The Eclipse

The moon, a relatively small, spherical rock, makes its appointed monthly rounds, circling the earth. But this time, catastrophe accompanies it.

By some vagary of its wobbling, tilted circuit, it heads for a direct linear alignment between its larger sister– earth– and the illuminating solar center of our cosmic neighborhood. As a result, the moon's shadow is on a collision course with earth. What disaster might follow such a cataclysm?

To think that the moon's shadow could have any significant and lasting calamitous effect on earthly life, beyond that of sending hens and turkeys roosting at midday, seems to us preposterous. Yet, for millennia, this incorporeal shadow disrupted many human cultures. To see the dark form of the moon cover and devour the powerful sun, gripped civilizations with abject terror.

Put a small ten-cent piece– a thin dime– close to and in front of your open right eye, and close your left. Not much left to see.

How can such a tiny piece of metal effectively block out the huge remainder of the universe beyond?

This quirk of perception has its origin in the details of personal, human perspective. Because our eyes are focusing, imaging systems, there is a particular point in space– the diminutive hole in our irises we call a "pupil"– through which, all perceived light must pass. In a perceptual sense, we can think of this as our center of perspective. This is the point in space from which we visually fathom the vast universe around us.

Because our perception is rooted in this single point (two, if you count both eyes), the images of objects around us are painted upon our retinas in relation to their angular sizes: that is, the larger the angle they span from the point of perspective, the larger their image. For instance, my faithful dog, asleep at my feet, presents a much larger angle (and image) to my retinas, than a much larger bull a quarter-mile away. In similar fashion, the thumb at the end of your outstretched arm easily blocks your view of the immense galaxy in Andromeda (probably a billion-billion miles in diameter).

This human visual system serves us well as an effective tool of daily navigation and spatially modeling our neighborhood. We could not cross the street without it. But the much larger realities "out there" shrink in stature and seeming importance, the farther they recede from us. This abbreviation of awareness must govern our perceiving, for we are limited, finite beings possessing restricted abilities to process and understand information. If the entire scope of planetary systems, galaxies, and clusters of galaxies– in all their glorious detail– filled our perception, the flood of data would more than overwhelm us.

Perhaps in a similar way, our small, finite position in the larger reality taints our view of not only this physical universe, but the eternal and infinite spiritual space beyond it. This infinitesimal, tiny point of space our sensibility occupies grievously distorts our comprehension of the totality. So, that which is closest to us, though minuscule by comparison, can readily block our view of the larger, weightier truths of life.  The familiar and immediate eclipses the universal and eternal.

Often in my own life, insubstantial and ephemeral shadows move across my field of view. They capture my attention and frighten me. It seems as if the glory, power, and love of Providence disappear behind my transitory problems. A physical affliction, an alarming news story, the loss of employment, or death of a loved one– these things trouble us greatly and can fill our hearts and minds with depression and doubt.

These temporary events of our lives are decidedly real, but the extent of their reality is confined. They may, for a time, block our view of the glorious face of our Lord, but this darkness– this shadow– is not evidence of His absence. His glory and gifts ever stream from His presence, without abatement.

Our current culture no longer fears an eclipse of the sun. In fact, we now celebrate such events– most of all, for their relative rarity. Many plan years in advance, and intentionally travel thousands of miles to witness the striking and fleeting seconds of beauty. The glory of the sun, seen as an exquisitely thin, brilliant rim encircling the blackened moon, transcends our normal appreciation of it– a beauty frequently lost in the overwhelming glare of a bare, routine noon-day.

We would do well to take a cue from those eclipse-followers. Instead of cowering in fear when dramatic shadows sweep into our lives, we can remember they are brief, in the light of eternity. And we might, perchance, encounter a new and unexpected view of the vibrant beauty and unexcelled majesty of our Lord– a view elusive in more brightly lit days.

As Paul encouraged his friends in Corinth:

"Therefore we do not lose heart, but though our outer man is decaying, yet our inner man is being renewed day by day. For our light and momentary afflictions are producing for us an eternal weight of glory that far outweighs them all, while we look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are unseen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are unseen are eternal." 

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>>> Unless otherwise attributed, all text and images are Copyright, Bill Brockmeier, 2015. All rights reserved.

Note: The image above is a Solar Dynamics Observatory image of a total eclipse of the sun– the darkened limb of the moon is nearly halfway to covering the sun. Courtesy of NASA (the image, not the eclipse)