The Sun

The midday sun sits enthroned in the heavens, looking down on those who toil in his light.

They curse his light—its absence and scarcity, its presence and heat.

He hears their curses but does not withdraw. They need him. In his light, they live and move and have their being.

They bless his light—its certainty and faithfulness, its energy and provision.

He knows their need and their frailty better than they know themselves. Their curses cannot dissuade his love. Their blessings will not alter his course.

He knows that they cannot bear the full weight of his glory, not in their present state. His constant and unrelenting splendor would mean death. They would whither, perish, and extinguish.

So, in mercy, he humbles himself. Having drawn near, giving his life, he diminishes. Meeting their horizon, he descends into death. He sinks into the earth and is dark.

Yet he knows that they cannot endure his absence. Without him, they die.

So, in faithfulness, he rises. Those who dwelt in the land of darkness see a great light. And in it, they too rise and live.

This grace sustains them. The hope of his appearance comforts them in the darkness of night. The light of his presence strengthens them in the brightness of day.

Though still unable to look upon his brightness—except through a glass, darkly—they hope in him. They learn to bless him, to bless and not to curse. In his light, they change from one degree of glory to another.

When the night comes, they hope, knowing that in the same way that he departed, he will return. For in that day, in his light, they too shall shine.