When the bow is in the clouds, I will see it and remember
the everlasting covenant between God and every living creature of all
flesh that is on the earth.’ (Genesis
9:16)
You'd really have
to be one un-poetic, un-romantic, cyber-brained dink not to enjoy a
rainbow. Ever since the time of Noah, the prism in the sky following
a rain has been a symbol of hope. I really love them myself.
One rainbow I'll
always remember was one I saw out a second-story brownstone window in
Madison, Wisconsin in 1982. I had just come to town to start my MFA
studies in theater at the University of Wisconsin. A friend from
undergrad days had put me up in the third-floor apartment she shared
with other students on Johnson street, a few miles from campus.
It was a muggy
August late afternoon. I'd been in town for less than a day, but I'd
already handled all my paperwork and registration at the U and so I
decided to explore my new neighborhood. My hostess had gone to work
and her roommates were away. I was told that if they weren't home by
the time I got back I could hang out with the students who lived in
the second floor flat below her. This was a sort of theatrical
commune with about six young actors, directors and writers sharing a
three-bedroom apartment.
I started my walk
through the neighborhood, but I only got about halfway down the block
when the hazy sunshine turned overcast. Another half block and the
sky opened up and poured down the most sudden and punishing
rainstorm I'd ever imagined. I was locked out of the flat where I was
staying, had no rain gear as there had been no sign of a deluge, and
I couldn't have been wetter if I'd jumped fully clothed into a
swimming pool.
I returned to the
brownstone and prayed someone was home in the second-floor commune. A
short, bespectacled, and befuddled student named James opened the
door. I explained that I was the new MFA candidate who was staying
temporarily in the flat above. The students in the commune welcomed
me in as if I were a long-lost cousin.
“So
you're Owen! We've heard so much about you!” I couldn't imagine
what they'd heard, but I knew I was grateful to be inside out of the
rain. One of the girls lent me her bathrobe and a towel, and my
clothes were put in the dryer. I was invited to stay for dinner—a
feast of spaghetti—and for the evening's entertainment. This latter
was to watch the original and uninterrupted film version of Witness
for the Prosecution (the classic
version with Charles Laughton and Marlene Dietrich) airing that night
on the PBS affiliate. I've wandered into Paradise, I thought to
myself. A whole houseful of people as nerdy as I am!
Just as supper was
being served, one of the students began to shout. “You guys! Come
here! You gotta see this!”
We all came to the
living room window and beheld the biggest, brightest, rainbow I'd
ever seen. It seemed as if some giant pre-schooler had taken crayons
to the sky. I'll never forget how bright and promising that sight was
as we all stood before the window in awe and silence.
There I was:
wearing a woman's bathrobe, in a home full of people I'd never met
before that day, staring at the wonder of God. If this were a movie,
this is where the credits would start to roll. I was in a new town,
in a new program, starting a new career, with brand new friends. I
had come through the water like Noah and beheld the promise of God.
Unfortunately, the
rainbow moments in life are only temporary. I soon found out that, at
age 22, I had a lot more growing up left to do.
It's the same in
the gospel lesson appointed for the First Sunday in Lent in Year B.
Jesus has come through the water and the sky has opened and God's
glory has poured down on him. But just as he's being proclaimed
“beloved,” the Spirit drives him into the parched desert to deal
with temptation, Satan, and wild beasts (Mark 1:9-15). I'm sure he
must've thought it'd be pretty swell to bask in the glory a little
while longer, but stuff happens in this life. Just as we think we've
got the world by the Fruit of the Looms, we suddenly find ourselves
in a wilderness of chaos and temptation.
There's the
temptation to be angry. The temptation to quit. The temptation to
just let everything slide, say “screw it!” and do things are own
way. There's the temptation to self-pity. The temptation to doubt and
depression.
The promise God
gave Noah in the rainbow was a very weird deal, indeed. God simply
promised to love and be life to God's creation. Unconditionally. Noah
didn't have to promise anything in return. But God did not
promise that everything would be peachy from there on out. God did
not promise to protect us from our own temptation towards
self-destruction.
So we begin the
Sundays in Lent by remembering that we will always be God's beloved.
And Jesus, who shared our earthly journey, also discovered that,
although there are still wild beasts in the wilderness of our lives,
there are angels, too. God's baptismal promise of unconditional love
still holds—even when we, in our self-absorbed circumstances, feel
like we're lost in the wilderness.
In this forty-day
wilderness journey, remember that you are baptized. You are rainbow
people.
God bless, and my
apologies for posting this so late! If you couldn't get out to church
last Sunday, I hope these few thoughts will inspire you. Drop by
again soon!
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