A Room With a View

A Reflection on the Second Reading ​for Sunday, September 1st, 2024:
Twenty-Second Sunday in Ordinary Time

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James
1.17-18, 21-22, 27

​Every generous act of giving, with every perfect gift, is from above, coming down from the Father of lights, with whom there is no variation or shadow due to change. In fulfillment of his own purpose he gave us birth by the word of truth, so that we would become a kind of first fruits of his creatures.

Welcome with meekness the implanted word that has the power to save your souls. But be doers of the word, and not merely hearers who deceive themselves.

Religion that is pure and undefiled before God, the Father, is this: to care for orphans and widows in their distress, and to keep oneself unstained by the world.

​Pause. Pray. Reflect.

A boat returning home long after sunset cuts through the dark water, trailing dancing white light where it has been. From where I kneel in the attic, the glass of the window comes down to the floor to meet my knees, and the top pane and my forehead are of a height. As I watch the boat from my perspective, the moon is high above the window frame and hidden from my sight. If I had a friend kneeling beside me, who grew up on a planet without any moons, it would look like magic to her. As if the boat had the power to paint with light, or the sea was able to chase the boat with diamonds. A miracle of light in the dark brought on by disturbance. Source unknown. 

That boat is us, built of wood milled from acorns grown to oaks. First fruits, born of the Word. That’s why it matters so much when we disturb the order of this world by caring for the least. For the “uns.” The un-noticed, the un-seen, the un-accompanied, the un-healthy, the un-balanced, the un-fed, the un-valued, the un-housed — the un-loved. When we cut through the pattern of living that encourages us to be oblivious and unresponsive to the needs of others, we create a wake in our draft. And the Father of Lights can dance in the waves we make. He loves to join us in the motion of removing the “un” and of revealing the noticed, the seen, the accompanied, the healthy, the balanced, the fed, the valued, the housed — the loved.

On the flat water, the moon’s light is soft and diffuse. On the broken water, the light is sharp and evident. There are people in our site lines — even ones observing from a distant window unknown to us — who, from their perspective, can’t see the Father. When we join Him and the “uns” in this act of restoration, these others come closer. Curious to see where the light is coming from, they change their perspective. 

​I lean toward my window, let my forehead rest on the glass, and suddenly the floodlight of the almost full moon is all around me.



Noreen Smith

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