[I’ve been pondering to possibilities for the next subject matter to tackle, two very different subjects: Wonder and Hell. The first because some others have blogged on it recently, so it’s timely. The second because it comes up again and again in pop culture, and so I have to keep explaining it to people. . .Let’s start with Wonder. It’s more pleasant, naturally, and won’t leave us in a funk if I don’t get to the other subject today.]
When I was eleven, a cousin was getting married in Denver, CO, and the rest of my mother’s (rather large) family decided it would be a good time for a family reunion. My mom and dad decided that since this was all happening in the middle of the summer, when neither my elder brother or I had school, that we’d drive to the wedding, taking the long route there and back. They believed that I should know more of my country than just suburban Maryland and Cape Cod (where Grandma and Grandpa lived). So off we went, with many stops along the way, most of historic or geographical interest. Battlefields, rock formations, canyons, craters, caves, dinosaur bones, Native American ruins and reservations. . . it was all included.
On the second half of the trip, we stopped for two nights at Mesa Verde. I was sick the first night, so I didn’t have a chance to go clambering through the ruins with the rest of my family. I stayed in the hotel room, sitting in a chair on the balcony, reading Anne McCaffery’s Dragonriders of Pern, listening to Phantom of the Opera, and getting interrupted by grazing deer looking for treats. That night, I was feeling better, and I was back out at the balcony, and there I saw something that etched itself in my brain forever. There was a lightening storm over the town below the mesa, and I could see it clearly from our rooms. We were too far away to hear any thunder, but down there, beneath our feet, silent lightening poured down. Looking up, then, I saw something few suburban kids ever see—the Milky Way, and a billion other stars scattered across the blue-black velvet of space.
I was entranced. Not just by the stars (My mother—and Kat—have often accused me of being more magpie than human, easily mesmerized by anything that sparkles or shines), but by the spaces between the stars. As though the hard vacuum had reached down and was pulling me farther and farther into the vastness that went on forever . . .
It was not the first time I’d lost myself in the night sky, and it would be far from the last. But something about that night—the brilliance of the stars, the silent lightening. . . I remember that night so clearly, and it’s been a little treasure that I’ve carried since.
Naturally, then, sometime on that trip I got infected by the travel bug. I was just fourteen when I went abroad for the first time (without my parents, no less) to Australia, to gaze at night skies at once strange and familiar, then later to such varied places as Budapest, Salzburg, Vienna, or the jungles of Belize. And every time, the sheer vastness of the world, its endless variety, and unexpected similarities, has always left me speechless in dumb amazement.
But, it’s also done something else—it’s made me appreciate the beauty and awesome majesty in my own backyard (or rather, since I haven’t got a backyard at the moment, my parents’). There are the little flowers in the spring—snowdrops and violets that glisten in the morning sunlight. Even the grass, if you look close, has an iridescent sheen when new. In the autumn, we have trees that look like they’re on fire, in the winter is the joy of new-fallen snow. There is the incredible happiness of my dog, (Capt.) Malcolm Reynolds, when I come to visit, and his strange intelligence when at play.
And, there is coffee. And Chocolate. And the internet itself. Things that if I sit down and ponder for just long enough, I’m amazed. I mean, caffeine. Chocolate, so perfect in taste and texture, no wonder the old civilizations considered it the food of the gods. And that the internet works consistently is a source of unending amazement to me. Yes, some of these are more natural than others, but they still leave one with a sense of awe, of wonder. And wonder, if allowed its course, leads to humility and gratitude.
The wonder at the marvels of my own country led me to be endlessly grateful to be born in this country. The wonders of other places led me to be grateful to be born in this world, at this time. All the wonder I encounter nurtures a deep and abiding gratitude to God, that I have been allowed to see such wonders. Even when not-so-nice things happen, like the diagnosis of cancer, I am still able to be grateful (Well, thank you God that I live in a time and place where they can do something about it. Thank you for my friends, family and this kick-*** laptop that gives me access to the world even when in isolation. And backup generators in the hospital so I can get air conditioning and my Saturday morning cartoons when the rest of the region has no power for three days due to a hurricane. Niiiice. . .).
Wonder begets humility and gratitude, both of which form an underestimated source of strength when hard things happen.
Gagdad Bob recently wrote over at One Cosmos:
The sense of wonder is not merely a useless "luxury capacity" that serves no human purpose. Rather, it is a spiritual sense that discloses valid information about the cosmos. In fact, like a divining rod, it tells us where to look for the water. It senses those "holes" in the landscape through which the wondrous spiritual energies gently bubble forth to the surface.
And later:
A genuine sense of wonder preserves the extraordinary in the familiar, and is therefore a key to happiness. Pieper notes that for Aquinas, it was one of the indirect proofs of God, in that "in the very first moment of wonder man sets his foot on the path at the end of which lies the visio beatifica, the blissful perception of the ultimate cause." In this regard, you might say that wonder is a way of "metabolizing reality," in that it involves both digestion and resultant growth.
[The whole thing is worth reading, so please do.]
Dennis Prager also recently wrote something related—that too much excitement deprives children of happiness.
. . . All this excitement renders young people jaded, not happy. To cite a simple example, many children today would refuse to watch a black and white film -- "It's boring," they say. They would even refuse to watch many of the greatest color films if they lacked the amount of excitement -- usually meaning violence but also frequently meaning foul language and sexual content -- that they are now so used to seeing in films. Plot development is "boring"; blowing up people and buildings is exciting.
That is why the frequent complaint of "I'm bored" is often a sign of a jaded child, i.e., a child addicted to excitement and therefore incapable of enjoying life when not being excited.
[Again, read the whole thing].
In fact, Wonder is at the very heart of Christianity. What wondrous love is this? We sing every Lent, because that Sacrifice by the Son of God was something so incredible, so amazing, that it’s still blowing our minds two thousand years later. The whole point is that God loves us so much He went and sent the Son to save us by becoming one of us. That’s gotta blow your mind, just a little. I know it gives me shivers. . .
Our Easter celebrations may not express this wonder well (though, maybe they do. Something to discuss. . .), but we certainly do at Christmas. Between the fairy lights on the tree and house, the haunting carols, all the rituals once pagan and now part of celebrating Emmanuel. . .yep, wonder as you wander.
Wonder-free Catholicism is like chocolate-free chocolate chip cookies. If, as a Catholic (or heck, any sort of Christian) you are not at least sometimes struck dumb with wonder when contemplating what you believe, then you’re kinda missing the point.
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