“We Allow Ourselves to Be Amazed”
Isaiah 9:2, 6
Luke 1:46-55
Luke 1: 57-79
John 1:1-5, 10-16
Colossians 1:15-20a
If you’ve ever gazed into the face of your children or grandchildren and seen glimpses of yourself there, . . . you know what it is to be amazed, to let your heart fill with wonder and a sense of the miraculous, even though your head is fully aware of the science.
If you’ve looked into the face of your children or grandchildren and realized that, even if they were biologically related to you, you could not possibly love them more, . . . then you have been given the amazing gift of loving with the heart of God.
And if you do not have any children or grandchildren but have, with purpose and joy, found other ways to pour great love, generosity, and goodness into the world, . . . then you, too, are a parent of God.
If you’ve ever lost a loved one and had a hard time wrapping your head around the reality that they were just there—and now they’re not, . . . you know what it is to experience an entirely different kind of amazement: that fleeting moment when you are standing right alongside that thin veil that separates this world from whatever comes next and it seems that your heart will explode with the pain and wonder of it all.
If you’ve ever been bowled over by a sunset, if you’ve ever marveled at the warbler’s song, loved an animal, found peace at the ocean, been gobsmacked by the grandeur of snow-capped mountains, or delighted in the fruits of the earth, . . . then you know the healing properties of awe and wonder.
If you’ve ever experienced a medical event that—had you gotten to the hospital just a little while later or had no one followed up on your lab results or had you simply not had white skin and an insurance card—could have ended very, very differently, . . . then you know what it is to suddenly begin noticing all manner of tiny details: how blue the sky is, how gentle the touch of your partner’s hand, how precious each breath, how unimportant those annoying, outrageous things that used to get you all worked up, and how all that seems to matter is holding tightly to everyone and everything.
If you’ve ever walked in the darkness of depression or grief, loneliness or loss, addiction or pain, illness or injustice, fear or failure . . . If you’ve wondered if you would ever see light or know awe or feel joy again, . . . on you a light has shined. In you there shines a light no darkness can overcome.
If you’ve ever felt world-weary, so devastated by the seemingly limitless human capacity for cruelty, violence, hatred, apathy, greed, judgment, and hard-heartedness, that you just wanted to give up, . . . If you’ve lost all hope that things will ever be different and find it near impossible to believe that God is yet doing a new thing or that love and joy and peace can, indeed, be yours, . . . then God’s love comes again for you. The Word of Love who always has been and always will be has come to live with you, to walk beside you, to hold things together, and always be available to you.
And if you’ve never fully realized how amazing all this is, . . . If you’ve lost your capacity for wonder, . . . If the unfairness of it all and the just plain old ordinary demands of life have worn you down to the point that you can’t see past the next thing on your to-do list, . . . this season is for you. More than that, this love is for you. This tender mercy—the kind that seeks us out and lifts us up and gives us grace upon grace—is for you.
Everything good, everything true and pure and just, everything uplifting and healing, everything life-giving and and glorious and joyful, everything bright and beautiful and awesome and amazing—every last bit of it and more—comes to us again in the story of an unexpected and poor baby who grows up to become a misunderstood and martyred lover and troublemaker.
And here we are, two thousand years later, still trying to make sense of it. Still marveling at it. Our hearts still wanting more.
Isn’t that amazing?
