“Why are you standing there looking up at the sky?” Two men in white garments pose this question to the awestruck apostles.
The apostles have just heard the resurrected Christ promise the coming baptism of the Holy Spirit—and then witnessed him disappear from their sight. The author of Luke and Acts recorded the incident nearly 2,000 years ago. It’s an event we still celebrate: the Solemnity of the Ascension of the Lord.
This year, most U.S. dioceses chose to celebrate the ascension on a date marked by another occasion that led many people to look up at the sky: the strongest geomagnetic storm in more than two decades. The National Oceanic and Atmospheric Administration (NOAA) issued a G5 warning, the highest level applied to solar storms. They predicted that the aurora borealis, more commonly known as the Northern Lights, might be visible as far south as Alabama, Texas, and Southern California.
As a resident of one of St. Paul, Minnesota’s suburbs, I was excited to read news reports that said I could be in for a spectacular show. My smartphone’s weather app promised cloudless skies on those nights, perfect for aurora viewing.
A few nights later, when a neighbor texted me photos of the Northern Lights she was seeing, I hurried outside and looked hopefully at the northern sky—but it was the standard deep, dark blue, without any hint of shapeshifting majestic colors.
I knew the Northern Lights can be seen more clearly without light pollution, so I drove north for 30 minutes and parked near a cornfield. I kept vigil there for several hours, my eyes scanning the skies. Finally, the desire for sleep won out, and I drove home, hoping for better luck on another night.
“Taking in the grandeur of creation can draw me into a more open-hearted posture.”
The next night, my friends Rebekah and Tristan and I decided to search for the lights together. They picked me up, prepared with blankets, camp chairs, and charged cell phones (since the lights are more vivid when viewed through a cam- era lens). When we arrived at our destination, the parking lot was fairly full, and people of all ages waited hopefully, looking upward. We joined them, setting up along the lake facing north.
After scanning the sky for about an hour and a half, we began to feel defeated. Many of our fellow aurora chasers, especially families with young children, had already departed.
“Well, we tried,” Rebekah said. “It’s late. We should really get home.”
I agreed, disappointed that my hopes had been dashed two nights in a row.
Then, just as we were about to pack up and return to the car, Rebekah touched my arm. “Wait! Look! Over there!” She pointed toward a white wisp that had materialized in the northwest sky above the silhouettes of trees. We squinted at the elegant cotton candy figure. Was it real—or just wishful thinking?
“Do you think it’s a cloud?” I asked and then answered my own question: “No! See how it’s moving and changing? Clouds don’t do that!”
Slowly, silently, more white wisps appeared. Then they grew brighter, morphing into ribbons of colored light: brilliant green with hints of red and purple waving in the dark sky. As I took in the spectacle, tears blurred my vision.
“Look over there! And there!” we gasped, pointing in one direction and then another.
My eyes moved across the horizon, trying to take it all in, but the visual symphony was far greater than my field of vision. We kept saying, “Wow!”—but the word wasn’t an adequate response to the glorious tendrils of color undulating above us. We found shapes in the ever-evolving lights: an angel, a dino- saur, a heart. After about 20 minutes, the majestic heavenly ballet ended as silently and mysteriously as it had begun. The night sky returned to its usual deep blue-black.
Though it was well past midnight when I returned home, elation and effervescence made sleeping difficult. I had taken in the spectacular scene with my eyes, but I felt it with my whole self. Lying in bed, I could still feel in my chest a sense of warmth and spaciousness. From my head to my toes, my body tingled with awe and wonder. The aurora’s wild beauty had opened me in some way.
As I reflected on the physical sensation of seeing the aurora borealis, I remembered the powerful image in St. Augustine’s classic work City of God (later built upon by Martin Luther)
of the heart turned in on itself: incurvatus in se. Of course, the image is intended to describe the figurative heart and the inner life, not the literal heart that keeps our blood flowing. I found meaning in the connection with the physical body, though, even if that wasn’t what Augustine intended.
Those two spring nights when I kept vigil outdoors brought me into a posture with a straightened spine, a lifted chin, and my shoulders drawn back. I waited and watched, hopefully and—to the best of my ability—patiently. Body and spirit, I was open, ready, alert, and hopeful.
I think of how moments of biblical theophany are depicted in art: Moses before the burning bush, the apostles at the trans- figuration, Mary at the annunciation, and the appearance of the Spirit like a dove at Christ’s baptism. So often the characters in these scenes have their eyes raised, their arms open, their chests lifted. This is a physical posture of vulnerability, openness, availability: a willingness to encounter and be encountered. It’s the posture that centering prayer teachers recommend for the practice of quiet receptivity to God’s presence.
In contrast, when we feel threatened or insecure, we instinctively lift our shoulders up and in; we may also cross our arms or legs. These postures indicate we are closing ourselves off when we sense we may be unsafe (physically or emotionally).
With this posture comes a narrowing of vision. Our inner alert systems awake, and our nervous systems shift in the direction of fight-or-flight mode. Rather than being open to encounter and possibility, our radar is up to detect potential threats.
I realized this defensive posture is how I often spend much of my day: my shoulders slumped, my head down, my chest slightly caved in as I look at a computer or phone screen. And so often the information I am taking in does not expand either my physical or metaphorical heart. Whether it’s online news about ongoing political gridlock and dysfunction or social media posts that feed polarization, my heart starts to turn in on itself in discouragement. All too easily, I lose perspective and become preoccupied with me and mine, rather than remembering the big picture. I find myself disconnected from God, my true self, others, and my place in creation. My physical posture and my receptivity to God’s invitation to live in conscious awareness of divine love and goodness are connected.
“The aurora’s wild beauty had opened me in some way.”
Taking in the grandeur of creation can draw me into a more open-hearted posture. Psalm 57:7, one of my favorite lines to chant during the divine office, reads, “My heart is ready, O God. My heart is ready.” The posture I assumed during those two aurora-chasing nights was the physical embodiment of that prayer: humbly and hopefully open- hearted, watchful for God’s goodness, knowing I was connected with God’s creation.
In these Advent days, we anticipate the story of another theophany marked by hopeful, openhearted seekers looking upward: the birth of Jesus, made known to shepherds and magi by signs in the sky. Like the ascension, like so many other theophanies in scripture, and like the glories of God’s creation, heavenly signs invite us into a posture of hopeful, attentive vigil. May our hearts and eyes be open, ready to catch glimpses of God, alive and present among us.
This article also appears in the December 2024 issue of U.S. Catholic (Vol. 89, No. 12, pages 21-22). Click here to subscribe to the magazine.
Image: Unsplash/Vincent Guth
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