Aurora Boringalis

Last Friday had been a relatively long day. A trustees’ meeting, four bus journeys and a pastoral visit thirty miles apart, I looked forward to an early night, sinking into my bed at 10.15pm. I think I was quite possibly the only man in England to be abed at that time, for all else were up, gazing at the skies, photographing the Aurora Borealis. I woke the following morning to dozens of photographs that thoughtful folk had sent me and hundreds more on social media.

I ought to explain that I have been to the Shetland Islands thrice in the hope of seeing the Merry Dancers as they are affectionately known up there. Sadly, I saw them not at all. Then they appear above my own roof one May evening, and I am fast asleep in my bedchamber. Of course, I contented myself with the notion that the light shows in heaven will be far greater than anything I that night missed, though I was naturally miffed. Those who had never sought them found them; I who had travelled hundreds of miles to find them, missed them.

Sleep is a good thing, but it is sometimes employed by the Biblical writers to convey attitudes of godless ignorance and spiritual lethargy. I might have missed a mysterious and beautiful light show, but there are many others who will miss paradise because they are too indolent. They know there is a God and a coming reckoning, but would sooner paint the spare room and plant begonias than look to the new heavens and the new earth.