LOOKING AT THE SKY

There is one thing Jesus does often: look up to the sky. With this gesture, he accompanies his actions, his relationships, the simple moments of daily life, and the solemn and mysterious hours of the night. He does this even in the presence of those who provoke him, tempt him, or insult him. In this way, he does not merely look toward the place from which he came, but seeks to turn toward his inner orientation: the Father, whom he senses as both near and far, present and absent, and in whom he has such boundless trust that he is not even touched by the impossibility of feeding a multitude of men and women in the desert. Looking at the sky is also an important anthropological act because in this way one understands the distance between man and God; but not only that, it expresses, in its simplicity, the dimensions of existence while respecting the proportions of life’s realities. If one does not look at the sky, it is impossible to measure life correctly. There is an illuminating verse on this subject by
M. Anna Maria Cànopi, OSB, in which her deep bond with God shines through, perceived in part through the stirrings of nature:

I love the sky
I like the sky more and more.
(…)
I have nothing
when I look at myself and look at it
it is mine.

First and foremost, the reciprocity of the gaze emerges. Looking at the sky is neither passive nor alienating, but mysteriously marks an encounter. The sky looks, looks at us, thus suggesting that God, the Father, envelops our little soul. He, the infinite, as Leopardi would say. One feels—and it is paradoxical—that one has nothing and at the same moment possesses everything.

Commentary by d. Sandro Carotta, osb
Abbazia di Praglia (Italia)