Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence? If I go up to the heavens, you are there; if I make my bed in the depths, you are there. If I rise on the wings of the dawn, if I settle on the far side of the sea, even there your hand will guide me, your right hand will hold me fast. If I say, Surely the darkness will hide me and the light become night around me, even the darkness will not be dark to you; the night will shine like the day, for darkness is as light to you.    Psalm 139:7-12, NIV

The winged rider soars through the blue, her bright starlit horse glowing, as if on fire. The flames lick her skin, but do not consume it, only propel her on through the darkness. They are invigorating and inspiring, but also ruthless and at times painful. Hers is an enchanted horse and she was born riding it. They have emerged together from the deep, wanderers in a land that was never their own, but has become their own. One body, one soul, fellow travellers through the cerulean night, madly galloping up towards that ever-expanding dome, whose limits they will actually never reach.

She is in love with this earthly world, yet somehow determined to escape it, drawn inexorably toward an irresistible realm she is convinced lies just beyond the veil, a spectacular kingdom whose exquisite beauty she once knew and longs to feel again. And so she rides on. But the horizon keeps advancing and the familiar blue canopy keeps reappearing, enclosing her once again, just when she thinks she might have made it through.

There is no end to this journey, as there was no beginning. To stay the course is difficult, but she rides on, fascinated by the experience and sure in her mind that she is making progress, that the miles are flying by. Is not the wind whipping in her face, and the dark outlines of the fields and forests racing by below her proof of that? But despite her monumental effort and gripping fatigue, she will never arrive, for this is, and always has been, a land of illusions.

What seems like forever to her, though, has in reality been only a momentary interlude, and the world through which she has been travelling soon abruptly dissolves. For suddenly the stars begin to fall, and the ephemeral images that have danced in the night, capturing her soul, now slip silently away. The shades are lifted from her eyes, and she awakens in the rosy hues of an early dawn, to find her limbs refreshed, her vision enhanced, and her heart renewed. She rests in the arms of her beloved Lord, bathed in the white radiance of his steadfast love, and in that instant she knows: She has been here all along, and he has never left her side.

O Lord of the hearth, whose quiet, unfaltering flame never burns out, sustain us as we ride through the storm and stress of endless nights, and through the joys of sunny days. May we remember that our brief sojourn here is for the purpose of transformation and service, which deserves every ounce of our vision, commitment, and energy. Help us to press on without fear, knowing always that nothing that can separate us from your love, for you dwell within us, and always have. And when the world seems to close in around us, and hope seems to fade, may we remember that we live in the light of your manifold grace and compassion, and cannot move beyond them. You are with us always, as you have been from the beginning and ever shall be. Amen.

       Song of Praise
Immortal, invisible, God only wise,
In light inaccessible hid from our eyes,
Most blessed, most glorious, the Ancient of Days,
Almighty, victorious, thy great name we praise.
 
Untrusting, unhasting, and silent as light,
Nor wanting, nor wasting, thou rulest in might;
Thy justice like mountains high soaring above
Thy clouds which are fountains of goodness and love.
 
To all, life thou givest, to both great and small;
In all life thou livest, the true life of all;
We blossom and flourish as leaves on the tree,
And wither and perish, but naught changeth thee.
 
Thou reignest in glory; thou dwellest in light;
thine angels adore thee, all veiling their sight;
All laud we would render: O help us to see
'Tis only the splendor of light hideth thee.
       Walter Chambers Smith (1824-1908)

Contributed by Diane
Sunday February 12, 2006
Liturgical Year B Week 12