Before I turn off the engine and get out of the car, I scroll through my phone to find a podcast episode to listen to. My dog wishes I would do this at home instead of wasting his precious sidewalk-sniffing time. This week, as I sat with my car idling, my dog whining, and my phone in hand, something caught my attention out of the corner of my eye.
Time seemed to stand still as about a million thoughts raced through my mind. How long had it been there? Did I have time to snap a picture? Had my dog noticed it as well? When he did, would he bark and frighten it away? What kind of bird has so many colors in its feathers? Why had I never seen a bird like this before? But I knew who to call. Ragan, the resident Christ Church bird expert, introduced me to an app for my phone that helps to identify birds.
A European Starling. I was so delighted to see it again and to have my strange and wonderful experience validated. The text tells us that Jesus sees the heavens torn open, and Jesus sees the Spirit descending like a dove. God speaks directly to Jesus. Those few moments seem to be meant for Christ and Christ alone. In a way, all baptisms are like this. We alone can hear what God is calling us to do, who God is calling us to be.
But of course, the encounter is not just about the gentle, birdlike descent of the Spirit. But this is not what our Gospels are trying to convey.
Instead, the supporting fabric of reality as we know it is ripped apart in a thunderous, visceral way. As I watched these events unfold I could think of no better way to describe how I felt than torn apart. How could such a feeling have anything to do with that gentle, birdlike Spirit that descended on me at my baptism?
