It's been raining often here for weeks. I had that semi-serious thought all semi-liberals and liberals have, that if it's raining this much this late into December, we've really done a number on our climate system. This isn't Florida; we have snow here.
Anyway.
While I usually love rain, because it reminds me of the waters of baptism, I'm getting a little sick of it. Last night, I thought it was starting to really get to me, and then I remembered the storms were in my soul. I went to Confession. Admittedly, I went to another priest, because although I can't quite figure out how not to break the heart of God, I didn't want to break Father's heart. Not yesterday.
I had another image for rain that came to mind: tears. Heaven knows I have had enough of those. Rain is a plot device in many stories. Writers got together and decided that "It was a dark and stormy night" is a terribly ham-handed way to start a story, and a sloppy way to convey sadness or foreboding. How'd we let the maker(s) of Blade Runner get away with that?
I'm pretty sure I don't have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but if this keeps up, all bets are off.
When the Scriptures tell us about the times before the Flood, the Lord says plainly, "I am grieved that I have made man on the earth." This of course brings up as many questions as it answers, one of which is, "How does a perfect, simple Being experience this?" And granted that us being told all this in our baby-talk that is human language doesn't possibly exhaust the reality of whatever this means, it is a mystery.
Water, in the mind of the Jewish people who received this story, was more than a bit dangerous and threatening. The sea symbolized destruction, great distance, and the goyim, the Gentile heathen who were not them.
That's part of why "the land" was so prominent: it was a promise from God, and it was not "the water."
Isn't it so that water reveals our vulnerability, our smallness? I was in the rain last night, and I thought about just how pitiable we are. Here one day, and gone the next.
And yet, a great saint says all our sins are but one drop of water, burned up in the consuming fire of God's love.
It is altogether fitting that baptism should be in water, and that it pictures dying, and rising again. Christ, in a way, mocks death in His victory. We will mock it also when we rise, though we die. St. Paul mocks death, saying, "O Death, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?" This will be our song at the last resurrection, much like the song of Miriam, when Israel crossed the Red Sea on dry land, while their pursuers were lost to the waves.
Anyway.
While I usually love rain, because it reminds me of the waters of baptism, I'm getting a little sick of it. Last night, I thought it was starting to really get to me, and then I remembered the storms were in my soul. I went to Confession. Admittedly, I went to another priest, because although I can't quite figure out how not to break the heart of God, I didn't want to break Father's heart. Not yesterday.
I had another image for rain that came to mind: tears. Heaven knows I have had enough of those. Rain is a plot device in many stories. Writers got together and decided that "It was a dark and stormy night" is a terribly ham-handed way to start a story, and a sloppy way to convey sadness or foreboding. How'd we let the maker(s) of Blade Runner get away with that?
I'm pretty sure I don't have Seasonal Affective Disorder, but if this keeps up, all bets are off.
When the Scriptures tell us about the times before the Flood, the Lord says plainly, "I am grieved that I have made man on the earth." This of course brings up as many questions as it answers, one of which is, "How does a perfect, simple Being experience this?" And granted that us being told all this in our baby-talk that is human language doesn't possibly exhaust the reality of whatever this means, it is a mystery.
Water, in the mind of the Jewish people who received this story, was more than a bit dangerous and threatening. The sea symbolized destruction, great distance, and the goyim, the Gentile heathen who were not them.
That's part of why "the land" was so prominent: it was a promise from God, and it was not "the water."
Isn't it so that water reveals our vulnerability, our smallness? I was in the rain last night, and I thought about just how pitiable we are. Here one day, and gone the next.
And yet, a great saint says all our sins are but one drop of water, burned up in the consuming fire of God's love.
It is altogether fitting that baptism should be in water, and that it pictures dying, and rising again. Christ, in a way, mocks death in His victory. We will mock it also when we rise, though we die. St. Paul mocks death, saying, "O Death, where is your victory? O Death, where is your sting?" This will be our song at the last resurrection, much like the song of Miriam, when Israel crossed the Red Sea on dry land, while their pursuers were lost to the waves.
Comments