At first glance, here is simply another view of the labyrinth, this time from inside the church, from the back row, where I sit, and looking out through the wall of windows toward the water.
This is the view that distracts so many during the service. Sometimes it's a bird fluttering at the window. Sometimes it's a small rabbit, nibbling on the grass. Sometimes it's just a gust of wind, bending the leaves and the branches.
But if you spend too much time looking out the window, you might miss something right there inside the church.
Look to the left of the window, to the wall. You'll see what look to be two golden half moons.
But what appear to be moons are halos belonging to Jesus as he is led to his death on the cross.
The Stations of the Cross appear two by two around the sanctuary. My mother made them and while I am astounded by the time and effort she clearly put into making them, while I am blessed to have this reminder of my mother in church with me every Sunday, I am most captivated by the gold leafing she applied around the head of Jesus.
No matter what the lighting in the church, no matter where you sit, you can see those flashes of gold.
They are a reminder that as Jesus was led to a very human and horrific death, he was also, at the same time, divine.
Human and divine.
God from God, light from light, the Nicene Creed tells us.
To be honest, when I view the Stations up close, I always want to run my fingers across that gold leafing. The Stations are a juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness--they are a reflection, in the life of Jesus Christ, of the very worse of humanity and the very best.
This is the view that distracts so many during the service. Sometimes it's a bird fluttering at the window. Sometimes it's a small rabbit, nibbling on the grass. Sometimes it's just a gust of wind, bending the leaves and the branches.
But if you spend too much time looking out the window, you might miss something right there inside the church.
Look to the left of the window, to the wall. You'll see what look to be two golden half moons.
But what appear to be moons are halos belonging to Jesus as he is led to his death on the cross.
The Stations of the Cross appear two by two around the sanctuary. My mother made them and while I am astounded by the time and effort she clearly put into making them, while I am blessed to have this reminder of my mother in church with me every Sunday, I am most captivated by the gold leafing she applied around the head of Jesus.
No matter what the lighting in the church, no matter where you sit, you can see those flashes of gold.
They are a reminder that as Jesus was led to a very human and horrific death, he was also, at the same time, divine.
Human and divine.
God from God, light from light, the Nicene Creed tells us.
To be honest, when I view the Stations up close, I always want to run my fingers across that gold leafing. The Stations are a juxtaposition of beauty and ugliness--they are a reflection, in the life of Jesus Christ, of the very worse of humanity and the very best.
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