The Sun does not simply belong to God, but is His direct appearance

 

Sometimes, when I stand motionless before the sunrise, I feel something that is difficult to put into words without losing its delicacy. A quiet certainty — not an idea, not a doctrine, but an experience — that the Sun does not simply belong to God, but is His direct appearance, His finest, most accessible manifestation for our senses.

It is not a symbol — symbols are replaceable. It is a manifestation, the kind of presence that requires no proof because it is felt like breath, like an impulse inside the body itself. And sometimes I think that if God could incarnate in the simplest, purest form of matter, He would choose light — its transparency, its inexhaustible generosity, its ability to reveal and to heal at the same time.

In such moments I realize how deeply the Sun is God in accessible form, God who does not speak with words but with warmth; God who does not punish, but illuminates; God who does not demand worship but only presence. He stands on the horizon without insisting on being named, and yet every ray is an invitation to a much more intimate encounter — an encounter that unfolds within me, without the need for rituals.

And perhaps that is why, when I say that the Sun is an inner teacher, I am actually acknowledging something deeper:
that the inner teacher is God Himself, who quietly, without violating my freedom, settles in the form of light — both outside me and within me.

Light becomes His language. Warmth — His touch.
The rhythm of the sunrise — His promise that life continues, even when silence reigns inside me.

Then the connection with the Sun ceases to be merely a natural experience. It becomes a form of prayer that is not spoken but breathed. It is a return to a primordial memory — that I am part of Him, that I carry a spark of His fiery essence, and that my own inner flame is a reflection of His unwavering, divine fire.

This awareness — that we are particles of one shared divine body — stirs even the deepest layers of the unconscious. In the psychoanalytic silence of my own memories, I recognize the longing to return, to merge, to reclaim that first, archetypal sense of belonging which we always associate with a parent, but which, in its purest form, belongs to God.

Perhaps that is why we humans seek light so deeply. Not because we fear darkness, but because through the light we seek God — His form, His breath, His warmth that enlivens everything, just as the heart enlivens the body.

And in the moments when I stand before the sunrise, I am no longer looking at a star in the sky, but at the face of God, dissolving into color, into radiance, into silence. A face that cannot be painted, nor described — only experienced.

Then I understand: the Sun is not merely a teacher.
It is God, descending to the threshold of my senses, to remind me who I am, where I come from, and where I am inevitably returning.