Wonder: It’s essential place in our hearts
There was a time when I had this memorized, the words represented truth to my 20-something atheist’s heart, immersed and lost in the sea of the thoughts of others.
Most of the big shore places were closed now and there were hardly any lights except the shadowy, moving glow of a ferryboat across the Sound. And as the moon rose higher the inessential houses began to melt away until gradually I became aware of the old island here that flowered once for Dutch sailors’ eyes—a fresh, green breast of the new world. Its vanished trees, the trees that had made way for Gatsby’s house, had once pandered in whispers to the last and greatest of all human dreams; for a transitory enchanted moment man must have held his breath in the presence of this continent, compelled into an æsthetic contemplation he neither understood nor desired, face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder…
Only the italics are mine-the words are F. Scott Fitzgerald’s on the last page of his novel, The Great Gatsby. There are 3 more paragraphs and a last sentence which continues to be dissected by critics as they opine about Fitzgerald’s meaning.
But it was this sentence: “
…face to face for the last time in history with something commensurate to his capacity for wonder..”
The Great Gatsby
that stayed in my heart and ended the book in my memory.
I was surprised when I re-read that last page a few years ago. And discovered that there were 3 more paragraphs following the one I had committed to memory, disappointed because I thought Fitzgerald should have ended it there. With ease, I can return to the young girl I once was. Hungry to learn from those believed to have the answers to all of the questions that swarmed in my mind. The yearning for truth and wisdom beckoned so fiercely that I never doubted they lay dormant within some professor or author or advanced degree…or maybe even in a sacred place somewhere.
As I re-read the words many years later, again I am drawn by the lyrical, lush-almost profligate beauty of Fitzgerald’s prose but profoundly aware of the despair implicit in his words.
And as I sat there, brooding on the old unknown world, I thought of Gatsby’s wonder when he first picked out the green light at the end of Daisy’s dock. He had come a long way to this blue lawn and his dream must have seemed so close that he could hardly fail to grasp it. He did not know that it was already behind him, somewhere back in that vast obscurity beyond the city, where the dark fields of the republic rolled on under the night.
Gatsby believed in the green light, the orgastic future that year by year recedes before us. It eluded us then, but that’s no matter—tomorrow we will run faster, stretch out our arms farther. . . . And one fine morning——
So we beat on, boats against the current, borne back ceaselessly into the past.
Webster defines wonder as
…” the uncorrupted sense of awe, delight, surprise, astonishment…something completely and totally inspired by something other, outside self, worthy of adoration. This is where faith begins, I think; it’s absence where faith begins to die. I cannot help but speculate about the loss of what Webster calls ‘an uncorrupted sense of awe…worthy of adoration.’
When do we lose the capacity, and why?
For many of us, perhaps most, the erosion is slow and inexorable. We ‘grow up’, accepting cynicism and the stuff of childhood like superstition, miracles, and faith behind. All of which leaves in its stead the shattering despair expressed by Fitzgerald about Gatsby and our world. An aching nihilism promulgated by ‘elite academics’ and some politicians here and worldwide.
In a recent article, The Wonderless Age, Alexandra Hurdson opines about the “end of awe and the rise of cynicism.” Instantly, though, she recounts a conversation with Dr. Jainus Johnson:
“Why do you want to teach kids that the world is a magical place?” I asked him.
“Because the world is a magical place,” he replied, wonder in his eyes.
And he meant it—not in a sentimental or escapist sense, but in the deepest, most reality-rooted way. He offered an example: scientists have discovered only about 15% of the animal life on Earth. The rest remains a mystery—hidden in ocean trenches, forest canopies, forgotten caves, mountain peaks, and unknown valleys. We truly have no idea what might be out there. For all we know, creatures we think of as myths—dragon-like beasts, glowing birds, transparent frogs—may exist. The planet remains mysterious, brimming with life, possibility, and awe.
And yet, despite this possibility for wonder, many of us have forgotten how to see it.
Approaching the second week of
Advent with anything but awe and wonder reveals the poverty of our spirit. Not long ago, I wrote of the Stoic mantra Memento Mori, “Remember, you must die. The Latin phrase is believed to have originated with ancient conquering Roman leaders whose slaves whispered the phrase into their ears as they rode through the jubilant crowds of citizens.
A bit flummoxed by my correlation of death with these joyous, festive days?
Our lack of awe and wonder during these holy, heavenly days leading up to the birth of Christ reveals our ignorance of what is happening, what has happened, and what continues to happen each year until the end of time. The Eternal Word incarnates to suffer ridicule and disbelief by his chosen people and to die on the Roman cross, thereby making suffering and death holy.
Epictetus would ask his students, “Do you then ponder how the supreme of human evils, the surest mark of the base and cowardly, is not death, but the fear of death?” And begged them to “discipline yourself against such fear, direct all your thinking, exercises, and reading this way — and you will know the only path to human freedom.”
It isn’t only stoic philosophers and Roman soldiers who recommend a daily reminder of our death. Saint Benedict writes in his chapter, “The Tools for Good Works, to “day by day, remind yourselves that you are going to die.” Similarly do the Hindus and Buddhists.
Why?
To make sure we make use of time, to discipline our minds and bodies. To live virtuously, training our souls for the next life.
That is what it’s all about after all!
Jesus emptied himself of all divinity to become a slave. Being born in the likeness of men, he was known to be of human estate. And it was thus that he humbled himself, obediently accepting death, even death of a cross!
We know Saint Paul’s words to the Philippians, may even have memorized the astounding passage that encapsulates all of theology. These days of waiting, the meaning of Advent, give us precious time to strip away our self-assurance, our belief that any of our accomplishments is anything but God’s grace. Pondering seriously why we are here. The words of Isaiah wash over us.
We shall try to pick up the relevance of the message given us for this 2nd Sunday of Advent. In poetic form, the reading from Isaiah (11:1-10) describes for us God’s dream about creating a new world free of devastation, grief, divisions, strife, tears and death. This dream is about a world better than the original one which he had created at the beginning of time, with the Garden of Eden in it, before sin ruined everything. It is a picture practically flaunted before our eyes as “a divine dare.” God is saying something like this:
Whether you like it or not; whether I can count on your cooperation or not, I, your God, have decided to create a new world in which all nations and all peoples will be gathered to form my universal and global family. I, your God, have made up my mind about easing all your pain, dressing every one of your wounds and drying, one by one, the tears in your eyes. I, your God, will not stop until all nations will be firmly in my embrace of infinite love. And, to assure you that I am quite determined to go through with all this, don’t forget that I prepared a body just like yours for my Son, who came among you on that first Christmas. Finally, let me give you the ultimate, the most definitive evidence one can possibly ask for, to prove that I will go all the way: I let my Son shed all his blood on the cross. That action reveals my totality, finality, decisiveness, i.e., the irrevocability of my love for you and the whole world. And don’t forget that the resurrection of my Son from death proves that I will succeed fully. Nothing and no one can thwart my plan, my dream for unity, cooperation, fellowship, solidarity, justice and peace…
The Fulfillment of God’s Dream- Fr. Dino Vanin
The Catholic Journal
