Stained glass windows don’t make much sense in the dark.
In our chapel, we have a beautiful window which pictures our Holy Father St. Francis receiving the stigmata from the crucified seraph—(why Our Lord appeared in this way, crucified, but with the six wings of a Seraphim Angel is a mystery for pondering).
I often glance at it during the day.
One night during a storm, I looked over at it.
Of course, only vaguely curious shapes outlined in the drab grey of metal were visible.
I had faith and experiential certainty that the image was there and only the darkness was obscuring my senses.
Suddenly lightning flashed and lit up the image brilliantly, but only for a moment. I saw Our Lord’s Face, the wings, St. Francis—and then everything returned to blackness again.
I found myself waiting, anticipating the lightning, wanting to see Our Lord’s Face again, but knowing and loving what I had seen.
It’s not a bad analogy for contemplation—
we see Our Lord’s “outline” in the Host during Eucharistic Adoration, in the night of faith.
We wait for lightning to come, for a little glimpse of what God is really like, and hold onto to what we know and what we have seen in silent, adoring love.