It is always I wonderful thing, I believe, to discover a name you don’t know, a person whose writing or work has not come across your radar screen before. I was looking at a book of Celtic reflections last week and this quote from a poem by Aidan Andrew Dun was on the opposite page from the one I was reading. I was taken by the intentional, I assume, use of words that are so firmly planted in traditional Christian speak. It was a surprise to find these words in writings that were not meant for such a singular audience. After doing a little research, I learned that Dun is a poet who makes his home in London and that these three lines are from an epic poem he introduced at Royal Albert Hall which led to him being named the ‘voice of King’s Cross’. Goes to show that it is always wise to read your work in great places!

There is so much in these three lines and less than twenty-five words. There is affirmation and challenge. There is wisdom and a deep seeded hope. There is a belief and a faith expressed. And all of it brings so many questions to my mind.

In this season we in the Christian household call Epiphany, we are poised between Christmas and Easter. We have just walked through days in which we sometimes quite flippantly use the word ‘incarnation’. God-with-us. God-in-flesh, even. The notion that God can be, indeed is, embodied in flesh is a concept that still boggles the mind. Whose flesh? Only the flesh of Jesus? My flesh? Your flesh? The flesh of those we love and also the flesh of our enemies? Even those who do not share our way of expressing faith? Even those whose lifestyles are different than ours? You can see how the poet is bold to use the word ‘dare’. Do we dare to be an incarnation of God in our world? Do we dare to be present to that incarnation in the other?

Perhaps the only way to really be able to take up that challenge, that hope, is to ‘take the road in silence’. Perhaps it is a practice of stopping and listening more and being less ready to plead our case for whatever banner we are flying this week. In this action we might all be more awake to and aware of the veritable plethora of incarnations in our lives. Like pilgrims in search of the holy grail, if we are silent enough we might see the treasure that finds its home right before our eyes.

In silence, being present to the incarnation, we also then might come to know this dance between heaven and earth that is the gift of the every day……ascension. I think of the many times, nearly every day when something or someone slays my heart with a little bit of heaven. The brilliant full moon of this last week, for instance. How it seemed to pull me toward it, begging me to come closer, to ascend by at least recognizing my small, but important, place in the Universe. Or the flashing eyes of a five-year-old I encountered on her birthday. So full of promise and ripe with potential to find her place in the history of the world. This dance between having our feet firmly planted on earth and the push to levitate is an on-going waltz.

Bodies of holy flesh, clothed in silence, rising toward heaven willing “resurrection”. Isn’t this a sort of definition of what it means to be human? Resurrection, the rebirth from the daily deaths, the daily brokenness and wounds that plague us yet also give rise to the shimmering of this golden people. It is a rhythm we see mirrored in our sacred stories and in the patterns of Creation.

All these ‘churchy’ words could be off-putting until we open them up and walk around in their meaning, their intention. On further reflection, it is easy to see that they are ‘our’ words, not just ones meant for doctrines or confined to ancient interpretations. They are words that tell our story, our epic story. Always have and always will.

May this weekend find you embodying the Holy, cherishing the silence as you dance between heaven and earth as you will resurrection. And always, always shimmering.