August 3, 2006


The sunrise on Mt. Cadillac was superb. I was surprised and delighted by how many other people were already well positioned on the summit by the time we arrived with ten more minutes to spare. Such a sky. Reds and purples and pinks and blues merging and moving across the east, each new combination a sign of what was to come. Like so many things in this life, the build-up here is lengthy, but the moment itself is painfully brief. Suddenly, all the rich overarching colors fade to grey, and your attention is pulled from the general to the particular. A bright, yellow disk slices the horizon and quickly launches for apogee, sometime later. It commands your attention, and when I was finally convinced to take my retinas off of the show for jsut a moment, I scanned the faces all around me only to discover that each one was illuminated a pinkish-yellow—a particular, rich light that no flash or bulb can manufacture. Full faces, in awe ... and quiet, too.

I continue to believe that the resurrection, even more than the cross, is the entryway into the news of the Christ event. Such a sunrise as Cadillac afforded us is an essential event by which to imagine both his astonishing, commanding new life, and ours with him. Without the dawn of a new first day, there is no light or life by which to reconsider the finality of the hard night now gone. It is not a matter of greater metaphysical importance, as if systematically the resurrection outweighs or outperforms the cross. Rather, it is a priority of narrative. Ours is a storied gospel, therefore a storied reflection: in the essential sequence of announcement then hindsight. The raising up of the Son of God is the entryway, the homeletical portal, into every other saving feature in this most unusual covenant story. As it is on the mountain, so it is when the news is announced: the world is split open, ubiquitous general gives way to scandalous particularity, and every face turned in that direction is awash in illumination.