blog first published on July 26, 2016
It was a beautiful evening on the beach. The waves were gently lapping at the extended shoreline. Thanks to the Eco-friendly policies of this California state park, bunches of seaweed were allowed to gather on the sand. Seagulls were flying above while their Sandpiper cousins were racing after the receding tide. Though it was well after eight o'clock local time, the sun was still high in the sky. But like all courses of nature, the golden orb followed the celestial script and began to descend. As the sun lowered its color became more orange and fiery. Far from impotent, its rays cast a golden patina to the waves. At one point it looked like the waves had been touched by Midas himself. Spectacular.
Mesmerized by the show before my very eyes, I couldn't help but be overtaken with a sense of wonder and adoration. Who would set such things into place? The passing of day to night was so dramatically enacted that I couldn't help but join the praises of the Psalmist; "Yours is the day, yours also the night; you established the luminaries and the sun. (Psalm 74:16)"
Through my eyes of faith, which look for the handiwork of the Creator, I couldn't help but give thanks for this glorious glimpse. And it wasn't over. The sun still didn't sink into the Pacific Ocean. Anticipatory praise was mounting. The camera was ready. My eyes and heart were waiting for a sensory treat.
It was at this point that something unexpected occurred. A cloud, previously unnoticed, swallowed up the setting sun. Although the waves retained their golden hue, the sun was hidden from view. At first, I consoled myself with the kind of false assurances that are often given to placate a child when they are distressed. Surely the cloud will dissipate in time for the sun to reappear. The sun will shine through, just you wait and see. It will shine for the purpose of setting gloriously before my eyes! In spite of my internal optimism the situation didn't correct itself. Instead of watching the sun dissolve into the ocean, I was watching a cloud. A dense and gray cloud was all that was to be seen. I waited until it was clear that my picture perfect sunset was hidden.
How often are sunsets hidden from our sight? Putting aside the times that we don't even take the chance to stop and look, how many times do we find ourselves disappointed by the way things turned out? How many times has our anticipation and praise fallen because things didn't work out the way that we thought they would? How many times has the gap between our hopes and reality been too large?
Disappointment, whether it comes from looking at a thick and colorless cloud cover or from the stark realization that things didn't go our way, is hard to accept. Yet it is a normal and even regular part of life. This is as much a biblical truth as the glossy praises of adoration. If you read through the book of Psalms you will hear about sunsets displayed and hidden, of joy and sorrow, of disappointment and fulfillment. It is in this context that these ancient texts declare God to the be the creator of the heavens and the earth.
In a culture of instant gratification and numbing intoxicants, it would do us well to reclaim the faith found in the Psalms. Instead of asking God; "what have you done for me lately? Or the equally obnoxious demand; "show me a glimpse of your presence or glory, then I will believe!" Perhaps a better strategy would simply be to rest in the mystery of things beyond our control and comprehension. Trust that the completeness of God is beyond that of our ever incomplete lives. Trust that the force and beauty of sunsets is being taken care of without our participation. Trust in the God of hidden sunsets and wisdom that refuses to be fully anticipated or put into a box. Trust in what is hidden from sight, mind, imagination. Trust and ultimately join the song of the universe in praise and adoration.