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It was hot, one of those serene southern evenings. I was out for a walk after being in my cabin all day writing, just looking at the trees and flowers and sunlight, beer in hand, hangin' out in the shade in the cool of the day. Suddenly I sensed your presence behind me. Even before I turned around I was sure you were there, and as I turned I knew you were the person whom I meet at Eucharist.

You were standing with that little dogwood beneath the soaring poplar. I could see you. You were standing in the dogwood tree, which is about a man's height. Its branches extend about the girth of a man. You and the tree were coextensive.

My mind rushed ahead of me trying to figure out how you were present. Perhaps the tree had changed and was now you; perhaps the tree and you were both present at the same time in the same place; perhaps you were present in my mind and projected onto the tree; perhaps you weren't present at all, and all was my imagination or recollection. With humor I realized my racing mind had gone through the historical Eucharistic definitions. We have divided your church and killed one another over things beyond our comprehension. Yet I see now that the people who fought one another were aware of your presence at Eucharist and, like me, wanted to know how.

Like them, I couldn't merely stand and worship. I walked around the tree where possible, trying to see better. Finally I approached. I heard "Don't touch," but you know my curiosity. I reached out my hand, which went through the space you appeared to occupy and touched a leaf. I withdrew. A breeze stirred the leaves. You were gone.

It was a magic moment.

Although interesting, how you were present was not the point even for curious me. If I wanted to work that out, I'd need to discard the false notions of Aristotelian physics on which the Eucharistic definitions and battles rested. In modern physics, matter is a form of energy and is unlike the material objects we perceive daily. Mostly it's empty space—or a frothy vacuum. It could be considered spiritual, it's so spirit-like. Assuming you're present at Eucharist, Luther's concept of consubstantiation fits better with modern physics than the Catholic notion of transubstantiation. In modern terms, transubstantiation demands a change of atomic structure if taken literally, and then the we would taste both flesh and blood! And, of course, we don’t. In contrast consubstantiation simply says both the bread and wine and Christ’s flesh and blood are present and received, but never says how.

Interesting but not the point. The point was that I knew you from my experiences of your presence at Eucharist. I immediately saw that I've known you at Eucharist as a distinct personality, not merely some vague, mystical "presence" such as Wordsworth evokes so often. I've known you almost all my life, but I'd not been conscious that I knew. Now I know. I think I'll dub the tree the "theophany tree" after the term for the manifestation of a god, for my new realization is the equivalent of a revelation. Realizing I've known you so long makes me feel grateful and intimately close to you. Hi, from this side of knowledge.



29 September 1993

Dear and Blessed Comforter,

My new prayer life is suddenly filled with imagery, and I want to write it down. I laughed to get images from Star Trek the Next Generation whose episodes I have taped and watch over and over, always with delight. There I was on the deck of the Enterprise with Captain Picard, Data, and the rest of the crew. What fun! Clearly the images are symbols and the plots allegorical. While praying I exercise Coleridge's "willing suspension of disbelief," receiving all uncritically. I can analyze later.

For a while now, almost every time I pray I return to the same story line. I'm climbing Mt. Sinai. As in the biblical narrative, God is at the top of the mountain, hidden in clouds and accompanied by thunder and lightening. My intention is to climb up to God. The story begins at the bottom of the mountain in grassy fields and warm sunlight. I'm dressed sturdily as if for a climb, wearing stout hiking boots. My arms are laden with carefully prepared gifts. I intend to take them to God. I expect a few days' climb and am confident of my abilities. The trip doesn't look difficult.



It starts well. The ascent is moderate and the weather good. Later the incline becomes steeper and the way rocky. The weather turns colder and clouds sweep in driven by strong winds. I begin to have doubts. Storm after storm breaks over the mountain. I fall over rocks that have become slippery with rain. My clothes are torn. I lose my grip on the beautiful gifts that one by one tumble down the mountain, sodden and mangled. I begin to think I'm a fool to go on. Finally I collapse on a rock behind a huge boulder and finger my torn boots, shivering and sobbing, bewildered by the fog and wondering what to do. I've lost track of how many days I've been stumbling up the mountain, and I'm unutterably weary, bruised, and ragged.

Then the storms dissipate. The fog lifts. The boulder is blocking my view of the mountain's top, but I feel too disheartened and exhausted to rise and walk around it. At last my curiosity gets the better of my exhaustion, and I work my way slowly forward. Beyond the boulder is a grassy promontory. As my feet sink into the spongy vegetation, the sun breaks through. I'm so grateful.

In the distance, seemingly as far and as high as when I started, is the top of Mt. Sinai. At the edge of the promontory, between me and the top of the mountain, is a wide, almost vertical chasm, plunging hundreds of feet. As I stand there in complete despair, I become aware that God is watching me. I stand before God in total humility: ragged, dirty, hungry, and bruised. All my gorgeous gifts are gone. I've nothing to bring. Instead I need God's gifts.

Is this a foretaste of the journey I may have been called to take? If so it doesn't look very propitious.



31 December 1993

Dear and Blessed Savior,

I think you've resolved my dilemma.

by Patricia A. Williams

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