“Sermon Before Sunrise”

c. 2020 Rod Ice

All rights reserved

(5-20)

Foggy. My Black Lab never seems to notice.

I woke early on Saturday morning. My left hip feeling out-of-position and sore. Very typical when cooling off after a day of rising temperatures and thunderstorms. The air was damp and heavy around my shoulders as we walked in the grass. Lingering wisps of moisture clung to every surface. A yard-light nearby seemed to twinkle. I stood silently while the dog chose his spot to pee. Childhood memories returned as I recalled being glad for insomnia while the family slumbered. In those quiet moments I could sit at my homemade desk, topped with a slab of particle board. Free of distractions. Able to practice the craft I barely knew. The habit of my father.

Wordsmithing.

I had reached my second pour of coffee when the desk began to buzz with energy. A strange wrinkle in the morning. Wave-forms oscillated in the cup. An aroma of sweet honey filled the room. A petrichor I could not explain.

Then, I was no longer alone.

“Wrangler?” I called out with confusion. “What did you do?” I felt a hand on my shoulder.

“Behold,” a voice intoned, gently. “I am the Lord.”

My office chair nearly toppled over. I spun like Captain Kirk during a battle with Klingons. “Whaaaat? Who, what, who?”

“I am the Lord,” he repeated. His voice fell upon my ears, softly. Like rose petals caught in the wind. His appearance was difficult to discern. A comforting glow of celestial energy radiated from his face. Rays of white and blue, and many colors from across the spectrum as he turned. But I felt peace being in his presence.

My eyes went wide open. “Jesus?”

He smiled with a benevolent gaze. “If that is the name by which you know me, then yes.”

I trembled in my chair. “Forgive me...”

“That is my specialty,” he said. His good humor was unexpected, but welcome.

“Sorry, sorry,” I pleaded. “What I meant to say was...”

He nodded with understanding. “You are worried about being a poor host. But I did not come here this morning as a social call. Do not trouble yourself.”

My face reddened with embarrassment. “Coffee? I could make a fresh pot...”

He laughed out loud. “No, Rodney. Enjoy your beverage, and listen.”

Steam drifted from the cup. “I thought my Black Lab had knocked something over in the kitchen. Maybe kicked the front door open. This is a friendly time to peck away at the keyboard, you know. I do my best work between midnight and sunrise.”

He nodded again. “Of course.”

I fumbled my words. “Look, this isn’t starting out right. I apologize. You didn’t come all this way to hear about my dog or watch me drink Maxwell House while I try to conjure up a story for my column series.”

Jesus smiled once more. “I have always been here, Rodney.”

A deep breath wheezed through my lips. “Right, right. What I meant was you have appeared to me now, shown yourself, whatever you would call it...”

He gestured with his hands. “Relax, my son.”

I drank more coffee. The dark brew soothed my throat. “Anyway, I have been out-of-focus. A friend is in the hospital. Someone who lives by Lake Erie. I call her ‘Janis.’ She is a stray cat, undisciplined, not a believer. Really not tuned-in to anything. Nearly alone. But I prayed for her. An entreatment made for this feral soul. My odd companion.”

“I received your petition,” he affirmed. “Even a single flame may chase away darkness.”

My lungs went flat. “Okayyy. I think she is getting better.”

Jesus bowed his head. “Rodney, I visit you now because of what happened yesterday. Do you remember that uneasy morning?”

I shook my head. “Yesterday?”

“You had a different guest here in your study. One who may bring conflict and strife. A force of ruin and despair,” he reflected. “Yet your reaction was to profess belief. Do you remember?”

I groaned with discomfort. “Yeahhhh… is that what I did?”

He nodded in certainty. “The Devil grew fatigued by this simple act. A pure statement of faith.”

I felt awkward. “He took me by surprise. I was working on a writing project, like right now. Nobody expects Satan to pop up before sunrise. Certainly not in rural Ohio. Right? Like the ‘Spanish Inquisition’ of Monty Python lore. It isn’t on the radar. But then, it is...”

Jesus looked away, thoughtfully. “In your own words, you expressed a sureness in the message. A devotion to light over darkness. To love over loathing. A desire to follow the path to a greater existence. To receive the gifts of a higher calling.”

I sipped my coffee. “Well, that’s a kind assessment. I like it. My spiritual journey has been um… a period of wandering? One still in progress. I grew up in a Christian household. But I am not into ‘brand name religion.’ We get hung up on labels, on teams, on tribes. Like sports rivalries. When I see neighbors root for our foes in football or baseball, it drives me nuts. But we all enjoy the same competitive spirit. It was in New York that I first encountered that view of churches, you know. Of looking to a higher power. Spokes on a wheel. The idea that every gaze toward the azure blue is directed skyward, like spokes on a wheel going to the same center. I worship the face of God that is familiar. My indigenous ancestors praised a creator that lived in the air and soil and trees and other beings. That also makes sense. Every tradition has some merit. In truth, our mortal minds can only touch what will be revealed in eternity, with the fullness of time… we get too sure of ourselves. And lose the power of staying humble.”

He nodded, slowly. “Yes. That is why you were not afraid, yesterday.”

My tone became more subdued. “I expected him to sound like Tom Ellis. British accent and worldly confidence, bubbling with false charm, that sort of thing. Some of my relatives stick with the red skin, pointed ears, and glowing pitchfork image. Regardless, he came across as a loser.”

Jesus folded his hands. “Of course.”

“Satan represents defeat,” I said. “Like the description of Armageddon, the great battle already decided. Represented in nature as the force of light. Energy which may travel millions of miles and illuminate the cosmos. By whatever name, by whatever tradition, the concept is fixed. In us and in the stars. Darkness has lost, already.”

“I think you have your inspiration,” he declared.

“Inspiration?” I wondered aloud. “For writing?”

“Yes,” he agreed. “Take the pen and scribble out what is in your heart.”

“Satan and Jesus popping into the home office,” I mused. “Right, right. That’ll get me trolled on Twitter. Heckled, persecuted, pestered and teased. Who sees Lucifer and the Lord on successive days? While drinking coffee? While his dog sleeps in the kitchen?”

Jesus laid his hand on my shoulder, as before.

“You,” he smiled. “Be well, Rodney.”

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