On Easter Sunday of 2022 I scribbled a note describing that morning’s heavy fog. I planned to write a column soon thereafter, but instead treaded water in the pool of good intentions. Although my note found obscurity in a deepening stack, the idea would occasionally resurface, especially on foggy mornings.
I’ve been to a lot of sunrise services, the earliest of which came during the 1950s at Harmony Baptist Church. Springtime weather has been perfect on countless mornings for outdoor celebrations of the resurrection. The occasion I remember most clearly, however, began with what seemed little promise.
Vienna First Baptist, where I’m a member, held joint sunrise services with Shiloh United Methodist for several years. Shiloh’s historic church has snow-white clapboards plus a charming steeple. Its rural setting emanates a serenity Norman Rockwell could not have enhanced.
I had been to Shiloh on other Easter mornings. I had experienced the soft glow of light peeking out from the distant side of an open field. Each time the rising sun was a poignant reminder of a risen Savior.
Navigating through dense fog on the pre-dawn drive to Shiloh that morning was a bit of a letdown. A sunrise service without sunshine lacked appeal. Low expectations were easily embraced, but thankfully soon erased.
Our pastor, Brian Leverett, delivered the short message and shared something I needed reminding of. Brian said that even though we couldn’t see the sun, we all knew it was there. The fog had no effect on the source of light. It only obscured it.
The same is true of God and his Son. There’s no limit to the things that can come between us and our Creator, things that fog our minds, dampen our spirits, and may even cause us to wonder where God is in the mayhem.
Gary Turner once shared a story with me which helps put that in perspective. He told about a Sunday School lesson taught by Mr. John Bonner in the men’s class at Vienna First Baptist. Mr. John, a godly man and gifted teacher, posed a question one Sunday morning – “Where is God?”
A few days later a class member stopped by Mr. John’s home. Mr. Fred Moore, a rugged man who spent decades in the timber industry, drove Mr. John to a lovely spot of forested land on his property. He didn’t explain the purpose of their outing until they arrived at the place he wanted his friend to see.
“John,” he said, as they admired a beautiful setting, “last Sunday you asked us where God is. Well I can’t tell you where God is, but I can show you where he’s been.”
Our world seems increasingly in disarray. It’s easy to feel overwhelmed by problems in our country and around the globe, plus the personal struggles that affect us or those dear to us. Sometimes I find it helpful to reflect on those two incidents, one a hazy Easter morning, the other a moment between old friends.
It doesn’t matter how thick the fog may be, I know the sun is still shining. And when challenges make it tempting to wonder where God is, I like to visualize two gray-haired men sitting in a pickup truck admiring our Creator’s handiwork. Evidence of where God has been is all around us. And evidence of where he is flows from within us if we allow it.
Perhaps it was best that I didn’t write a column as quickly as intended. I’ve had time to mull the experience, time to better appreciate that fog comes in many forms, time to reaffirm that no matter how foreboding the haze may be, we have a choice. We can allow it to dampen our spirits, or we can embrace the assurance of the Son’s unfailing light.
I’ve been to services early on Easter mornings when the weather was ideal, yet the one I most vividly recall is when the light was dim, mostly hidden from view. I already knew the sun was shining, but sometimes I need reminding.