As Christmas readily approaches, I’ve noticed that I’ve felt a little less “Christmas spirit” as I’ve gotten older. This sentiment isn’t unique by any measure; countless films and stories have explored the search for the “true meaning of Christmas” in all kinds of characters from George Bailey to Ebenezer Scrooge. Rewatching It’s a Wonderful Life still brings back nostalgia and hope, and yet it seems that the effect of these stories on my apathetic attitude seems to dull over time. What if this attitude reveals a deeper disconnect? Not only is it telling of the commercialization or materialism that often overshadow the holidays, but it points to a broader issue: a lack of awe, and with it, a diminished capacity for true worship.
Recently, I’ve come to notice the absence of awe in my life. While this isn’t an emotion that we think about or even feel very frequently, it is a critical human experience. We feel it when we encounter something so grand that it forces us to put our smallness into perspective–a mixture of reverence, amazement, and fear. It’s a feeling that demands we pause and take notice. But when we consider both how lowly we are and how much greatness surrounds us, we should wonder at how infrequently we experience awe.
A recent visit to an art gallery helped me to recognize this reality. In one particular room, I found myself standing in front of Thomas Cole’s Voyage of Life series. As I looked from one painting to the next, I was struck with a profound awe at both the scale and precision with which Cole painted. I’d studied each of these paintings before, but seeing them in person gave insight into the strokes and textures that pictures can hardly capture. For a moment, I was captivated by the beauty and craftsmanship, but more importantly, I was reminded of what awe does–namely, it helps us forget ourselves and forces us to see things as they really are.
So why is it that we feel awe so infrequently? As children, we are constantly in a state of awe, wondering at even the simplest things. In Christmases past, I vividly recall being excited by the simplest traditions: from setting up the tree to lighting candles on Christmas Eve. The anticipation of Christmas started right from the first Bing Crosby song on the radio and carried to well afterwards. But as I’ve grown older it seems that familiarity dulls that instinct. The more we learn about the world and come to understand our place in it, the less amazed we are and the more we feel as though “we’ve seen it all.” While growing in knowledge is a good thing, it isn’t good that our attitude towards the best things changes or declines. There are some things that should never “get old” but should instead become more real and important as we grow older.
The dulling of our sense of awe should be taken seriously. It isn’t just about what we miss by scrolling through social media during a performance of Handel’s Messiah. A dulled sense of awe hinders us from seeing ourselves correctly and more importantly from seeing God correctly. When we experience awe, we are forced to see our own smallness. But when we aren’t able to recognize our smallness, the greatness of the sublime (namely, God), appears insignificant to our inflated minds. We are so captivated by our own concerns that we become blind to the things of greatest concern worth every moment of our awe and attention.
This lack of awe isn’t just an emotional problem, but it is also a spiritual problem. This is because awe is a feeling that should compel us to worship. When we encounter the sublime, it necessarily points to something or someone greater. Seeing the wonder of creation or even a beautiful painting often helps us to consider the Creator. True awe starts with wonder and ultimately ends in worship.
As Christmas nears, I wonder if our muted feelings in the advent season stem from this same loss of awe. Perhaps we’ve become so caught up in traditions and logistics that we’ve forgotten to pause and marvel. Christmas is, at its core, a moment of profound wonder. In an incomprehensible move, the God of the universe sent his son into the world fully human yet fully divine. Angels upon angels heralded his birth from the annunciation of his conception to the arrival of his birth. People from afar came to worship as they witnessed cosmological changes that could only indicate something supernatural. And they worshipped rightly, for God had become man. For centuries, God had seemed distant as his disobedient people faced oppression and suffered under tyranny. When would the promised Messiah come? And then suddenly there he was. God cared so much about the people that had forgotten him that he showed them the only way they could understand that he hadn’t forgotten them. He sent his son wrapped in human flesh so that he might sympathize with them and suffer for their sins upon a cross.
When we remember the Incarnation, it should strike us with a profound sense of awe. Indeed the unthinkable happened: God became man. But if and when our hearts become dull to this truth, what are we to do? Perhaps all we can do is wait and wonder. Oftentimes, we move too quickly for our hearts to grasp the profundity of the matter. Maybe this advent all we need to do is to sit and ponder like Mary (not Martha) before the feet of Jesus earnestly listening amidst the busyness of the season. For then, we will see the truth more clearly and in awe, worship the newborn king.
