If you want to convince yourself of the incarnational quality of this existence, I suggest the Nature Channel, especially when it’s live at your house. A big spider has been hanging out in my front window, and this week I watched her spin her web. (OK Australians, not as big as your spiders but bigger than your average household arachnid. And yes, clearly it’s a she because Charlotte’s Web.)
How differently would we conceive of everything if we used the bottom of our abdomens not to expel waste products but to craft a tool that sustained our lives? If we had eight dexterous extremities that bent in all sorts of creepy ways? Nothing would be the same, beginning with the non-creepiness of the leg bending.
Our bodies determine how we experience this world. At church, some people are not well enough to walk to the front to receive Communion, and so we bring it to them. I don’t always respond with compassion to others’ infirmities and had to remind myself to see beyond one woman’s failing body to the divinity within her.
Then my perception shifted, and I realized that God isn’t separate from her aging. We don’t share in divinity despite our physical state but rather through our physical state, whatever it happens to be.
God is very much in our physical nature. How could it be otherwise when that nature shapes our relationship to reality? It’s not the only thing affecting that relationship, but it’s always part of the equation. We can change our attitudes and attachments, but if you’re six feet tall, life will always look different than if you’re five foot two—or if you happen to spin webs for a living.
And it is in this life, shaped by this physical reality, shared with these spiders, that we encounter the holy. God is at our fingertips and in our fingertips. We don’t have to go anywhere or change anything to find what we’re seeking. We can recognize its presence as our own.
8 thoughts on “Spiders and Eucharist, Together at Last”
Thanks, Rachel. Sometimes, I wonder why, for me, it’s easier to see God in (for example) a 26-year-old Adonis in Speedos, than in the saggy, 72-year-old body in the mirror 🙂
Lol! “It’s subtle, very subtle.”
Yes, subtle. If my question was actually serious, I know the answer (and so do you:) what I see has everything to do with the lens I’m looking through. I need to be born again, so the lens changes, so it’s converted.
Ah, I was thinking it had something to do with Kali’s whole world destroying shtick.
Love this. Aham Prema.
Maybe, your spider is an incarnation of Kali.
What would that mean?
To me, it means God is an eight-legged spider.