The
refrain of a song I recently added to my playlist kept replaying in my mind
during my travels and vacation recently.
Possibly because I was driving so much, and because the late summer
scenery was so beautiful, I couldn’t stop hearing:
Climb up in the front seat and feast your eyes on the
open country.
Feasting my eyes is a perfect way to
describe one of the reasons I love to drive. The vistas of the Pennsylvania Turnpike are
sufficient to dwarf the annoyance of Breezewood, and what some consider the
monotony of the Ohio Turnpike is for me a series of familiar and delightful
details. Yes, I love the open country,
and enjoy the ripple and roll of even the gentlest terrain, the reassuring
solidity of the mountains, and the gaping gulches that yawn beneath brilliant
bridges.
Feast your eyes. How true it is, that we are able to take in
so much with our eyes, and it is so good!
On a beautiful summer’s day, I
set my navigation system to “avoid highways” and set out, beholding the glory
of creation spread before and behind me, wild or tilled. Rolling past uncountable farms, fields,
woods, homes, and orchards spread between towns with their gridded order and
commerce was a feast indeed, though I consumed nothing. More than a diversion, this is for me nourishment
for mind and soul.
All the
while I was feasting, I was also mindful of my return here. Stepping out of my car and into mid-September,
the frenzy of fall would be already underway.
The parish has its rhythms, and the tempo is already quick. School has started, sports are well into
their season, groups and classes and troops and projects are proceeding. It seems, not only to me, that we are moving
across a landscape that is familiar, but at the same time new. Are we going anywhere?
Similarly,
we are moving forward in history.
Sometimes it seems we are plodding, other times hurtling. The events and developments of the day baffle
or delight us, amaze or frighten us, and make us wonder: Where
are we headed?
All the
while our eyes cast about for something on which to settle, something by which
to gauge our progress or mark our direction.
We see our children grow and blossom, but over the same time we begin to
fade and diminish, much as we hate to admit it. So which is it?
As we
travel, our eyes help us understand and enjoy the trip. To understand our life’s journey, we need to
grasp realities both visible and invisible.
In the Sacred Liturgy, the terrain of our salvation spreads out before
and behind us in a way that we can see and understand. History is where the Lord has been, and our
future is where He intends to be. The
way we travel is both new and familiar, both wild and tilled, and made holy by
the passing of the feet of the very God.
Lest we
feel like we are just “marking time”, or lost, trapped, or bored, God places
Himself before our eyes. The Word became
flesh and dwelt among us. (Jn 1:14) He wants us not only to know about Him, but moreover to know Him. He is
the image of the invisible God. (Col
1:15) In His life, death, resurrection,
and ascension into heaven, we see not only what He has done, but what He is
doing now and for us. For I
tell you that many prophets and kings desired to see what you see, and did not
see it. (Lk 10:24)
On the
journey of our lives, we may as well be in a shipping crate unless we place
ourselves at the window of worship of the Word in Scripture and Sacrament,
prayer and praise. Jesus invites us: Climb up in the front seat and feast your
eyes on the open country. Know where
you come from, where you are going, and enjoy the journey. Come to the feast!
Monsignor Smith
