The Sacred Ordinary
I'm amazed sometimes by how often the ordinary--the hearty crocus, the cycle of the trees, the laughter of a child--speaks to my soul. It's as if every facet, every layer of the world around me whispers the same story: my story. It's as if the nature of the God I love is etched into... well, nature itself. It's the same, age-old song being sung in a multitude of notes, echoed through the smallest observation of the world around me, in the most breathtaking scene I can encounter.
Nature has always been my haven, the place that lifts me from the slumps. No cathedral on earth could rival the majesty of a forest. No intricate song could mimic the delicate variety of the leaves and the branches, their lacy fingers reaching upward to the sky. There's something pure, holy, about nature. It soothes my soul and lifts it to higher heights.
I've often wondered at the sermons preached to me in the spring buds and the sunset skies. Because they are, truly, sermons. I've learned more about faith from creation itself than could ever be taught from a pulpit. I've marveled at how deeply I can connect, understand, plunge deeper into a knowledge of God by watching how he cares for the birds of the air, the fish in the depths.
For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse. Romans 1:20
Creation is speaking. Every layer written with the same words. Man was made in his image, but so, too, was all of his creation. It's engraved in every part: the signature of the artist, the trademark of the master builder. Even if I never found myself in a church, it's there, clearly laid out. God's nature, written in the nature that surrounds me.
This is not pantheism, or some kind of animism. It's something much higher than that; an interconnectedness, an assurance at every turn that even when He isn't seen, He can be seen. It's a tender gift, the ability to understand in the simple, commonplace things the incomprehensible majesty and greatness of the God who created it all.
It's what elevates every part of our existence. After all, we ourselves are dust. What good could come of a creation like that? But we are not our own. Written into every cell, every bone, is the same story. In the image of God. We are here to be his sermon, preached in the breathtaking wonder of the ordinary.
It's the essence of our whole story: all of us created from darkness, from dust. The savior of the world, a humble baby in the lowliest places. The balance of the story held in the hands of simple men, to be carried to every generation. The beauty of it all told completely in the unfolding of the leaves, in the cycle of the seasons.
The God of the universe, incomprehensible, indescribable, revealed in the sacred ordinary.
The ordinary leaves me breathless.
Nature has always been my haven, the place that lifts me from the slumps. No cathedral on earth could rival the majesty of a forest. No intricate song could mimic the delicate variety of the leaves and the branches, their lacy fingers reaching upward to the sky. There's something pure, holy, about nature. It soothes my soul and lifts it to higher heights.
I've often wondered at the sermons preached to me in the spring buds and the sunset skies. Because they are, truly, sermons. I've learned more about faith from creation itself than could ever be taught from a pulpit. I've marveled at how deeply I can connect, understand, plunge deeper into a knowledge of God by watching how he cares for the birds of the air, the fish in the depths.
For since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made, so that people are without excuse. Romans 1:20
Creation is speaking. Every layer written with the same words. Man was made in his image, but so, too, was all of his creation. It's engraved in every part: the signature of the artist, the trademark of the master builder. Even if I never found myself in a church, it's there, clearly laid out. God's nature, written in the nature that surrounds me.
This is not pantheism, or some kind of animism. It's something much higher than that; an interconnectedness, an assurance at every turn that even when He isn't seen, He can be seen. It's a tender gift, the ability to understand in the simple, commonplace things the incomprehensible majesty and greatness of the God who created it all.
It's what elevates every part of our existence. After all, we ourselves are dust. What good could come of a creation like that? But we are not our own. Written into every cell, every bone, is the same story. In the image of God. We are here to be his sermon, preached in the breathtaking wonder of the ordinary.
It's the essence of our whole story: all of us created from darkness, from dust. The savior of the world, a humble baby in the lowliest places. The balance of the story held in the hands of simple men, to be carried to every generation. The beauty of it all told completely in the unfolding of the leaves, in the cycle of the seasons.
The God of the universe, incomprehensible, indescribable, revealed in the sacred ordinary.
The ordinary leaves me breathless.
