Sanctuary
I woke at an indecently early hour this morning, but I woke in my own bed. My room is the brightest of the family bedrooms, or cubiculae, as Latin would have it. It was too soon for sunlight, although my windows face east. Shadows, shadows everywhere, clinging to my walls, my carpet, the dark mahogany dressing table and its candleholders, the tall Queen Anne desk, the portrait of me, age twelve in a blue satin dress. Whenever I come home, I find myself searching the eyes of that little girl, wondering "Could she have known that she would be me?"
No, she could not have known. But this morning I didn't even have time to ask the question. By eight, I was at Jessica's house to pick her up for fellowship at Starbucks. Her parents, dear friends, were already having their quiet time side by side in the family room. I paused to talk with them. Jessica's father is one of the pastors at CLC, and my favorite high school Literature professor. He asked me how the semester had been. "It's been tough," I answered quietly. When you mean something, you don't have to shout it. Its weight is already there. He picked up his Bible and read to me from Psalm 107. I listened, and the words sank into my thirsty soul. "Thank you." Again, quietly.
Jessica and I talked for two hours, and I found my sense of perspective largely restored. I'm not the only one who has been having a rough time of it. Encouragement and cross-centeredness flowed from her. When we were through with her semester, my sin, and God's grace, the conversation turned to Russian literature. Jessica loves the Russky novels, and I told her that I've fallen for them too. She told me about a book called Gray is the Color of Hope, by a Russian woman who learned to love God as a third-grader in Atheist class.
Gray...like the shadows on my walls this morning. Gray, like a peaceful river in autumn, when the trees flame bloodred, and the land is dying. Gray, the color that I always associate with cathedrals and stained glass. Gray is for hope, for gray is not black, but rather a brightening to white. And white is the sum of all colors, just as God is the sum of all perfect attributes.
Color of cathedral, color of sanctuary. Sanctuary! I still remember reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and how that word rang through it. Only in that book, there was no sanctuary, not even in the great cathedral. For me, sanctuary is a breath away: a breath of prayer, a breath of praise. How do they live who have not this hope? I have asked that many times this semester. I was speaking with David this morning at Starbucks, and he was telling me his latest writing project, about auras of description, Nihilists and Progressives and Relationalists, and Godot and Sarte and God.
I told him, "Danya, when we were singing last night in worship at the Singles Meeting, and we sang about how we desire to see every nation proclaiming God... Danya, I could only think of the literature that we have been reading this semester, and the misery of Heart of Darkness. Danya, it is all one long wailing. How do they survive? How do they bear it, Danya? I could not live one hour apart from Christ. How do they live?"
He saw that there were tears in my eyes. "Shhhh... it is all right, Krasiva." This is the season of hope. Winter is gray, and in the gray bursts a star, the Daystar, the Christ. Sunlight dispels dawn-grayness, and the Sun of Heaven is come among us. Emmanuel. We have hoped for Him, and He has come. Not six weeks ago I completed a two-year study of the Old Testament. Ah, my dear, they waited for so long! Generations. So too do we wait His return in glory, but we wait in grayness, in hope, for He has walked among us once. Behold, He is coming soon.
My sanctuary is not this house, the shadows on my wall, the dear love of my dearest ones. I come before my God daily, point to Christ, and cry, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary in Him, for He humbled himself beyond belief, and He gave me gray hope, and He burst and dawned on my life, and I trust in Him, and my days are not one long wailing. Sanctuary! He has born my afflictions. The punishment that was upon Him has bought for me peace. Oh, my God! My God has walked upon the lowly earth in earthly form with men of earth, and He has healed us, the broken-hearted. Sanctuary, sanctuary, sanctuary in Him, in His death, in His life, in His sovereign power and gracious love.
Veni, veni Emmanuel... return to us, who mourn in lonely exile here... in lonely, longing exile, but in exile that is gray, and shot through with pricks of light.
No, she could not have known. But this morning I didn't even have time to ask the question. By eight, I was at Jessica's house to pick her up for fellowship at Starbucks. Her parents, dear friends, were already having their quiet time side by side in the family room. I paused to talk with them. Jessica's father is one of the pastors at CLC, and my favorite high school Literature professor. He asked me how the semester had been. "It's been tough," I answered quietly. When you mean something, you don't have to shout it. Its weight is already there. He picked up his Bible and read to me from Psalm 107. I listened, and the words sank into my thirsty soul. "Thank you." Again, quietly.
Jessica and I talked for two hours, and I found my sense of perspective largely restored. I'm not the only one who has been having a rough time of it. Encouragement and cross-centeredness flowed from her. When we were through with her semester, my sin, and God's grace, the conversation turned to Russian literature. Jessica loves the Russky novels, and I told her that I've fallen for them too. She told me about a book called Gray is the Color of Hope, by a Russian woman who learned to love God as a third-grader in Atheist class.
Gray...like the shadows on my walls this morning. Gray, like a peaceful river in autumn, when the trees flame bloodred, and the land is dying. Gray, the color that I always associate with cathedrals and stained glass. Gray is for hope, for gray is not black, but rather a brightening to white. And white is the sum of all colors, just as God is the sum of all perfect attributes.
Color of cathedral, color of sanctuary. Sanctuary! I still remember reading The Hunchback of Notre Dame, and how that word rang through it. Only in that book, there was no sanctuary, not even in the great cathedral. For me, sanctuary is a breath away: a breath of prayer, a breath of praise. How do they live who have not this hope? I have asked that many times this semester. I was speaking with David this morning at Starbucks, and he was telling me his latest writing project, about auras of description, Nihilists and Progressives and Relationalists, and Godot and Sarte and God.
I told him, "Danya, when we were singing last night in worship at the Singles Meeting, and we sang about how we desire to see every nation proclaiming God... Danya, I could only think of the literature that we have been reading this semester, and the misery of Heart of Darkness. Danya, it is all one long wailing. How do they survive? How do they bear it, Danya? I could not live one hour apart from Christ. How do they live?"
He saw that there were tears in my eyes. "Shhhh... it is all right, Krasiva." This is the season of hope. Winter is gray, and in the gray bursts a star, the Daystar, the Christ. Sunlight dispels dawn-grayness, and the Sun of Heaven is come among us. Emmanuel. We have hoped for Him, and He has come. Not six weeks ago I completed a two-year study of the Old Testament. Ah, my dear, they waited for so long! Generations. So too do we wait His return in glory, but we wait in grayness, in hope, for He has walked among us once. Behold, He is coming soon.
My sanctuary is not this house, the shadows on my wall, the dear love of my dearest ones. I come before my God daily, point to Christ, and cry, "Sanctuary! Sanctuary in Him, for He humbled himself beyond belief, and He gave me gray hope, and He burst and dawned on my life, and I trust in Him, and my days are not one long wailing. Sanctuary! He has born my afflictions. The punishment that was upon Him has bought for me peace. Oh, my God! My God has walked upon the lowly earth in earthly form with men of earth, and He has healed us, the broken-hearted. Sanctuary, sanctuary, sanctuary in Him, in His death, in His life, in His sovereign power and gracious love.
Veni, veni Emmanuel... return to us, who mourn in lonely exile here... in lonely, longing exile, but in exile that is gray, and shot through with pricks of light.
posted by Praelucor at 2:16 PM
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