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Cultivate Wonder

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One of the worst sins I am often guilty of—and my wife and children can attest to it—is scorn. You know what I mean. Scoffing, diminishing the excitement or wonder of others. Parents often do it to their kids. Why do we do it? I think there are two reasons, both based on fear.

The first is that we fear being thought naive or innocent. When I was little, I wanted to be one of the big kids. I wanted to be included, wanted to belong to the group that was more privileged by age, getting to stay up a little later, getting to watch TV shows for more mature audiences, getting to read books with adult language and themes. I tried to present myself as knowing, even when what I knew was nothing or very little. With a little luck, I could pass myself off as more experienced, less innocent.

The second is a deeper and worse fear. It is the fear of wonder itself. Wonder takes us out of ourselves. It makes us feel awe at the world around us. It involves acknowledging that we do not know everything, that what we can control is very limited, that uncertainty and vulnerability are part of life. In wonder we yield ourselves up to something greater than we can understand, and there’s always the terrible possibility that we will not matter. Wonder exposes the insecurity we feel at our own insignificance.

To defend ourselves we—or at least I—practice scorn. I adopt a knowing, superior air. Oh, yes. I know all about that. What? You didn’t know? I act as if nothing surprises me, when in fact the capacity to be surprised is essential to every new invention or discovery. Scorn acts as an armor protecting me from the derision of others who might mock my naivete. It makes me invulnerable—or so it seems.

Scorn builds a safe space for a fragile ego, but it does so at a cost. What I gain in invincibility, I lose in delight and wonder. I lose also in trust. Acting superior doesn’t make anyone trust me more; it makes them afraid to share their own wonder with me. It doesn’t prove me more knowing; it shuts me off from new experiences and those who want to share them with me.

When Jesus took a child and stood him among his disciples and told them, “Truly I tell you, unless you change and become like little children, you will never enter the kingdom of heaven,” I believe one of the characteristics of childlikeness he was commending was the capacity for wonder. Children are full of wonder. I see it constantly in my granddaughter, how freely she oohs and ahs over things I have long since considered mundane. The whole world is new to her, and if I choose to enter into her experience of it, it becomes new to me again too.

This coming year, I resolve to cultivate wonder. I will let down my guard. I will enter into the delight and excitement of others. I will be on the lookout for opportunities to behold the world as God sees it—always new.

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God Does Not Have a Plan for Your Life

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When Paul—called Saul at the time—encountered Jesus on the road to Damascus, Jesus told him to go into the city and await further instructions. Then he revealed to Ananias that he had chosen Saul to carry his name to the Gentiles. Because of his reputation, the Christians at Jerusalem refused to accept him, fearing that his conversion was a ruse to infiltrate their ranks, so Saul went home to Tarsus where he spent many years not preaching to the Gentiles.

Some will read what I have just written and think that I have flatly contradicted myself. God clearly had a plan for Saul’s life. Bear with me.

Jesus told several parables about a master who leaves and later returns and demands an accounting of the servants he left behind. The early disciples evidently retold these parables in the expectation that Jesus would soon return and call them to account for what they had done after he left. In each of these parables, the master leaves no detailed set of instructions—no plan—for them to follow. He leaves them with a mission. The planning is up to them. For example, in the Parable of the Talents, the master gives each of his servants bags of money, then sets out on a long journey. He doesn’t tell them how to invest it or give them detailed plans about how to put his money to work. He leaves that to their abilities. When he returns, he finds two of the servants have doubled the money he gave them, and he elevates them to positions of greater responsibility. The third servant, however, did nothing with the money entrusted to him. He buried it and returned it to the master after he returned. He tells the master that he was afraid.

What was he afraid of? Did he fear punishment should he fail? Did he fear disappointing the master? The master calls him wicked and lazy, indicating that he regards the servant’s fear as an excuse for him to do as he pleases and not accept responsibility for the work needed to make more money from the money he was given. Because the master sees through the servant’s excuses, he rewards him with the very things the servant had feared: disapprobation and punishment.

None of these servants was given a plan for how to use the master’s money. That was their own part. The master’s part was to provide the money. Theirs was to put it to work. The success or failure of their work would depend on their own ability to make wise investment decisions. Two embraced that responsibility, and their efforts prospered. The third shirked it, and made no effort.

So it is with the life of every believer. God has a mission for your life. That mission always involves taking his name to other people and showing them his love. He may, as he did with Paul, give you a more specific mission, but the planning and work involved in carrying out the mission is your part. Of course, God may also give very specific instructions when a strategic part of his overall plan is especially crucial. He did that when he gave such specific instructions to Ananias about where and when to meet Saul. But for the most part he entrusts us with the mission and leaves the planning to us.

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