By Katie Purple
“Holy Spirit, who are You?”
I’ve found myself asking this question a lot lately, desiring a very simple answer to all the complexities of life, and as I stare out at the breeze gently teasing the tree branches on this Pentecost Sunday afternoon, I am reminded of the number of times that nature has brought me back to God.
In the midst of the changes of the modern world, nature retains a simplicity which calms the spirit and elevates the soul. The Rocky Mountains, which I can see from my window still bearing snow-capped peaks despite the summer weather here below, have allured so many, and seem to speak of heights yet to be explored, of both earthly adventures and heavenly realities. My mind drifts over the soft wind today to the revelation to Elijah, who was held breathless by his desire to meet the Lord, and found Him at last in the “light silent sound” of His whisper in the deep wilderness (1 Kings 19:12). In a more everyday way, nature seems to sing silently of something beyond us, and can contain whispers in its stillness, even if we do not know yet of what, like the first fragrance inviting us into greater mysteries.
This experience seems to clash with the narrative told so often in our culture today however, where nature is an object for reduction. “I believe in science” has become a common phrase, under the premise that science can give an answer to all things. Science and the natural world become pitted against religion, as though fully understanding and believing in science can obliterate and explain away even God. In the same breath however, “scientism” becomes itself a quasi-religion, citing the material world as its own explanation that needs nothing higher.
My point here is not to debunk scientism, and I’ll leave it to another writer to discuss Aquinas’ argument regarding causality. My simple assertion here is that we have perhaps squelched our capacity for wonder, and we desperately need this sense of wonder restored to us. In such a line of thought, G.K. Chesteron once wrote, “the world will never starve for want of wonders; but only for want of wonder.” And since wonder, also called fear of the Lord, is a gift of the Holy Spirit, perhaps the best place to start is where we have always started when we’ve desired any gift, even as the smallest child: we ask for it.
Such a gift of wonder is something too great for us to conjure up on our own strength alone, for its yield is too beyond us, too super-natural. With the lens of wonder, nature itself becomes an artistic masterpiece; the findings under a microscope become a hymn to the creator of such complexity, the molecular world a testament to the omnipotence of God. Nature itself even becomes a sort of mirror of the infinitude of the Creator, for it seems that we will never reach an end to the wonders and novelties to investigate, especially as our scientific capabilities grow. Far from being reduced to mere matter, nature seems to be a gateway into mysteries of God that we will never fully comprehend. Far from the quasi-worship that scientism gives to created things, seeking in matter the answer to every question and treating matter as self-explanatory, the Catholic faith speaks of a God whose beauty and intrigue surpass – and beget – the created world.
St. Augustine, in his masterpiece The Confessions, spoke of nature itself singing these truths. As he searched for God, seeking to pinpoint our Lord, St. Augustine turned his questioning to the natural world:
And what is this?
I put my question to the earth, and it replied, “I am not he”;
I questioned everything it held, and they confessed the same.
I questioned the sea and the great deep,
and the teeming live creatures that crawl,
and they replied,
“We are not God; seek higher.”
I questioned the gusty winds,
and every breeze with all its flying creatures told me,
“Anaximenes was wrong: I am not God.”
To the sky I put my question, to sun, moon, stars,
but they denied me: “We are not the God you seek.”
And to all things which stood around the portals of my flesh I said,
“Tell me of my God.
You are not he, but tell me something of him.”
Then they lifted up their mighty voices and cried,
“He made us.”
My questioning was my attentive spirit,
and their reply, their beauty.”
(Confessions X.vi.9)
Natural revelation is spoken of in the Catechism of the Catholic Church as, in one sense, creation’s confession of the Creator, like all of creation is an arrow pointing us to Him (CCC 31-35). St. Augustine gives us this truth in the image of created things being mouthpieces for the divine. The beauty of the world is a first evangelizer for many, the first way that God makes Himself, makes His goodness, known, alluring seekers like St. Augustine by beauty to an authentic and ardent pursuit of Him. At times, when I find myself sorting through minute theological questions or wrestling with the profundities of our faith and the ways that it collides with my lived life, I find myself desperately needing to immerse myself again in this first evangelizer.
Nature sings in a simplicity that our best theological discussions sometimes lack. As I sit on a blanket this Pentecost Sunday and breathe in the smells of fresh grass and windchimes, watching the sun gleam off of resilient, snow-capped peaks, and feeling the sun warm my winter-weary skin, I bask in one simple conclusion: God is so radiantly good. It’s a truth I’ve heard since kindergarten, but which sometimes can seem dim in my soul in the twilight of winter. As my skin soaks in the gentleness of God’s sunshine though, as summer dawns, a morning light too seems to shine in my soul, whispering, in the most gentle tones I’ve ever heard, that despite every complexity, indeed in every complexity, He is there.
Come, Holy Spirit, give us eyes full of wonder.