Senator Elizabeth Warren, commenting on a photo showing roof tiles and windowpanes falling from the East Wing of the White House, said it captures our current president in a single image. “Illegal, destructive, and not helping you.”
Journalist Jess Bidgood, in a New York Times article, writes, “Images of the demolition, which began on Monday, have rocketed around the globe, swiftly becoming political fodder and a perfect Rorschach test for a deeply polarizing presidency.”
Will the madness and the incompetent dismantling of our national decency ever end? Each day seems to bring new horrors and further erosion of our image as a nation that welcomes and cares for the most vulnerable.
It’s exhausting, and we seem to be living in an age of exhaustion. Our devices keep us connected, but not always alive. We scroll through headlines about wars, climate crises, political hatred, and the erosion of trust. We are constantly aware—but rarely amazed.
Our hearts have traded wonder for worry.
Sadly, there is much to fret over. The current administration’s dismantling of the federal government, our economy, global trust, and morality has given the vast majority of Americans a lot to worry about.
Weariness is not confined to one group, but crosses political lines. There is grave concern even in areas that voted overwhelmingly for our current president. Farmers —the backbone of rural America —are sounding the alarm. For example, in the State of Arkansas, we stand to lose 25-40% of farms this year. Nationwide, farm-state representatives are pleading for help to avoid a financial calamity.
Just as we watch a wrecking ball rip apart a large section of the White House, every community is feeling the weight of brokenness. Even those who believed the promise of economic revival are grappling with uncertainty. The need for hope, awe, and transcendence is real for all of us.
To help us get through the darkest period in our nation’s history, we need to recover wonder and a sense of God’s presence. We need to see again that even our small lives shimmer with divine glory.
Psalm 8 begins and ends with the same cry: “O Lord, our Lord, how majestic is your name in all the earth!” Between these verses lies a tension we all need to feel. The vastness of creation and the smallness of humanity.
The writer is astonished. “When I look at the sky, which you have made, at the moon and the stars, which you set in their places, what are human beings, that you think of them; mere mortals, that you care for them?” He sees the galaxies and can hardly comprehend that the Creator of it all not only notices us but also cares for us and gives u s the tremendous responsibility of taking care of it.
When I look at the sky, which You have made, at the moon and the stars, which You set in their places, what are human beings, that You think of them; mere mortals, that You care for them?
Psalm 8
Psalm 8 invites us to wake up. It assures us that we are not forgotten. It reminds us that creation is purposeful, not random. And it confirms that our smallness does not mean we are insignificant. While the world tells us to measure worth by power, achievement, or visibility, scripture says we are made a little lower than the angels. In other words, we matter because God has marked us with divine fingerprints.
This is what our companion book, Gilead, reveals as well. John Ames observes an ordinary town, an ordinary life, and finds the extraordinary presence of God within it. His reflections transform the mundane—dust motes in the morning sun—into moments of revelation.
Ames, an elderly Congregationalist pastor in the small town of Gilead, Iowa, writes a lengthy letter to his young son, whom he knows he will not live to see grow up. As he writes, Ames reflects on the beauty and delicacy of life, and the wonder that shines through even in the everyday. Confronted with mortality, he writes to hold onto wonder and begins his letter by contemplating the fleeting nature of life and the sacredness of ordinary things—the sunlight on water, children’s laughter, and the stillness of prayer.
He recounts stories from his childhood and his ancestors. He recalls his fiery abolitionist grandfather and his pacifist father. He ponders how divine grace threads through the generations.
Throughout these pages, Ames reflects on simple moments: the sunlight illuminating a child’s hair, his son at play, and the peaceful rhythm of small-town life. His voice weaves together theology, memory, and awe. He marvels at the beauty of creation and mourns its fleeting nature. His reflections echo Psalm 8, standing before the vastness of creation, feeling small yet deeply loved.
Our own culture has forgotten that sacred pause. We’ve become cynical, dismissive, and quick to explain everything. But slow to be astonished by anything. Yet without wonder, our souls shrink. We forget who we are and whose world this is.
In a time when most of us feel overwhelmed by anxiety, political division, and cynicism, Gilead reminds us that seeing the world with wonder is a spiritual act — a way of reclaiming hope. Psalm 8 and Ames’s reflections both declare that awe is the foundation of faith. When we pause long enough to recognize beauty — even in ordinary life — we rediscover that we are held in divine care.
Wonder transforms how we see ourselves, others, and creation. It breaks the illusion of control and replaces it with gratitude. Let us choose to see the world again — to let light, laughter, and memory become sacred.
After all, faith begins in wonder. If we allow Psalm 8 and the spirit of Gilead to reframe our seeing, the world opens up again. Our work, our relationships, even our grief become holy ground. We start small, but we begin with divine insight.
Imagine a church—and a world—where people are not dulled by despair but stirred by awe, where we pause to notice a child’s laughter, the sound of rain, the persistence of kindness. Where we no longer see creation as a backdrop but as a living testimony to the Creator.
That kind of seeing heals us. It restores our weary hearts. It allows peace to enter where anxiety once lived.
Wonder doesn’t ignore pain—it transforms how we see it. As Ames says in Gilead, “There are a thousand thousand reasons to live this life, every one of them sufficient.” When we live with that posture, heaven begins to break into the ordinary.
This week, pause once a day to look around with gratitude.
Try reading Psalm 8 aloud so as to remind yourself who made you and who holds the world. Write down one thing that made you feel wonder, no matter how small. And let these small acts reopen your eyes to God’s presence. Because when we see rightly, we live rightly.
Wonder is not childish—it is holy. It brings our faith from stale duty back to joyful discovery. And in a world weary of cynicism, the Church’s greatest witness may not be its arguments but its awe.
In every sunrise, in every breath, in every unnoticed act of grace—God is waiting to astonish us again. Faith begins in wonder!
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This is a reminder that we publish a weekly newsletter called the Circuit Rider. You can request this publication by email by sending a request to FlintAsburyUMC@gmail.com, or let us know when you send a message through our website. We post an archive of past editions on our website under Connect – choose Newsletters.
Pastor Tommy
Our companion book for this series is Marilynne Robinson. Gilead. NY: Picador, 2004.
Jess Bidgood. “The White House Wrecking Ball.” © New York Times, Oct. 22, 2025. Retrieved from: link
Worth Sparkman. “Arkansas farmers express alarm about their future at hearing.” © Axion NW Arkansas, Sep 25, 2025. Retrieved from: link