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Introduction
I wrote this series of reflections while thinking about wonder, and about where to find it in a season of turmoil or overwhelm. For me this year, one source of wonder has been the night sky. I have spent time under dark skies, waiting for wonders that have come (a comet!) or have passed me by (the aurora borealis. Again.) Often I have kept this nocturnal vigil in the company of others, and the sharing of awe has deepened the meaning of the experience. I hope that these devotionals can be another way of sharing wonder and reflection in a season of national uncertainty, Christmas hurry and cheer, and long winter nights.
~Caroline Harkins McCarty
(A special thank you to Kris Voss-Rothmeier for writing Advent 4: Trying to Grasp Eternity.)
~Caroline Harkins McCarty
(A special thank you to Kris Voss-Rothmeier for writing Advent 4: Trying to Grasp Eternity.)
Comet Tsuchinshan-ATLAS appeared over Oregon just after sunset for much of October this year. We spent several nights trying to spot it in the Western sky, pausing dinner or a movie to go out and stare at the darkening horizon. Finally, we were certain.
“That’s too bright to be a star.”
“And in the wrong place for a star.”
“It’s moving!”
I ran back into the house, calling, “do you want to see the comet? Come and look! It won’t be back for eighty thousand years!” We watched as it tracked toward the tree line, our attention captured by this rare celestial event, the air growing colder as the night grew darker, until it vanished from sight.
“Come and see,” in a voice of wonder, reminds me of Advent.
“I don’t want you to miss this.” The wonder of a star appearing for the first time (or a comet - Tsuchinshan-ATLAS was first spotted in 2023!) The wonder of a new life, in the form of a baby. The wonder of a savior, embodied. Our own corporeal forms, made (quite literally) from parts of stars. All of us united under one vast, dark sky full of points of light.
I get caught up in trying to find wonder in this season, or more often, trying to create it with gifts and rituals. But we are made of stars, and bearing witness to a universe that is still birthing them. Wonder can surprise us if we just step outside on a cold, clear night.
Discussion Questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
What is one thing you can do this season to seek wonder in the natural world?
What can you share with your loved ones in a way that feels connecting to one another and to awe?
What do you make of the significance of the star appearing in the story of Christ’s birth?
“That’s too bright to be a star.”
“And in the wrong place for a star.”
“It’s moving!”
I ran back into the house, calling, “do you want to see the comet? Come and look! It won’t be back for eighty thousand years!” We watched as it tracked toward the tree line, our attention captured by this rare celestial event, the air growing colder as the night grew darker, until it vanished from sight.
“Come and see,” in a voice of wonder, reminds me of Advent.
“I don’t want you to miss this.” The wonder of a star appearing for the first time (or a comet - Tsuchinshan-ATLAS was first spotted in 2023!) The wonder of a new life, in the form of a baby. The wonder of a savior, embodied. Our own corporeal forms, made (quite literally) from parts of stars. All of us united under one vast, dark sky full of points of light.
I get caught up in trying to find wonder in this season, or more often, trying to create it with gifts and rituals. But we are made of stars, and bearing witness to a universe that is still birthing them. Wonder can surprise us if we just step outside on a cold, clear night.
Discussion Questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
What is one thing you can do this season to seek wonder in the natural world?
What can you share with your loved ones in a way that feels connecting to one another and to awe?
What do you make of the significance of the star appearing in the story of Christ’s birth?
All of my life I have wanted to see the Aurora Borealis. As a little kid growing up on the South Carolina coast it seemed unlikely that I would see them in my own backyard. So I planned dream trips. Iceland. Alaska. Norway. Somewhere far enough north to witness pink and green lights moving like ribbons across the sky. I knew in my bones that someday I would travel to see them.
Then I moved to Oregon in my thirties. The northern lights don’t happen often here, but they remain a real (if elusive) possibility. I live in the city, and I know my best chance to see them is under dark skies, so I found an aurora watch website, that I might know when it is time to head to the coastal range for my best chance at seeing the aurora.
This past spring, three things happened in a row. A lot of Portland Mennonite folks caught COVID one weekend. The following weekend, there was the church retreat out at Twin Rocks at the coast. I was too sick to go. And a geomagnetic storm produced the most gorgeous, dramatic Northern Lights show Oregon has seen in years. So I am told, by the friends who watched them together on the beach at Twin Rocks. I was on my couch.
Oh how I cried when I saw the photos of what I had missed. What do we do when the wonder we have been waiting for doesn’t happen for us? I felt so much like I did the Christmas I turned seven, when all I wanted was GoGo My Walkin’ Pup. I was so disappointed on Christmas morning when - after months of intense hoping (and hinting) - GoGo wasn’t under the tree. It is a familiar feeling, disappointment in the face of hope. We have all felt it. Sometimes I think it would be helpful to acknowledge how present both can be in the Advent season. There is the joyful anticipation, and there is the sometimes-hollow feeling in the midst of the merriment.
My seventh Christmas we went to visit my Grandma Becca, as we did every year. When I opened my gift from her, it was GoGo My Walkin’ Pup. I was elated.
I know, quite deeply now, that we don’t always get the thing we are waiting for. I understand that now in a way that I could not at seven. But I know that sometimes, if we wait and hold onto hope, wonder remains possible. I know that the Northern Lights are still happening, and that if I keep going outside and looking up, someday I might see them. Maybe - if I am very fortunate - it will be while I am standing on the beach at Twin Rocks with my friends.
Discussion Questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
When has wonder, or the thing you have hoped for, passed you by?
How can you seek hope in the face of disappointment?
How can we be a balm and comfort to each other when wonder doesn’t happen for us?
Then I moved to Oregon in my thirties. The northern lights don’t happen often here, but they remain a real (if elusive) possibility. I live in the city, and I know my best chance to see them is under dark skies, so I found an aurora watch website, that I might know when it is time to head to the coastal range for my best chance at seeing the aurora.
This past spring, three things happened in a row. A lot of Portland Mennonite folks caught COVID one weekend. The following weekend, there was the church retreat out at Twin Rocks at the coast. I was too sick to go. And a geomagnetic storm produced the most gorgeous, dramatic Northern Lights show Oregon has seen in years. So I am told, by the friends who watched them together on the beach at Twin Rocks. I was on my couch.
Oh how I cried when I saw the photos of what I had missed. What do we do when the wonder we have been waiting for doesn’t happen for us? I felt so much like I did the Christmas I turned seven, when all I wanted was GoGo My Walkin’ Pup. I was so disappointed on Christmas morning when - after months of intense hoping (and hinting) - GoGo wasn’t under the tree. It is a familiar feeling, disappointment in the face of hope. We have all felt it. Sometimes I think it would be helpful to acknowledge how present both can be in the Advent season. There is the joyful anticipation, and there is the sometimes-hollow feeling in the midst of the merriment.
My seventh Christmas we went to visit my Grandma Becca, as we did every year. When I opened my gift from her, it was GoGo My Walkin’ Pup. I was elated.
I know, quite deeply now, that we don’t always get the thing we are waiting for. I understand that now in a way that I could not at seven. But I know that sometimes, if we wait and hold onto hope, wonder remains possible. I know that the Northern Lights are still happening, and that if I keep going outside and looking up, someday I might see them. Maybe - if I am very fortunate - it will be while I am standing on the beach at Twin Rocks with my friends.
Discussion Questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
When has wonder, or the thing you have hoped for, passed you by?
How can you seek hope in the face of disappointment?
How can we be a balm and comfort to each other when wonder doesn’t happen for us?
Just before election day, I served on a panel about teaching during election season. We didn’t know what the election would bring, but we did know students and faculty would need support in a time of uncertainty.
My colleague Todd spoke on the panel with me and several others. He’s an astrophysicist. “It’s fun to talk about teaching where the hard part isn’t the astrophysics,” he remarked. The hard thing was holding onto one another, and building community, during times of turbulence. As a panel, we talked about community agreements, and the responsibility of moderating discussions. And Todd shared about the night sky events he hosts on campus, when he brings out telescopes and campus community members gather on the quad to stargaze together.
“There is something about gazing up at the beauty and vastness of the night sky,” Todd told us, that makes open-hearted conversations more possible. The room took a breath, then collectively nodded. We knew what he meant. Gazing at the stars reminds me of how immense the universe is and how small I am, yes. How tiny my concerns in the face of an expanding universe, of galaxies, of the inevitable heat death of it all. But often, lying on a quilt beside a person I love, gazing up at the expanse of sky, I am reminded of how connected we all are, and how in this together. What happens to this planet affects us all. We are tiny spots of warmth under distant, blinking stars.
Todd referred to this as a “cosmic perspective.” This Advent season, a cosmic perspective of open-heartedness is what I am trying to cultivate. I want to begin with embracing the dark, and spending more time looking up.
Discussion questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
What do you feel when you gaze up at the night sky?
What other experiences remind you of your connection to other people, especially those far away and unknown to you?
How can you cultivate a cosmic perspective of open-heartedness in this Advent season?
My colleague Todd spoke on the panel with me and several others. He’s an astrophysicist. “It’s fun to talk about teaching where the hard part isn’t the astrophysics,” he remarked. The hard thing was holding onto one another, and building community, during times of turbulence. As a panel, we talked about community agreements, and the responsibility of moderating discussions. And Todd shared about the night sky events he hosts on campus, when he brings out telescopes and campus community members gather on the quad to stargaze together.
“There is something about gazing up at the beauty and vastness of the night sky,” Todd told us, that makes open-hearted conversations more possible. The room took a breath, then collectively nodded. We knew what he meant. Gazing at the stars reminds me of how immense the universe is and how small I am, yes. How tiny my concerns in the face of an expanding universe, of galaxies, of the inevitable heat death of it all. But often, lying on a quilt beside a person I love, gazing up at the expanse of sky, I am reminded of how connected we all are, and how in this together. What happens to this planet affects us all. We are tiny spots of warmth under distant, blinking stars.
Todd referred to this as a “cosmic perspective.” This Advent season, a cosmic perspective of open-heartedness is what I am trying to cultivate. I want to begin with embracing the dark, and spending more time looking up.
Discussion questions:
What thoughts and feelings does this reflection evoke for you?
What do you feel when you gaze up at the night sky?
What other experiences remind you of your connection to other people, especially those far away and unknown to you?
How can you cultivate a cosmic perspective of open-heartedness in this Advent season?
Nothing says eternity like the night sky. As a child, I’d stare up at the sky and imagine how all the lights got there. I liked to climb trees, and some nights I’d climb up into one of my favorite trees, feel the cool night breeze and look up. I didn’t know many names of constellations, but I could pick out Cassiopeia, Ursa Major and Ursa Minor. I’d also look for “shooting stars” and I remember seeing a few. Then there were the “moving stars” that tracked slowly across the sky, mimicking the distant lights but, in reality, were merely human-made objects that would eventually burn up in the earth’s atmosphere.
Then I’d start to think. “People thousands of years ago looked up and saw exactly what I’m looking at right now. Even before people existed, this sky looked just like it does now. Stars look so small; still, I can see them even though they’re so far away. But I’m nothing to them and they have no idea that I’m looking at them across a vast expanse of space.” I’d pick out one that wasn’t very bright and imagine that I was the first person who ever saw it. Later, as I learned about things in science like the speed of light and vacuums, I’d try to imagine which stars might not exist anymore.
As many stars as there are in the universe (and we can see only a fraction of them) and as dispersed as they are – separated by unfathomable distances – God numbers each one and calls them by name. We believe that this God creates them and destroys them. Incredibly, we also dare to believe that this God was revealed to us by becoming like us. Who are we that God would do this? Insignificant as we are in the vast expanse, it speaks less about who we are than about who God is. Somehow, we matter. Somehow, we aren’t nothing to God. Somehow, God calls each of us by name and says, “You are mine too.”
This Christmas, I pray that God will be revealed to you in a new way. Perhaps you’ll be surprised, perhaps relieved, perhaps inspired, perhaps you’ll understand your relationship with God in a different way–one that didn’t occur to you when you were a child. However God is revealed to you this season and always, I pray that you’ll be open and will recognize however and whenever that time comes.
Discussion questions:
Has God ever been revealed to you in a surprising way?
How has your understanding of God changed as you’ve grown older?
How do you respond to God who says, “You matter.”
Then I’d start to think. “People thousands of years ago looked up and saw exactly what I’m looking at right now. Even before people existed, this sky looked just like it does now. Stars look so small; still, I can see them even though they’re so far away. But I’m nothing to them and they have no idea that I’m looking at them across a vast expanse of space.” I’d pick out one that wasn’t very bright and imagine that I was the first person who ever saw it. Later, as I learned about things in science like the speed of light and vacuums, I’d try to imagine which stars might not exist anymore.
As many stars as there are in the universe (and we can see only a fraction of them) and as dispersed as they are – separated by unfathomable distances – God numbers each one and calls them by name. We believe that this God creates them and destroys them. Incredibly, we also dare to believe that this God was revealed to us by becoming like us. Who are we that God would do this? Insignificant as we are in the vast expanse, it speaks less about who we are than about who God is. Somehow, we matter. Somehow, we aren’t nothing to God. Somehow, God calls each of us by name and says, “You are mine too.”
This Christmas, I pray that God will be revealed to you in a new way. Perhaps you’ll be surprised, perhaps relieved, perhaps inspired, perhaps you’ll understand your relationship with God in a different way–one that didn’t occur to you when you were a child. However God is revealed to you this season and always, I pray that you’ll be open and will recognize however and whenever that time comes.
Discussion questions:
Has God ever been revealed to you in a surprising way?
How has your understanding of God changed as you’ve grown older?
How do you respond to God who says, “You matter.”
