holding their breath. Already making their own path, in stark contrast entirely to the slow, steady breathing of the snow covered world.
But mostly, I remember reading in unison, as part of that advent morning prayer liturgy, the Song of Zechariah. I remember the lilting words washing over me, like a light spreading through my whole body. I remember being all caught up in the beauty of the words, phrases like “raised up a horn of salvation,” and“because of the tender mercy,” and “whereby the sunrise shall visit us,” and “guide our feet into the way of peace.” It was as if the sunrise in the song was tangible, and the dawn broke upon me, washed me anew, swept me away in it.
This morning, I walked out the back door of the grocery store I work at, hauling behind me the nearly overflowing garbage can full of the emptied, dirty water from the flower buckets. I dumped the heavy can of water into the bushes, ungracefully as usual, and stared up into the lightening sky streaked with pink and deep grey clouds, that unmistakable winter sky shade of the palest blue. I treasure these moments, the day just waking up, and me along with it, as if we are in it together, on a team with the wind and the sky. A bit of certainty, regularity, in a season of perpetual chaos, a promise of a new day with new mercies all its own.
I think it is no accident that Jesus came celebrated as a sunrise, the promise of a process that cannot be hurried. As an ordinary moment, often missed, but a moment that keeps the world breathing. He came, not with loud noise or frantic wind or booming thunder, but on the wings of the day, tender mercy in his outstretched palm. He came, ushering in a morning after a very long night, the dawn of heaven cresting the horizon, slowly, then all at once.
He came as light because he saw us in our darkness, that we might also see. That we might be rescued from the hatred and hands of our enemies. That the rays of his light might guide our feet into the dewey path of peace, illuminated and glistening. He came to give his light lavishly, abundantly, entirely, his fullness like a fountain spilling all over us. He came to die in order to defeat the darkness, that we may wait without fear in a place that is not our home, that the wilderness would not have the final word. He came that we might have life, and have it abundantly. He came that we might have hope. He came. He came!
The light shines in the darkness and the darkness has not, cannot, overcome it, does not understand it, no matter how hard it tries.
Night has passed, and morning has broken upon us, and everything will be made new again. We will be made new again, restored, healed, forgiven, fully loved and fully known.
At the end of this very long night, our God has come as the morning.
