Wonder or radical amazement is the chief characteristic
of the religious person’s attitude toward history and nature. ~ Abraham Heschel
My original passion for the writings (not to mention the life) of Rabbi Abraham Joshua Heschel on whose works I wrote my Ph.D. dissertation and that I have studied for some 40 years was because he articulated so beautifully and profoundly deep truths that I suspected and experienced in my early twenties but was unable to give voice to as eloquently as did he.
One of those sacred suspicions—among others—was that to be human is to be moved. He wrote: “We take it . . . for granted that a person who is not affected by the vision of earth and sky, who has no eyes to see the grandeur of nature and to sense the sublime, however vaguely, is not human.” He so eloquently validated my burgeoning suspicion that there is a direct, intimate, and dynamic relationship between radical amazement and deep sympathy, between wonder and awe, on the one hand, and compassion, mercy, and justice, on the other hand. He has also supported another hunch that I had, namely, that a sense of awe rather than a set of beliefs best characterizes a person of deep faith.
I have long taught that if we want to raise children and grandchildren and great-grandchildren to grow up to be not only kind, caring, hospitable, compassionate, merciful, and loving toward other persons but also socially and ecologically responsible mature adults, then we need to begin when they are tiny tots to help them nurture their innate sense of wonder and awe. Hanging out with a two-year-old for whom a walk to the end of the block becomes an afternoon field trip with stops and stoops and touches of every pinecone, smooth rock, shiny leaf, lightning-like crack in the sidewalk, discarded silver gum wrapper, worms dead or alive summons from within us adults that stuffed and stifled wonderer who still dwells within us.
In their early years, the little tykes are our teachers in the way of wonder. But we have a huge role to play in nurturing that which is divinely gifted to them and us but not guaranteed. It is for us, Heschel insists, to keep wonder alive. If not continually cultivated and tended, that intrinsic sense of wonder at life and the mystery of being will dissipate and disappear. Many educators believe—and studies now show—that a great percentage of our children and grandchildren, especially in the West, and in particular in the United States, begin to lose their inherent sense of wonder by the time they are seven. The skewed values, investments, and vision of the dominant culture, as well as their disastrous consequences, have infiltrated our daily lives more and more so that our capacity for what Heschel calls radical amazement begins to wane or, more egregiously, be stripped from our youngsters.
Whether we believe the best defense is a good offense or the best offense is a good defense, it is a worthy quotidian strategy and spiritual practice to expose our children—and ourselves—as early and often as possible to people, places, moments, experiences, events, and things that evoke a sense of wonder, reverence, amazement, awe, laughter, and joy. If we want them to see—really see—and to care—compassionately care about, and to be moved by someone who is suffering—a pet or animal that has been wounded, a nearby pond that has been polluted, a classmate sitting alone at lunch day after day, a friend who is being bullied, a woman wrapped in blankets sleeping on a heating vent in the cold of winter, an image on television of a child and her mother scavenging in a giant mound of refuse or contained at the border—then it is paramount that we find ways and means for our children more likely to be moved by the sublime, the ineffable, mysterious, and holy dimension of all reality.
The members of the gang that are the nemeses of being moved have names like Indifference, Apathy, Cynicism, Callousness, Cruelty, Arrogance, and Taking for Granted. Being moved is where the deep connection and holy communion lies between the mystic and the prophet. It is also the indispensable link—the conscious human approach, openness, engagement, and responsiveness—that joins the likelihood of us being moved by a moon rise or the murmuration of starlings or seeing someone perform a not-so-random act of kindness and the likelihood of us being moved by the quiet first-grade boy we notice comes to school with only an apple for lunch or the colleague whose younger brother recently died of an opioid overdose or the unjust gerrymandering going on in our state.
Becoming more fully human and more truly holy requires cultivating our capacity to be moved by both the joyful and sorrowful mysteries of living. St. Ignatius taught his companions a spiritual practice called the Examen. In short, it is a practice—most often done at night before going to bed—when we reflect on our day asking questions like What from my day am I most grateful? What enlivened me, made me laugh, brought me joy? Where did I sense the presence or movement of Spirit? Where or when was I tuned out, going through the motions, or not present? Is there anything from the day I regret or am sorry for? Something I did or said or thought or something I failed to do or say? It’s a time to count our blessings, make amends, remember ourselves to what matters most, and set our intention for the next day.
The Christ-life, or if you’re not a Christian, the spiritual life, is meant to enliven us and encourage us to be present so as not to sleepwalk through our days and lives. In this regard, a question that I find helpful and have inserted into my examen practice is Did anything move me today? Said slightly differently Did anything break my heart today? Did anything surprise me? If so, what? At which point it is good to invite the Divine Presence to meet me/us in whatever direction I am / you are moved—in the direction, say, of worry, regret, disappointment, anger, confession, sadness or in the direction of laughter, gratefulness, deep contentment, hope, or joy?
What spawned this reflection was coming upon a favorite video of Emma Kok with André Rieu that moves me each time I watch it. It appears it moved others as well. For me, like many in this clip posted below, the sure signs I am being moved are watery eyes, spilling tears, or stunned silence (even if it were permissible to speak). For others, it’s goosebumps or chills or a sensation in the body—maybe warmth in the chest—or something else. I’ve always imagined the Artist of All Being at the end of each creation day—as depicted in Genesis 1—giving a standing ovation. That’s another response to be moved. Being moved is an integral part of our becoming the fullest expression of the person we were created to be.
ICON: Abraham Heschel, Iconographer Mark Duke, Photographer David Anger http://www.allsaintscompany.org/dancing-saints-icon-project
Voilà
By Barbara Pravi
[Verse 1]
Listen to me, me, the half-singer
Talk about me, to your loved ones, to your friends
Tell them about this little girl with black eyes and crazy dreams
What I want is to write stories that you will hear about
That’s all
[Chorus]
Voilà, voilà, voilà, here is who I am
Here I am, even if I’m scared as I’m naked, yes
Here I am in the noise and in silence
[Verse 2]
Look at me, or at least what’s left of it
Look at me, before I hate myself
What can I say that another hasn’t already said?
I don’t have much, but I place here what I do have
Voilà
[Chorus]
Voilà, voilà, voilà, here is who I am
Here I am, even if it’s the end as I’m naked
That’s my face, that’s my scream, here I am, never mind
Voilà, voilà, voilà, voilà right here
Me, my dream, my will, how I’m dying from it, how I’m laughing at it
Here I am in the noise and in silence
[Verse 3]
Do not leave, I’m begging you to stay for a long time
It might not save me, no
But I don’t know how to live without you
Love me how you would love a friend who’s leaving forever
I want to be loved, because I don’t know myself how to like the shape of me
[Chorus]
Voilà, voilà, voilà, here is who I am
Here I am, even if it’s the end as I’m naked
Here I am in the noise and in rage too
Finally, look at me and my eyes and my hands
All I have is here, it’s my face, it’s my scream
Here I am, here I am, here I am
Voilà, voilà
Voilà, voilà
♦ ♦ ♦ ♦
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