Over the Moon
When You First See Wonder in the Familiar
We hear a lot about vision. The “vision thing,” as the late George H. W. Bush put it, just a bit awkwardly. Vision isn’t just about seeing the impossible made real. And it is undoubtedly more than a great business tycoon or fledgling church planter talking about changing the world. I guess it could be that. But the most powerful visions are something more. I think that the greatest form of vision is often overlooked. Or it is a vision that is short-sold. I think that the most compelling vision can be discovering wonder in the ordinary.
A few months ago, I was reading about those boys on Apollo 8 that took off on December 21st, 1968. Now, this was to be no regular milk run. NASA, under the thick, nervous thumb of President Lyndon Johnson, was racing against time and the Soviets, trying to keep a promise made by a president who was not there to see it. So, the brainy bunch over in Houston put together a dream team: Bill Anders, Frank Borman, and Jim Lovell. And they set their sights on the moon.
These intrepid fellas had “the right stuff.” No doubt about that. There they were, these three military officers—two Air Force jockeys and one Navy flyboy—strapped down into something that was pretty much a controlled bomb as they sat there on the famous Pad 39 at Cape Canaveral. I still have the images burned into my brain of those rockets, as tall as skyscrapers, as I figured, inching their way off the ground. All the while, Walter Contrite, or Chet Huntley and David Brinkley (my Aunt Eva’s preference, and, thus, likely the ones we were watching), or someone with a voice just like theirs, was adding a running commentary to the spectacle, kind of like Kurt Gowdy calling a Jets game that year, describing Namath hitting Maynard in the flats to go to the Super Bowl. The mission was more than just a technical wonder; it was like a veritable safari for the really big game—big vision—JFK’s dream of landing a man on the moon.
But let me tell you, this mission wasn’t just about breaking records or ticking off firsts. Sure, they were the first to break out of Earth’s hold, to zip around in outer space, and to get an up-close gander at the moon’s dull-gray, pockmarked face. But the real showstopper came when they saw something nobody had thought to look for: home. The medical techs back at NASA must have had a fit as they watched the monitors: “Yikes! Their hearts have stopped!” Why? They didn’t figure on being blown away by it, but there it was: The sight of an earth-rise, this vision of our world spinning there like a blue-and-white marble against the backdrop of a lifeless ink-black space. The vision grabbed them like nothing else. Robert Kurson hit the nail on the head in “Rocket Men” when he wrote about how those astronauts went all the way out there to see the moon, but what they really discovered was Earth.
And that’s the kicker, you see. Sometimes, you must trek out to the far reaches, places you never dreamed of, just to understand what you’ve got back home. I suspect many of you know exactly what I’m talking about. I’ll share how this concept hits me.
Preachers deal in big visions: Creation, the Fall, Redemption, and the glorious vision of a new heaven and a new earth. So, it hits you pretty hard when you come to see wonder and glory right in front of you. It is why I tell our students, “Don’t leave seminary with Calvin or Augustine as your heroes. Your heroes are in the pews.” It might hit you when you’re standing in a room filled with sorrow, about to say goodbye to a soul who’s seen more than her fair share of this world. You’re coming from a day filled with the mundane—a budget meeting, giving the Rotary Club prayer—and then you’re there in the presence of a woman whose long life was a testament to true Christian faith and a godly endurance you hope for yourself. You preach about faith. And yet, here is faith incarnate. Her story is well known to her family. She is a legend to them. For others in the community, she is just the old lady at the grocery store moving agonizingly slowly behind the shopping cart or the little thing wrapped in a crafty shawl on Sunday mornings in the same place at the front row of the church so she can hear. Who would think? But she is the one St. Paul wrote about:
“Therefore, my beloved brothers, be steadfast, immovable, always abounding in the work of the Lord, knowing that in the Lord your labor is not in vain” (1 Corinthians 15:58 ESV).
As I look at her and listen to the stories of God’s grace in the life of this dying woman—in poverty yet wealthy, suffering loss while boasting of gain, helpless in herself as she helped others, uneducated in schooling, yet teaching others the Gospel of Christ—I see a sapphire set in brilliant color against the darkness. In moments like these, all the trials of your calling—the meetings that test your patience, the counseling sessions that weigh heavy on your heart, the doubts that creep in when it’s quiet, and those unintended dragons that squash your spirit—well, they all fade away. And what’s left is the stark, beautiful vision of God’s grace in a place where you were preparing for the uneasy but predictable drama of death. Then, “pow.” You witness life like you’ve never known it. It rises right in front of you. And then you say to yourself, “So, this is really what it means to be a pastor. It’s about seeing the sacred in the everyday, about recognizing the true heroes of faith in the faces of those you serve. It’s about understanding that being a shepherd is not just a job; it’s a calling.”
As you gather that family in prayer, maybe the last prayer before she goes Home, you call the little congregation to prayer with the sacred words that bridge Earth and heaven: “‘I am the resurrection and the life,’ saith the Lord.” It’s a moment of clarity and grace where the distance between the ordinary and the divine narrows to a thin line, a nexus, a divinely placed point between now and forever. But you are not offering just any words; you are announcing the presence of the Savior of the world in the room with you. You are also bearing witness to a life well-lived, to a faith that’s endured through things we couldn’t even imagine. You are bearing witness to the promises of God in the life of one of His lambs. O, the wonder of it all. You came for one thing. You experienced another.
And as you lead them in the Lord’s Prayer, it’s like you’re all together on some incredible journey, finding your way back to what matters most. You begin to pray, and somewhere around “Thy will be done,” the aging children and grands and great-grands, the friends, and, on occasion, a doctor or nurse or both, standing in the doorway of the hospital room, begin to join, “. . . on Earth as it is in heaven. Give us this day our daily bread.” “Earth.” “Heaven.” Huge visions. Then humble things: Daily bread. There it is. There’s the wonder.
You are not sure if she heard the prayer, but you are sure that the others did. And you are sure that you saw something that gives you the strength to go on. The elevator opens, and you are on your way to the bible study at the coffee shop, then the hardware to pick up some things to help your son with a science project, and, finally, home. But things have changed. As you pull into the driveway, you think you understand. You put the car in park, but you can’t move. Not yet. This is a reminder—one of those hints from heaven—as clear as that Apollo 8 earth-rise, that sometimes the most profound discoveries are the ones we’ve been living with all along.
Those are the moments I remember most clearly. And those are the times I cherish most as a pastor. It’s a surprising sight you cannot forget. And why would I want to? I’m over the moon just remembering it now.