My home sits at the top of a ridge running more or less in a north-south direction, with slopes both in front and back. The backyard slopes east toward woods, and all the bedrooms have at least one window that lets in the early morning sun, its rays filtered through the trees. The front of the house faces west, and there’s a stunning view of the sunset from the walk up to the porch. From the center of my couch through the living room window, or from the front porch, I can see across the valley to the rising hill on the other side. There are a couple houses in the distance, and on a bright clear day, I may even be able to spot birds flying across the meadow. It is a calm and peaceful view, one that some might even call picturesque.
None of that, however, is visible in the early light of dawn. With the days shortening as we turn towards autumn, the sun is just peeking through gaps in the trees out back when I sit down with a cup of coffee in hand. It may seem light enough out the back, but the only sights visible through the front windows are the maple trees with their spreading branches that are just a few feet from scraping the house. I can barely see their trunks, and beyond them the volunteer saplings sprouted in the roadside ditch. All that lies beyond those few dozen yards of yard – the road, the woods leading down to the valley, the houses, the meadow on the far side – all is invisible when I sit down. As the darkness begins to lift, it reveals another limitation to the sight: here there is often a thick morning mist in the trees, obscuring the view even further. It’s only as the mist begins to dissipate and burn off in the warmth of the sun that those distant scenes can be seen.
I’ve been contemplating that transformation often, as I sip my coffee and watch the day dawn. The verse that has often come to mind in those moments is 1 Corinthians 13:12: “For now we see through a glass, darkly; but then face to face: now I know in part; but then shall I know even as also I am known.” There is much in this life that I don’t understand, much that is little more than the vague shadowy outlines of leafy branches stretching away towards the road. As my eyes can detect only the blurred shapes of trees just across the road in the misted darkness, so too my mortal mind can only grasp the obscure outlines of how the Lord is working. I see very dimly through a glass, and truly know only in part. It takes the light of dawn to pull objects from obscurity, and one day, the light of the Lord’s physical presence will likewise remove the shadows of ignorance. One day all will be clear, all (that matters) will be known*, and all will be at rest. Morning will dawn, and the darkness will not return.
*Obligatory caveat, lest you consider my theology and hermeneutic skills careless at best: limited space, limited time, etc. The comparison is drawn to how we ourselves are known fully, by the Lord. The ESV is phrased, “Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I have been fully known.” Does that mean we’ll have the entire body of earthly knowledge downloaded into our brains? I don’t know. Does it mean we’ll fully comprehend the Lord? I don’t know that either. There’s nothing in Scripture that indicates that we will essentially become God for all of eternity; I have to imagine that as perfect as we will be in the resurrected state, barring any word in Scripture that teaches otherwise, we will still be different from God. I don’t know how that works, and I don’t think we’re supposed to know. For now we know in part, and I can leave it to the Lord to work out.