Omen

High up, within the circle atop the steeple is a masted ship. Unusual symbol to define a church. Crosses, Celtic or plain, orbs, roosters all are common. Each says something about the sanctuary beneath. Each is chosen by a leader or a committee to shout to the world some message, perhaps shrouded in tradition. ‘We always did it that way,’ is a powerful push for choosing symbols. It precludes searching for new meanings or directions.

But there is this single masted ship, a square rigger; its spar forming a cross; its prow cutting through waves. Perhaps a sailor on the committee came up with the design, or the leader wanted to stress an ecumenical push, perhaps a missionary church? Who knows? The symbolism is lost, leaving the ship, sailing on.

The November dawn touched it, leaving us in shadow below. A figure had been added since I looked last. A passenger, or more likely a crew member stood next to the mast, looking into the morning sun. Perhaps he trimmed the sails. Perhaps he considered new horizons stretching out, beyond. I stopped, considering how this changed the whole thing, personalized it, deepened it. I wondered why I’d never noticed before. And then it flew off, into the east.

But now, when I look up there, I see him, up against the mast, searching the horizon for the coming dawn.