Awe, Still

Photo Credit: AFP

I watched the Super Bowl this past Sunday and surprised myself by unexpectedly verklempt during the halftime show—the controversial one, apparently.

What struck me about the show wasn’t spectacle for spectacle’s sake. It was the sheer diversity of bodies, movements, rhythms. So many people moving independently, yet somehow together. Not uniform. Not flattened. Distinct—and still one. It felt like a visual refusal of the lie that difference has to mean division.

And then, after the game ended, I saw Mike Macdonald, the Seahawks’ head coach, standing on the field just after the win (see photo of this moment). He’s looking upward. Confetti everywhere. His face open—unguarded. Awe, unmistakably.

I have no way of knowing what it was he was taking in. Maybe the confetti. Maybe the roar of the crowd. Maybe he was saying a quiet prayer. Maybe all of it all at once. What gave me pause in that moment was that his expression wasn’t triumph. It was wonder.

Perhaps it stood out to me because lately I’m far more accustomed to being amazed at how cruel people can be. How small. How mean-spirited. How quickly fear curdles into control. But that moment—on a football field of all places—reminded me that awe hasn’t disappeared. It just so often shows up in quieter, braver places. Places like the special library board meeting held in Oskaloosa on Monday.

Many of us who spoke during the public comments portion of the meeting are used to speaking publicly. We know how to project, how to hold a room, how to say hard things out loud. But what undid me were the others.

People whose hands shook as they read from notes on their phones or on a printed page in their hands. People whose voices wavered. In fact, one person said quite plainly: “I hate public speaking.” And then stood there anyway. These folks stretched themselves because keeping the public library a place that serves everyone mattered more than their fear. That, too, was awe. Not polish. Not performance. But a courage that costs something.

Awe isn't always obvious. Sometimes it's wonder breaking through our cynicism. Sometimes it's ordinary people telling the truth, even when their voices shake.

In the book of Acts, the Spirit descends at Pentecost—and it doesn't make people fearless. It makes silence impossible. It doesn't remove the cost. It just makes the truth more urgent than comfort. 

I don't know about you, but I don't want to lose my capacity for that kind of awe. Not in a moment like this. Not when fear keeps getting marketed as realism. Not when the loudest voices try to convince us that cruelty is strength. Awe is still possible. Wonder is still possible. And courage—real courage—often sounds like truth spoken with a voice that may shake, but refuses to be silent anyway.

So this week, maybe we pay attention to where awe still breaks through. Maybe we notice the moments that stop us short—the ones that remind us that we are part of something larger than ourselves and larger than our fear. Maybe we just…witness. 

And maybe when we do, we’ll realize that awe hasn’t left us. It’s always there…just asking to be noticed. On a football field. In a meeting room. In a trembling voice that refuses to sit down.

On the journey with you,
Pr. Melissa

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