The Discipline of Wonder--June 19, 2025

 The Discipline of Wonder--June 19, 2025

"When I look at your heavens, the work of your fingers, the moon and the stars that you have established; what are human beings that you are mindful of them, mortals that you care for them?" (Psalm 8:3-4)

Sometimes, being a disciple of Jesus looks like doing--feeding the hungry, visiting the homebound, comforting the sick and imprisoned, serving neighbors, or building homes.

Sometimes, being a disciple of Jesus looks like speaking--sharing your faith with a neighbor, calling your representative or senator to advocate for people in need, lifting up a friend in prayer, singing a song of praise, or chanting with protestors like Dr. King and company in a chorus of "We Shall Overcome" as they marched across the Pettus Bridge.

Sometimes, being a disciple looks like your simple presence, being there in the right place and the right time--at the bedside of someone near death, in the waiting room of a hospital with nervous family members, as an encouragement for someone who has to go to court, or standing in solidarity with someone who feels outcast and alone.

All of these are true and have their times.

But there are also times, no less important than any of these others, when being a disciple looks like open-eyed, gaping-mouthed wonder.  And to be sure, that kind of contemplative awe is just as much a skill honed by committed practice as feeding the hungry or advocating for justice or comforting a friend are.  It may not seem as flashy as some of those others or get the attention that other forms of discipleship get, but the discipline of wonder truly is essential and life-giving as we follow Jesus.

Of course, wonder is different from many of those other forms of Christian discipleship because it doesn't necessarily look like you are doing anything.  When someone gets up to preach the gospel, you can usually tell it's happening (I would hope).  When someone helps rebuild their neighbor's house after a natural disaster, you'll be able to see and hear the roar of saws and the pounding of hammers.  When you go to visit someone who is homebound, they'll know you were there.  But wonder?  It can look like you are just staring into space, watching the clouds pass overhead in the sky, or even taking a nap with your eyes closed.  Wonder doesn't necessarily look like anything at all, much less something vital and Christ-centered.  But that's the risk, I suppose--it doesn't have to look spiritual in order to be spiritual.

What is wonder, actually?  At least in the context of Christian discipleship, I think wonder involves paying attention first of all--to people and what is on their mind, to details in creation, to the sounds of birds and the insects resting for a moment on leaves as you walk past, to the beauty stretched across the western sky at sunset, and to the intricacy of the spider's web in the corner of your back yard fence.  And as you pay attention to these things--things that have been there all along, just waiting for your observation--wonder is what humbles you to see that you have a place within the whole cosmic dance, placed as we human beings are, right between the infinitely vast sprawling distances of the stars and galaxies in space and the utterly tiny wonders of cottonwood seeds floating through the air, microscopic organisms turning refuse into good soil, and subatomic particles like quarks and gluons that make up the universe.  Wonder is the word for seeing that there is such amazing complexity, design, beauty, and structure around us--and of which we are a part, as well--and that in the midst of this vast symphony, we also have a place in the orchestra and a tune to be played.  It is, like that line of Whitman's, the awesome realization that for all of the countless beings in the world, from bacteria to blue whales, "the powerful play goes on, and you may contribute a verse!"  And when it hits you, that epiphany of our worth alongside so many other sisters and brothers in creation, from leaf-sheep and earthworms to great herons and giant squid, you see both how tiny our piddling concerns can seem ("They were out of my favorite brand of coffee at the store! Pout, pout...), and also how mind-bogglingly beautiful it is that God still really does care about the details of us, down to what kind of coffee we like, or which kinds of berries are our favorites.  The word for holding together both the immensity of everything in creation and the infinite worth God still places on each of us... is wonder.

And as I say, spending the time and energy to consider that, to mull it over and let it percolate through us, well, it requires time, attention, and practice.  It requires, in a word, discipline. I say that because it is so terribly easy in this life (especially in our culture) to become either so distracted (on a million flashy things, from our personal Rectangles of Technology to the latest outrage on social media to the talking heads on cable news to endless ads targeted right to our eyeballs) or so focused only on things called "productivity," or "status," or "making more money" or "looking like a winner" that we miss even seeing the amazing things all around us.  Wonder requires the deliberate willingness to slow down, to be curious, to see the worth in things beyond their cash value, and to appreciate other people and things without feeling threatened by their goodness.  It means learning the humility of admitting I am not the be-all-end-all, and that other creatures matter to God even if I do not know about them, like them, or make a profit off of them.  And it means being willing to devote a certain amount of time in our daily routines, simply to seeing the world in all its splendor, and lifting that up to God, as if to say, "I see what you did here..." with a smile.

One could spend a lifetime doing that and never get to the point of feeling like you mastered it. And maybe the whole point of wonder is that it's not the sort of thing that can be "mastered" at all--maybe the impulse to "master" awe is like trying hold the whole ocean in your fist or put a leash on the wind. It is instead something that becomes part of your whole way of life--which is precisely what it means to be a disciple... practicing a discipline.  You dedicate your life to it, and you find that it makes you more fully alive in the doing.

That is certainly what the psalmist models here in these words from Psalm 8, which accompany our other readings for this past Sunday. He is brought up short, to the point where words fall apart and speech is no longer adequate, in the midst of thinking of about his place amid a creation that includes the stars, the moon, and the sky.  There, at the place where our language ends and our humble awe begins, that is the discipline of wonder that we are meant for.

Take the time today to practice it... and just see what happens.

Lord God, open our eyes to the beauty of your handiwork around us and give us a glimpse of our place within it all.