Awe, Imagination, Love
Things to remember:
Christ’s arrival as a baby not only dramatically displays the miracle of his condescension, it quietly embodies something crucial about what I must also become in order to be saved.
The kingdom of God is hidden in plain sight. To see it, I just have to see the world as Christ sees it. I have to see the world through his childlike eyes, through the eyes of the Son.
Children are more conscious than adults. Their minds are open rather than closed, big rather than small, soft rather than hard, plastic rather than rigid.
When was the last time I stood in awe of anything? When was the last time I feared and worshipped the marvel that is my God? When was the last time I showed enough wisdom to greet the world with joy like a child?
The mind of a baby, Gopnik suggests, is like a lantern. The mind of an adult is like a spotlight. Lanterns fill the whole room with light. Spotlights single out just one thing. Babies seem to be vividly experiencing everything at once.
This capacity for open and unfiltered receptivity is, Gopnik notes, what we traditionally call awe. “Awe: our sense of the richness and complexity of the university outside our own immediate concerns.
Rather than filtering the world through just our own immediate concerns, awe opens the mind’s aperture wide. Rather than prescreening what’s seen, awe is about seeing whatever is given. Awe is about receiving, not selecting.
Awe, like love, is often difficult and inconvenient. It’s intense and overwhelming. It requires sacrifice and submission. Because awe overwhelms, it asks us to trust and yield control. It asks us to let God prevail. This is the price of admission.
In Greek, nous is the word for “mind” and so, the root meaning of metanoia isn’t to “turn” but simply “to change one’s mind,” or even just “to think differently.” To repent is to think differently.
Christ pushes back against collapse. He stretches his arms wide as eternity, shoulders the weight of inevitable consequences, and makes space for something new.
I imagine I meeting him [Christ] at heaven’s gates. I imagine returning his embrace and showing him something surprising, something entirely new. I show him something I never could have guessed. I show him me.
Traditionally, these gifts were assigned specific symbolic roles. Gold, used for royal crowns, was associated with Christ’s kingship. Frankincense, used for priestly incense, was associated with Christ’s divinity. And myrrh, used for healing and embalming, was associated with Christ’s humanity and mortality.
In one of my favorite stories about these treasures, the wise men use these gifts to test Jesus. “The wise men are said to have offered gold, frankincense, and myrrh,” Richard Trexler recounts, “so as to determine just what the child’s status was. They meant to test the infant. He would take the gold if he was a king, the incense if he was a priest, the myrrh if a doctor. Thus as humans are wont to do, the magi meant to classify the child. Confounding them, Jesus took all three.
This is the mystery of godliness itself: how to be both. How to become an adult, tempered by age and experience, and, nonetheless, see the world through a child’s eyes. How to pair all the skill, strength, and wisdom of an adult with all the wonder, creativity, and empathy of a child. How, simply, to live like Jesus.