Wonder. What an interesting topic. I’ll admit that it’s one I’ve been turning over in my mind constantly for the last few months, and when April approached me a few weeks back to share my reflections on wonder, I jumped at the chance. I had no idea how difficult this would be for me to do.
It would be easy for me to stand here and tell you that wonder is what I experienced while standing atop Table Mountain in South Africa; that wonder is seeing things first-hand that can only be described as miraculous; that wonder is somehow being able to distinguish that you’ve heard the voice of God speaking into your life. And while all of those things would be legitimate, speaking about them would be the easy way out.
Lately I’ve been struggling very hard to believe in wonder, or at least, struggling to let myself experience it. My cold academic mind militates violently against my deeply spiritual heart on a regular basis. Many days I find it hard to believe in a divine Other as I encounter the carnage in our world. I mull over questions beginning with, “What kind of god would…” and “If I’m to believe in a loving god, then why…” and I quickly get lost in a profoundly depressing miasma of doubt.
But amidst my ferocious theological schizophrenia, I’ve been able to sit back and meditate over how experiencing wonder doesn’t have to be some grandiose thing that requires hours of internal reconciliation. We encounter wonder daily, in things that we often write off. The last year I’ve spent in the community of faith we call Glendale Baptist has been filled with wonder.
I have seen wonder in the inclusive, unconditional love of this congregation. When, for the first time in my life, I saw a husband and wife give one another communion as equals, I was filled with wonder. Every time I have the opportunity to sing with the choir, our shared passion fills me with wonder. When I hear our students ask questions about their faith that I was scared to encounter until I was in college, I am gripped by wonder. When I look up in the sanctuary and see banners, when the candle is lit, and when the hour is chimed: wonder. When I turn left onto Scenic and am reminded that I finally have a church home. In all of these things, and in more than I have time to mention, I am filled with overwhelming wonder.
My sister once wrote, “Even when I can’t see the unseen, I can see flesh-and-blood people being in the world in a way that lets me know they believe in something or someone good and just and kind and loving, and it makes me want to push a little harder through those days of doubt and try to believe in that too.” I have those days a lot, and my sense of wonder falters every time as I struggle to see the unseen and to touch the intangible. When the minor inconveniences of my day rear up and make me stumble. I lose my sense of wonder when I think of those churches that don’t love people unconditionally, that preach messages of exclusion. I think of the institutions of my faith that oppress and neglect and despise, and my doubts swell to unprecedented size.
But then I think of this place, these flesh-and-blood people. And while the doubts rarely go away, they are instantly accompanied by an assurance that, while I very well may not be getting it all right, I am most certainly not alone in my struggles. That makes all the difference. That is wonder.
This reflection was given at Glendale Baptist Church on Sunday, June 13, 2010 during the 10:30am service time.
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