Is it too late to talk about the eclipse? Probably.
We seem to have recovered from our collective case of eclipse fever. It’s been eight months since a total solar eclipse traveled from Texas to Maine. Those who didn’t care much at the time likely still don’t care. And those who saw it have shared their stories and moved on.
At the time, it seemed significant, generating excitement and bringing people together. Some booked motel rooms years in advance. Some camped outside for days. And at least one person asked her boss to extend spring break one day due to the cultural and scientific significance of the occasion. And, amazingly, he went along with it. (Thank you, Mark!)
With all the eclipse anticipation and chatter, I had some idea of what to expect. But it was beyond anything I could have imagined. Based on the stark black and white photographs I’d seen in the news, I pictured myself plunged into cold and utter darkness, with only a wispy ring of light high up in the sky.
It did indeed get dark, but this event was all light. Dazzling light! Though at the big moment, I was left in the dark in that rural Indiana church lot. When a young man with a fancy telescope called out “Diamond Ring!” [the brilliant effect that occurs right before totality], everyone started clapping and oohing and ahhing. But for some unknown reason, I just sat there with my glasses on. My husband had to tell me to take them off.
If I’ve ever had an Alice-in-Wonderland moment, this was it. Nothing could have prepared me for what I saw. I thought it would go from bright day to pitch black night, but it was more like normal day to fairyland twilight. Street lights went on. Evening bird songs filled the air. A stunning and surreal 360 degree sunset!
And the literal star of the show? Well, it literally took my breath away. An alien spaceship would have been less shocking. I think my husband was actually a bit concerned about me. He said I seemed “out of it.” And he was right. I felt truly disturbed. Later I would write to a friend:
**I spent the entire 4-hour drive home trying to make sense of what I heard, saw, and felt. I’m still pondering. Creeping shadows. Sliver of sunlight. Utter darkness (with glasses still on). Then a celestial party that seemed too amazing to even look at. Should I be looking at that? It felt altogether foreign and even forbidden. My eyes were taking it in, but my brain was utterly undone by something I had no real context for, even though I had read plenty about it. I can see solar flares with the naked eye? Oh, there is so much we don’t know! How do you take that all in when the clock is counting down. 2:30 of totality in Bluffton, IN, where we gathered in a Presbyterian church parking lot and talked with strangers as if we’d known them forever. (I met another middle school Latin teacher even.) What a strange, extraordinary, and humbling moment. Once I finally felt like I could just sit back and look at that disturbing (in a good way) sight forever, it was almost gone. Glasses back on. The shadow moves on, and the sun returns. We can see the things around us again. And yet in that shadow, we saw more than we ever had before.**
So why do I want to talk about the eclipse now? Christmas, nearly here? The first fourteen verses of the Gospel of John. Even if you’ve heard John 1:1-14 for years and years, read it again.
A visit from the Word who was in the beginning. The divine made incarnate. We could see that which could not be seen. Prophets of old had visions and flashes of glory. But the Word was flesh and blood right in front of them. Walking with them. Talking with them. Eating with them. (Eating with sinners, even.) Divine, yet common. And wholly unexpected. And so he was overlooked and ultimately rejected. We aren’t too inclined to welcome disturbance.
But try as we might, humans can’t stop divine light. We can try to close doors, pull down blinds, even grab a pair of certified eclipse glasses and fail to take them off because we’re not sure we can look upon something—someone—so radiant. But we can. And we should.
We’re invited to look at the Light. The Light who always was, always is, and always will be. No eclipse glasses required here. Just open hearts and meek souls willing to receive.
“Hark! The Herald Angels Sing” is my favorite Christmas carol, and “Light and life to all he brings” is my favorite line in that carol. I sing it with joy and gratitude every year. I hope this year I sing it afresh, even somewhat still disturbed, in a joyful, grateful sort of way.
