Revelation

Ahh, the first ripe tomatoes. These, more than the herbs, the lettuces, the peppers, represent to me the rewards of putting in gardens. These alone make the work worth it. Every year the remarkable flavor, aroma, texture of these brilliantly scarlet globes or oblongs is a new revelation. Perhaps it's the 'wild summer spirit' (whatever that may mean) infusing these one-a-year fruit, reminding me afresh of special qualities I've been missing all year, qualities that were certainly in abundance in the fruit I collected  this evening. I hadn't expected the tomatoes as soon--most are still green--but hidden among the leaves: delectable surprise.

Reading J.E. Smith's Experience and God, I come across the topic of revelation. Smith makes the point that we must 'wait upon the special occasions of disclosure (to discover the nature of God)', those moments when ordinary things and activities take on heightened significance regarding the mystery and purpose of life. He emphasizes the historicity of these events--this, here, now--not everywhere or always. So I invite you, God-in-love, from time to time, with no warning, and as you wish, to disclose yourself in this or that person or event, presenting yourself for direct, if not immediate (as in mystical experience) apprehension. Suddenly, or more often in the reflective savoring of memory, these occasions show the richness of the world of which the ordinary is just the skin, and bring me into encounter with you, yourself.

I know that as summer progresses, the farmer's market will become burdened with tomatoes. My vines will produce prodigiously. I may become sated eventually. But last night gathering by flashlight and tasting, I was encountering what tomatoes hitherto have only pretended to be. I think, however, I'll never have enough of meeting you.