Image of the Invisible

While not giving Charles Wesley a run for his title, Paul was something of a hymn writer—or a hymn quoter. Some scholars think these doxologies were already being used, and Paul just wove them into his writing, as I might quote a popular song or newspaper article. But whether he wrote these words or chose them to make his point, Paul is giving us a hymn of praise to Christ here in the early part of the letter to the Colossians. Jesus is the “He” referred to in verse fifteen, if that was not already obvious. Christ is the image of the invisible God, the firstborn of all creation. Perhaps these words inspired John to open his Gospel with a similar tune and chorus. In the beginning was the Word and the Word was with God and the Word was God. He was in the beginning with God. All things came into being through him. That’s John’s version of this song of praise, this doxology. It sounds similar.

It goes on from this declaration at the beginning to describe the place, the status, the power of Christ and the beginnings of Trinitarian theology. “For in him all the fulness of God was pleased to dwell.” All the fulness. True God of true God, begotten not made, of one being with the Father....” It makes your head spin to try to comprehend it. Maybe that is part of the purpose: to make our heads spin. A little head spinning is good for us, not for confusion’s sake, but to open us to the wonder of Christ, to the power of God. What an incredible, certainly not ordinary, thing God chose to do—to put on flesh and walk among us, to enter into our reality, our brokenness, so that we would know God understands; so that we e would know God feels our pain and knows our weakness. We would know that God is not some distant force, but an intimate presence right here. “Lo, I am with you always, to the end of the age.” Head spinning, indeed.

Wait. I mean, good for him and all. But what about the ordinary? The everyday? The moments that pass by almost unnoticed until we with a great act of will force ourselves to wake up, to pay attention to each breath, each encounter? How do we open our eyes to those passing moments, so that they don’t pass unheeded? How do we stop and acknowledge those we love in front of us, the ones who make our hearts pound even if we forget to pay attention to the pounding from time to time? How do we grab the ones slipping out of our grasp before we even see it? How do we hang on to this moment long enough to let those around us know that we are who we are because they are in our lives, they came to bless us, they came to shape us, they came to love us even in our most unlovable? We’ve missed too many moments. They disappear too quickly, and by the time we pay attention to them, they are gone, and the chance was missed. How do we wake up to the ordinary?

With magic. Ordinary magic. That’s the image of the invisible. Not sleight-of-hand magic, or flamboyant otherworldly magic. Ordinary magic—the invisible connection between us, around us, before us always. When I was a kid, there was a presence that still resides in my memory who told us to remember the magic. Every morning, Captain Kangaroo would gently open our eyes to the world around us, and he concluded every program with the admonition to remember the magic words, “please and thank you.” Yeah, I’m old. But the Captain was followed by others – Mr. Rodgers, Steve from Blues Clues, Clunette on the Big Comfy Couch. So many. Who is it now? Paw Patrol? Bluey? Who is telling our kids, telling us, about ordinary magic? Who is reminding us that ordinary magic is gratitude. Gratitude reminds us of our connection, our reliance on those around us to make our lives meaningful. Thank you for loving me. Thank you for feeding me, for clothing me, for making me laugh, and for holding me while I cry. Thank you for being there for me. And, wonder of wonders, thank you for wanting to.

I’m amazed at Paul’s hymn here in Colossians. Amazed at the wonder of who Christ is, yes. But really amazed at the end. After all, this is about God in Christ. It ends with the words that this whole thing, this whole wonderful, amazing, head-spinning thing, was so that you and I could find our way home to the arms of God. “Through him, God was pleased to reconcile to himself all things.” All things, you and me. To himself, to God, himself. We are brought back into relationship. And this is the best part: He was pleased to do it. He was pleased to bring me home. God was pleased to bend down and lift me up. God was pleased to hold the door, to stand watch at the end of the lane so that he could run to greet me when I came to myself and stumbled home. This wasn’t a duty born out of the nature of God. This wasn’t just in the job description. No, we are made right, brought home, welcomed into the loving arms of our Father, nurtured by our Mother in heaven because God was pleased to do so. Pleased by us. By you. By me. God was pleased.

The image of the invisible. Magic. Thank you. Thank you, God. Thank you who stand in for God from time to time, who carry the ordinary moments of our lives and make them rich and deep and full. It is the ordinary days that need cultivation and attention. Such days are what we harvest in our lifetimes. Amen I say, amen. And that cultivation and attention is the ordinary magic of gratitude—first to God and from there into everywhere. Thank you for who you are.