Chesterton, Wonder, and a Wooden Post

Since returning to school, my life—as many students here at GCC can relate—can be summed up in one word: busy. Classes, extracurriculars, late night talks with friends, church, meals, late night Sheetz runs—this is the college life. To be quite honest, I can only think of a couple nights since I’ve returned to Grove that I can say were “chill.” However, on one of these rare evenings, something occurred to me; one might even call it a “revelation” of sorts. One Friday night, wearied and overwhelmed by a busy week of classes, I was sitting alone in my room when, suddenly an unexpected thought and realization entered my mind: I am weak—nevertheless, life is beautiful. I then began to ponder the many blessings of this world.  

In a little essay titled “Wonder and the Wooden Post,” G.K. Chesterton writes of a similar experience. He writes about his encounter with the wondrous fact of existence—an encounter that hits a man’s head like a wooden post. Chesterton writes: 

“When I was young,” Chesterton writes, “I wrote a lot of little poems, mostly about the beauty and necessity of wonder… [of] The power of seeing plain things and landscapes in a kind of sunlight of surprise; the power of jumping at the sight of a bird as if at a winged bullet; the power of being brought to a standstill by a tree as by the gesture of a gigantic hand; in short, the power of poetically running one’s head against a post is one which varies in different people and which I can say without conceit is a part of my own human nature. It is not a power that indicates any artistic strength, still less any spiritual exaltation… It is a small and special gift, but an innocent one.” 

Chesterton goes on to contrast this with this disposition of wonder to that of “mystics.” He argues that mystics, while claiming to hold the “keys” to the secrets of existence, instead, distort reality by viewing it only through the lens of the “inner-self”:  

Now what I found finally about our contemporary mystics was this. When they said that a wooden post was wonderful… they meant that they could make something wonderful out of it by thinking about it. ‘Dream; there is no truth,’ said Mr. Yeats, ‘but in your own heart.’ The modern mystic looked for the post, not outside in the garden, but inside, in the mirror of his mind. But the mind of the modern mystic, like a dandy’s dressing-room, was entirely made of mirrors. Thus glass repeated glass like doors opening inwards for ever; till one could hardly see that inmost chamber of unreality where the post made its last appearance. 

Chesterton’s point is no less applicable today than it was in 1912. As described by Chesterton, such mysticism continues to pervade our present culture. The high intellectualism of Chesterton’s mystics now manifests itself in the egotistical phrase “Follow your heart!” One could even argue that radical postmodernism and deconstruction find their roots in an overtly intellectual and mystic detachment from reality. However, while these radical worldviews may be the logical conclusion of such thinking, at their root is pure and unadulterated pride—that ancient and unyielding vice from which every other sin has slithered its way into the hearts of men.

We Christians are no less affected by similar tendencies than the rest of the world. Despite our union with Christ, the pride of our flesh fights against the renewing power of the Holy Spirit. Thus, in dwelling solely on ourselves, we ignore, distort, and take for granted the world around us. How often do we ignore a sparkling sunset? Or forget to call our parents? Or to savor a delicious meal and those we share it with?  

My point is simply this: the beauty and wonder of life aren’t dependent on you. In the midst of the busyness and trials of life, you are not the center of the universe. Our lives—indeed, the very fact of reality itself—should drive us outside of ourselves, leading us to the One from whom all existence finds its source. You need not carry the world on your shoulders—indeed, that burden is fit for no man to carry. Instead, it belongs to Him who made the stars—He who continually knocks our heads against a wooden post with the wonders of His glorious power.