For the longest time we could not see.
For the longest time we could not see the things we hear.
We could not see sound.
Did not know its pattern.
Did not know it traveled in waves.
Did not know its progress could be charted;
its speed clocked at 340-some-odd metres per second.
For the longest time we could not see.
Then, in time, we saw.
We learned to measure
sound. We learned to map it,
and to chart its progress;
to measure its speed.
We discovered we could watch it.
And we did.
But for the longest time we could not see;
we could not see the things we hear.
And now, not only can we see
the things we hear,
we can outrun them,
overtake them,
and leave them behind.
But for the longest time, we could not.
We could not see the things we hear.
We could only listen, and be dazzled by them.
We imagine that what is true of sound
is also true of God:
that we have overtaken him;
outrun him,
left him behind.
Many people imagine this.
We have become too smart for God,
the story goes.
We are too sophisticated
to believe such foolishness.
And after all,
we overtook sound long ago.
Light cannot be so far behind.
It is only a matter of time.
Somewhere, deep in the ingredients of stars,
there is an echo, or a wave
that you could hear, or see,
if you could find it.
It sounds like the beginning,
which is a mystery,
since eternity has no beginning,
and no ending.
But the echo, or the wave,
sounds like the beginning,
sounds like the origin,
of something God spake,
when God first began to speak
his eternal wisdom,
that has no beginning,
and no ending,
although the sound itself
is both, beginning and ending.
The sound captured in the echo, or the wave,
existed in God always,
even when he had not yet spoken it.
Don’t you see? Can’t you hear?
Although, for the longest time, we could not?
I suppose there are sounds
too high and too low for us to hear;
waves too fast or too slow
for us to measure, to see.
I suppose the sound of God speaking
was like slowing it down,
or speeding it up,
to allow us to hear it,
to allow us to see it,
though for the longest time
we neither heard nor saw.
Not even the echo.
Not even the wave.
We are deaf and we are blind.
But, if only we were dumb,
we might not say the foolish things
we say about God,
and what’s on his mind,
and what he sounds like,
and what he looks like.
We might not have to use
a personal pronoun
when we refer to him in speech.
Speaking about God
is something better left to God.
Which may be why once he spake
the Word that had always dwelt deep within him,
that has its origins in the echo or the wave
that has always been,
has no beginning or end,
though he is Alpha and Omega.
The Prologue of the final Gospel
is not a speech.
It is a drawing
of the sound of God’s voice.
It is the urgent wave
sketched out,
to enable the blind to see,
to assist the deaf in our hearing.
Because for the longest time we could not see.
And we could not have heard it,
even if we had tried,
since the sound was still deep inside
the mind of God.
John was drawing the waves
of the sound,
as the Word pulsed through him:
up from the deepest places of the planet.
His naked feet measuring
the seismic movement,
and his hands
recording it for posterity.
I am trying to draw the waves
of that sound for you now,
using words,
that are neither fast enough
nor slow enough,
to do it justice.
But which have been slowed down
enough, or sped up
enough, so that we can hear,
and which will help us (I hope) to see.
Because for the longest time
we have done neither.
We have not outrun the Word.
We have not overtaken it.
We have by no means left it behind.
We have barely begun to grasp
its sound. And it remains beyond
our reach – although it is very near us.
We imagine that having seen it,
having measured its waves,
and sized it up, and recorded its light,
that we have taken charge
of it, and everything.
Since for so long we could not see.
Men have always thought this;
ever since the sound could be heard,
the light seen. We thought
we could douse it,
silence it, turn it on
or off at our pleasure.
As though it was only sound,
only light, only echo, only waves.
But it is more
than sound, more
than light, more
than echo, more
than wave.
It is dancing, it is justice, it is
fellowship, it is mercy, it is
learning, it is kindness, it is
softness, it is sharp, it is
virtue, it is humility, it is
beauty, it is darkness, it is
generosity, it is tenderness, it is
hope, it is solace, it is
friendship, it is healing, it is
relief and reinforcement, it is
silence, it is power, it is
music, it is touch, it is
water, it is air, it is
soil, and it is fire, it is
grace upon grace, and
grace upon grace, and
grace upon grace.
It is immeasurable, unknowable,
unstoppable, inaudible, inflammable.
For the longest time it was beyond us.
But then God spake,
and give it to us,
gave him to us.
Slowed down, or sped up, so we could
see, and hear, and touch,
and feel, and know, and love.
The Word is yours, and mine:
very near us, on our lips, and,
sometimes, in our hearts,
if we will have him,
if we will dare to speak
the Word that God once spake,
and call his Name,
which is Emmanuel, God with us -
but, slowed down, or sped up,
so that we can see it, measure it,
hold it, love it, be dazzled by it -
is Jesus.
He is the Word
that became flesh,
and dwelt among us.
And we beheld its glory.
Full of grace and truth.
And from his fullness have we all
received grace upon grace.
Thanks be to God.
Preached by Fr. Sean Mullen
29 December 2013
Saint Mark's Church, Philadelphia