Witnessing signs is akin to the tearing of the veil in the temple. Maybe not as dramatic, but still a moment where God allows me to glimpse his glory, to taste a bit of his power this side of heaven. But I rarely think to ask. Or look. Or attribute.
You see, Jesus contrasted the ready faith of the Samaritan's with the restricted faith of the Galileans, who demanded signs and wonders to believe. He said irritably in John 4:48, "Unless you people see signs and wonders, you will never believe." Paul confirms in 2 Cor 5:7, "We live by faith, not by sight." So I mostly don't ask.
Yesterday, I did. I was wrestling with something that I needed to figure out, embrace, and submit to. The day was beautiful and I had 20 minutes of spare time waiting for my daughter to finish bell choir practice at Assisi Heights, the glorious Catholic convent imposingly perched on a hill in my town. Thanks to its Roman architecture and castle-like quality, I had my kids convinced for years that it's where the princess of Rochester lives.
On the hillside of the beautiful grounds is a quiet niche surrounded by sandstone walls crosscut with gnarly oak roots. At the far end, a shrine of Mary. I have visited the open sanctuary many times and have always sensed it to be a sacred spot, not because someone ordained it to be sacred, but because it becomes holy ground to me when I enter.
I went there requesting a sign. I specifically asked God to lead me to a rock, something I could hold as a reminder that I was living out my calling and was committed to spiritual growth. I walked slowly along the curving wall, enjoying the playful squirrels, when one of them knocked loose a stone, which rolled to my feet. I picked it up with a smile and held it in my hand, studying it. Yes, it was the product of nature and gravity and weak sandstone and busy squirrels, but it was, in that veil-tearing moment, a sign which filled me with wonder.
No comments:
Post a Comment