Finding God in the Twilight

There’s a line I once heard in a story: someone asked a monk, “So you speak with God?” And the monk replied, “No—I listen to God.”

That answer feels like twilight to me. Not full daylight, when everything is visible and obvious. Not deep night, when we are wrapped in silence and hiddenness. Twilight is something in-between: part light, part shadow, just enough to see, but not enough to be certain.

I think about the Northern Lights I had the wonderful opportunity to see during a trip into Alaska earlier this year. Seeing them wasn't something we could control, but rather something we hoped to see. When they appeared, they were a shimmer of beauty that felt like a blessing.

Speaking of blessings, prayer can feel the same way. God rarely meets me in the clear daylight of certainty. More often, it is in the half-light—where the edges blur, where my control slips away, and where I am invited simply to allow myself to be.

Mary Rees, in Being Prayer[1], describes a “mediating space” … between what she calls our “ordinary mind” and a “ground consciousness.” It’s the span that connects the everyday experience and silent presence — a space where the ordinary mind pauses between its usual patterns and a deep stillness of eternity. It's a space in which we might feel a connection with all others, gain clarity of our individiual purpose, and experience a deep peace.

That’s what I imagined when I saw the northern lights: a mediating sky, alive with mystery, holding me between clarity and darkness … a foundational state of awareness that transcends ordinary mental activity _ a place characterized by a deep, embodied presence …  receptive, open, and attuned to the present moment.

I want to rush out of the half-light, to know what’s next, to see where I’m going. But God seems to ask me to stay. To watch. To listen. The half-light itself becomes holy ground.

Twilight, like the aurora, is tender and fleeting. Perhaps the in-between moments of life are not meant to be solved or skipped over, but to be inhaled, to be received. —like standing beneath the northern lights, watching the sky shimmer with a presence I cannot hold, to be breathed in, to be welcomed.

So, I pray not for certainty, but for attentiveness—trusting that in the blur and the half-light, God is already here.

[1] Mary Rees, Being Prayer. Nutshell Publications, Houston, TX. 2006

Photo: R. Raymond. Aurora Borealis, Alaska. 2025.