I recently began rereading one of my favorite Canadian novels, “Crow Lake” by Mary Lawson. As during my first reading, one particular chapter struck me as revealing a stunning truth. Let me set up the story, then share an excerpt. It may be a tad long, but I promise you that it is well worth it. The story is told from the perspective of Kate Morrison, a micro-biology professor in Toronto who grew up in a small community in northern Ontario. Reflecting on her past, she remembered the close relationship she had with her older brother, Matt. It was one such remembrance that I want to share with you:
I’d been explaining the hydrophobic nature of the hair piles of specific arthropods to a lecture hall filled with third-years, and I suddenly had such a vivid flashback that I completely lost my train of thought. What I remember was Matt and me, in our usual pose, flat on our bellies beside the pond, our heads hanging out over the water. We’d been watching damselflies performing their delicate iridescent dances over the water when our attention had been caught by a very small beetle crawling down the stem of a bulrush. He was about six inches above the surface when we spotted him, trotting purposefully downward. Where did he think he was going, we wondered, and what would he do when reached the water? Did he realize it was there? Matt said insects don’t have noses as we do but they can smell and detect damp with their antennae, so probably he did…
But we were the ones who got the surprise. When he reached the water the beetle didn’t so much as pause. He just kept walking. The surface of the water dimpled for a moment as his head butted into i, and then it wrapped itself around him and swallowed him up.
I was alarmed, I though he’d drown, but Matt said, “No- look! Look what he’s done!”
I peered down into the water and saw that our beetle, still marching steadily downward, was surrounded by a glistening silver bubble.
“It’s air,” Matt said, craning forward, shading the surface of the pond with his hands cut down on the reflection. “He’s got his own submarine, Katie. Isn’t that something? I wonder how long he can stay down.”
I know how the beetle did it now of course- there’s no mystery about it. Many of the creatures who live on the water-air boundary carry down an air bubble with them when they submerge. The air is trapped in a velvety puile of hairs, so densely packed that they are completely waterproof. As oxygen is used up, more diffuses in from the surrounding water. As to the length of time our beetle could stay down, that would depend on the amount of oxygen dissolved into the water and how rapidly he was using up his supply. Generally, the more active the insect and the warmer the water, the less time he can remain submerged.
It was the composition of the hair pile that I was explaining to my third-year students when the memory of that day suddenly floated across my mind, momentarily dispersing my thoughts and causing me to stumble and come to a halt. I pretended to study my notes while I got myself together and carried on with the lecture. The third-years, who had roused themselves briefly in the hope that something interesting was going to happen, settled back in their seats. In the front row a girl yawned so massively that she seemed in danger of dislocating her jaw.
It was the yawn that got me. I’d been yawned at before- all students are chronically short of sleep and most lecturers have had the experience of looking over a sea of snoring bodies- but for some reason I suddenly found I couldn’t go on.
I stood speechless, staring out over my audience. Inside my head, my inner ear played back to me the sound of my voice. The drone of it. The flat, monotonal delivery. And overlaid on top of the drone, like a film joined up wih the wrong soundtrack, I kept seeing my own introduction to this subject: Matt and I, side by side, with the sun beating down on our backs. The beetle sauntering along under the water, safe in his tiny submarine. Matt’s amazement and delight.
Matt thought it was miraculous- no, there is more to it than that. Matt saw that it was miraculous. Without him I would not have seen that. I would never have realized that the lives which placed themselves out in front of us every day were wonderful, in the original sense of word. I would have observed, but I would not have wondered.
And now I was putting an entire class to sleep.
Having grown up in northern Ontario, discovering the wonder of the natural world is something I identify with. Some of the most profound moments of clarity in my life were drifting in my canoe in a secluded bay, the water teeming with life. Waterskaters gliding through the swirl of my paddle, a beaver swimming beneath the hull, a bald eagle perching on a giant oak on the rivers edge. I know, it sounds overly idyllic, but it was truly that remarkable. I get chills just thinking about it.
Shouldn’t our relationship to God be filled with this kind of awe and wonder? Shouldn’t our proclamation of these realities, our overflowing excitement to share it, be born out of the greatness of the God we encounter? Like Kate, so often I find myself talking to people about God- truthfully, accurately and rightly- but with the formal technicalities of theological terminology.
Don’t get me wrong. I am not suggesting that we should foster such an experience through ignorance. Far from it! Rather, we need engage our own faith, as well as introduce it others, first and foremost through the mysterious wonder of the divine. Theological explanation and complexity should serve that end, not become the central thrust of religion. At times I feel as though the vast majority of my energy and time is invested in developing and presenting a thorough apologetic for faith- NOT to unbelievers, but to other Christians more worried about my adherence to their dogma than my faithfulness to Jesus Christ!
Where has the wonder gone? How do we rediscover it? What can we do to better show the beauty and mystery of God to those who do not know Him? These questions are not rhetorical, so let’s have at it!
Emerging Church, Missional, Crow Lake, Mary Lawson
