When the pre-dawn sky is heavily overcast as it is this morning, one of the small pleasures I sometimes miss is seeing the stars an hour or so before the first indications of sunrise. So too this morning. In the spring, summer, and fall, after making coffee and before settling in for the morning quiet, I usually open the back door, step out, and look up to the sky. Because my neighborhood, not quite in the city and somewhat out in the country, has no street lights, I can frequently see the pre-dawn night canopy, that vast net of pin-hole lights we call the stars, twinkling overhead. Standing there, I sometimes feel small, almost infinitely small. But this morning, when I opened the back door and felt the chill, there was nothing to be seen.

I thought about the "unseen" last evening at Eucharist when we said the Creed: We believe in one God, the Father, the Almighty, maker of heaven and earth, of all that is, seen and unseen.

It was at saying the word unseen, that I remembered the image that Sr. Marlene Mertke, my Benedictine friend, sent me by email earlier yesterday morning: the image of the so-called "unseen" image of "beautiful nearby spiral galaxy IC 342" The astronomers at NASA tell us that "a sprawling island universe, IC 342 would be a prominent galaxy in our night sky, but it is almost hidden from view behind the veil of stars, gas and dust clouds in the plane of our Milky Way galaxy." The image of IC342 I saw Sunday morning had quite honestly lingered with me all day long yesterday, and in the evening during the Creed I confess I let myself see it again for a few seconds. Isn't it true that often what it's what we don't see, the Unseen, that every now and then breaks through so that our benighted lives take on new meaning? Earlier, before the Creed, when Pastor Luckey read the story of Jesus' baptism, I heard Matthew say that when Jesus "came up out of the water, then heaven was opened to him, and then the Spirit of God coming down like a dove and lighting on him." The Unseen came "like a dove" and perched on his shoulder, perhaps his arm or head. We see what Jesus saw--the Spirit of God; and we hear the Unseen Father say, "This is my own dear Son with whom I am well pleased." At the baptism of Jesus, we are watching and hearing an Epiphany of the Holy Trinity--Father, Son, and Spirit. And at our own baptisms we enter the same Epiphany as we are placed into the Name and Presence of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit. At the baptism of Jesus and within our baptisms God manifests Himself, and we, like Jesus, hear that we are his beloved children. In our prayers we say, "Glory to the Father and to the Son and to the Holy Spirit." We sometimes make the sign of the cross and in doing so place ourselves within the protection of the Holy Trinity. With the exchange of these blessings--from God and to God--in baptism and prayer, we come out of the waters and minister to the Father's world, seen and unseen, just like Jesus in the power of the Spirit.

I've often wondered what it must be like to see with eyes of Jesus, to "have the mind of Christ." Sometimes in the morning when I can see the stars, I imagine that I get a bit of a glimpse. This morning I want to thank Sister Marlene for sending me the picture of IC 342. And I want to thank Matthew for helping me see what Jesus, John, and the crowd saw--Almighty God, seen and unseen.

As a complement to NASA's image, Daniel B. Glendenin sends this Monday morning poem by Edwina Gateley:

Let Your God Love You

Be silent.
Be still.
Alone.
Empty
Before your God.
Say nothing.
Ask nothing.
Be silent.
Be still.
Let your God look upon you.
That is all.
God knows.
God understands.
God loves you
With an enormous love,
And only wants
To look upon you
With that love.
Quiet.
Still.
Be.
Let your God—
Love you.

[Image Source: http://antwrp.gsfc.nasa.gov/apod/archivepix.html]