God in Nature - Paragraph 18

I’ve had a cold this week, one of those small, inconvenient illnesses that makes every movement feel exaggerated. Especially in the middle of a move. I’m aware of each joint as I stand up, the slight labor involved in walking across the room. The steam from a cup of hot tea definitely lands more deeply in my body, as if the warmth has a destination. Strangely, the slowing has prepared me to hear Roberts’ words with a kind of raw attentiveness. When the body is stripped of its usual speed, something in the soul becomes more permeable. There’s more room to notice the subtle invitations of the holy, invitations that rarely announce themselves, but arise quietly when we’re still enough to be with them. Here’s today’s text:

Integration of God’s Omnipresence and Immanence in Nature

“Initially no particular need arises to integrate these two revelations. We take for granted the unseen Omnipresent deigned to show itself as Immanent, an epiphany that only acts to further verify God’s presence in nature. In time, however - and perhaps with repeated experience - we increasingly ponder the difference, for these are, in fact, two very different ways of seeing and knowing God. A problem only arises if we try to integrate these two revelations on an intellectual basis. Thus if we conclude God is Omnipresent because God is Immanent in nature, we tend to eliminate God’s Omnipresence. Or the other way around: to conclude God is Immanent because of His Omnipresence, then the Immanent becomes lost. Keep in mind, one is not the other. To be present in something is to be enclosed, located and particularized, whereas to be present everywhere, has no enclosure, no location, can never be particularized. Also, where the former is personal, the latter is relatively impersonal. While both revelations can be awesome in their own right, they are nevertheless totally distinct. They are not just two different experiences or even just two different revelations; rather, God’s Omnipresence and Immanence are two totally different aspects of God.”

Roberts opening sentence, “Initially no particular need arises to integrate these two revelations” feels important particularly the word “arises.” She’s not asking me to work at integration nor suggesting a conceptual project or a theological puzzle to solve. She’s pointing toward something that unfolds in its own timing. Understanding comes when it comes and integration reveals itself as it reveals itself. There is mercy in that. So much of this path has felt like stumbling into insights I didn’t plan for, moments when something becomes obvious precisely because I stopped trying to make it clear.

Next, she then uses this old-fashioned word: deigned. The Omnipresent “deigns” to show itself as Immanent; everywhere including within, boundless yet embodied. Omnipresence as the great ungraspable, impersonal expanse AND Immanence as the particular, the enclosed, the personal. Two different ways of encountering God. Two different ways of being met. Two different aspects of the One we cannot contain.

I never learned in my faith tradition that we could discern facets of God the way we might explore facets of an orange. Texture (dimpled), shape (round), scent (fragrant)…all different qualities, none of which compete with the others. A. H. Almas writes beautifully about this in his book Facets of Unity (pg. 207). He describes how each facet points to a fruit called orange. Encountering God’s Immanence doesn’t diminish God’s Omnipresence. Experiencing the omnipresent field doesn't erase the intimate presence in the flower. The mistake, Bernadette says, is trying to make one explain the other. It’s the mind that wants collapse and clarity. The soul is fine with paradox.

So I find myself wondering:
Where in my life is understanding quietly arising without my effort? Which aspect of the holy, both the everywhere or the within, is shimmering for me today?

If her words ask anything of me, it’s something simple but not easy: slow down enough to name what is actually happening. In other words, to be exact, honest and present to the truth of my experience instead of describing it in vague strokes (or not acknowledging it at all). As an Enneagram Nine, I can float with soft edges and approximations. Yet there is something deeply respectful, almost devotional, in naming what is real with precision. Not analyzing it, just acknowledging it clearly. If God reveals Godself in more than one way, then I want to honor the specificity of the encounter.

Another question then is:
What happens in me when I try to name my experience accurately rather than generally? And where is life inviting me into a more exacting presence?

I’m left wondering how it’s actually going for me, this exactness. With moving, the boxes, and this foggy cold, I can’t say I’m doing it gracefully. But maybe that’s the point. Some days the practice feels attainable; other days I’m just tired, achy, and doing the next small thing. Yet even this is a kind of teacher, a reminder that presence doesn’t require ideal conditions. Sometimes the limitations of the moment reveal what is most true. Sometimes slowness gives the soul more room to breathe.

As I sit in the slowness and as the year winds down, I feel a natural turning inward. A desire to gently ask,”If I long to be more exact, what might that look like in practice? Not as a resolution, but as a rhythm that could emerge almost on its own, like a tide returning.

Perhaps this cold, with its slowed-down way of moving through the world, is helping me discern the next invitation. Maybe it is preparing me to sense what wants to arise next.

A simple practice:
Pause sometime today and place a hand over your heart or belly.
Name one thing you are sensing in this moment, exactly as it is.
Let that be enough.