The view from my window

I am following the RevGals prompt  for today, to post a photograph of something I see everyday. It was an easy choice:

   
 
These are the hydrangea bushes in the front garden of the manse. The first picture is their summer colours, the second their current (Autumn) colours. I love these bushes and they never fail to lift my spirits. I walk past them every day from the front door to the car. And I often stand and look at them from my front room window. 

I am very fortunate to live in a lovely tree lined street and most of the gardens around me have these bushes too, in many different colours. My next door neighbour has blue and white ones.  

“Ever since the creation of the world his eternal power and divine nature, invisible though they are, have been understood and seen through the things he has made.” (Romans 1:20)

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Sacred space?

Why, who makes much of a miracle?
As to me, I know of nothing else but miracles,
Whether I walk the streets of Manhattan,
Or dart my sight over the roofs of houses toward the sky…
Every cubic inch of space is a miracle,
Every square yard of the surface of the earth
Is spread with the same.

Walt Whitman

“Every cubic inch of space a miracle?  Jesus, God Incarnate, made the whole world that sort of Sacred Space.  Holy Week reveals to us again that even the dark and bloody places of the world are sanctified by his life, death and resurrection.  The journey we make with him in retelling and experiencing his Passion through symbolic worship in Holy Week draws us into that sanctifying mystery.  We enter the darkness that we might see the light more clearly.”

(Whitman quote and reflection pinched wholesale from this Lenten blog which is well worth a look.)

Photo is ’57th‘ by Jonny Baker on Flickr

Let me go there…

Today I repeat myself by posting a favourite RS Thomas Poem (first posted back in 2007 on my old blog). This poem is called The Coming and it seems appropriate as Easter approaches:

And God held in His hand
A small globe. Look, he said.
The son looked. Far off,
As through water, He saw
A scorched land of fierce
Colour. The light burned
There; crusted buildings
Cast their shadows, a bright
Serpent, a river
Uncoiled itself, radiant
With slime.

On a bare
Hill, a bare tree saddened
The sky. Many people
Held out their thin arms
To it, as though waiting
For a vanished April
To return to its crossed
Boughs. The son watched
Them. Let me go there, he said

Thomas writes a lot about about Via Negativa. His God is often absent, hidden and incomprehensive, yet he is also (paradoxically) the God who reveals himself in Christ.

‘The Coming’ gives balance to the theology of absence which runs through much of Thomas’s writings. Because of the coming of the son (and the sacrifice he makes), we can know something of the unknowable. We can catch a glimpse of the hidden.