Summer has come.  And those of us in the Northern Hemisphere can once more rejoice in the warmth and bounty that accompanies, indeed, seems to burst out of this timeless pattern of rotation, orbit, and diachronic splendor.  However much we get wrapped up in our technology, we still tend, as our ancient ancesters did, to mark our lives by the movements of the sun.  That's who we are.

     The word solstice literally means, "the sun stands still" or "the sun doesn't move."  People who live in the Arctic know this firsthand:  for a couple of months during the summer, the sun never slips below the horizon.  For people who live further south, although the sun rises and sets every day and night, on some days, time does seem to stand still.  Everything seems to shine, grass, trees, flowers, lakes, streams; the sky seems endless, not a cloud in it; and the air seems as though it could not get any better, any better at all.  The world almost seems, at this moment, and no other, perfect.  It is as if heaven, in the broadest sense, has come upon earth, as if a spell, a wondrous and glorious spell has been cast:  peace, harmony, and bliss flood the land.
     Despite its troubles, our planet remains remarkably predictable and resilient, the work of a God of love and grace whose fact of presence is beyond our imagination.  In this God is order, and in this order is us:  moral and free beings, free to move, free to seek, free to love.