Held By Something Greater
A few years ago, I was hill walking in Kitzbühel, Austria. I remember pausing and turning slowly, taking in the wide valley spread above the mountains with the sounds of nature and the gentle tinkle of cowbells as these gentle beasts moved to greener pastures. There was a stillness in me, yet not an empty one. It held joy, certainly—but also a quiet melancholy, and something deeper still, something that pressed gently against the edges of my understanding. Awe, perhaps, but even that word felt too small.
I have seen it again and again in Scotland when driving through Glencoe and watching visitors step out of their cars and fall silent as they get their first taste of awe. They stand and stare, as if words have abandoned them. No one quite knows what to say in the presence of such vastness. It is as though the landscape asks something of us that language cannot answer.
I have searched for a word in my own tongue and found none that holds the weight of it. So, I looked elsewhere, and in Japanese I found yūgen; a quiet, mysterious depth. Not just awe at what is seen, but a gentle awareness of what cannot be fully grasped. And there, at last, something settled. Not a definition, but a recognition.
There are moments on this earth that seem to arrive from beyond it.
A solar eclipse darkens the day, and the sky—so familiar, so dependable—suddenly becomes strange, almost sacred as a testimony to the hand that formed it. The sea rises in vast, ungovernable waves, reminding us that beneath our fragile order lies something ancient and untamed. A night sky scattered with stars stretches the soul beyond its own edges. A new-born child draws its first breath, and in that small cry there is something that feels older than time itself. Even a single flower, perfectly formed, carries a mystery no human hand could ever design.
These are not merely sights. They are invitations.
They awaken something within us; a recognition that we are surrounded, even held, by something immeasurably greater than ourselves. The vast and the minute, the distant and the intimate, all seem to bear the same signature. There is a coherence to it, a quiet intention woven through everything. It does not announce itself loudly, yet it is unmistakably present.
And somewhere deep within, there is a knowing: we are not alone.
The ancient words in the Book of Job offer a glimpse beyond what the eye can see: “…the morning stars sang together, and all the sons of God shouted for joy.” It is a startling image. Creation not as something silent and mechanical, but as something witnessed, celebrated. The universe, in its first breath, was filled with sound—with joy.
This suggests something profound—that existence itself was received, not merely formed. That there were those who beheld it and responded not with explanation, but with wonder.
And perhaps what we feel in those moments—in the mountains, beneath the eclipse, under the weight of the stars—is not accidental. Perhaps it is an echo.
An echo of that first rejoicing.
When we stand in awe, something in us responds as though it remembers. Not clearly, not consciously, but deeply. As if the soul recognises that creation is not merely matter, but meaning. Not only structure, but something closer to song.
There is, at times, a quiet loneliness in being human, a sense that we are small and adrift in a vast, indifferent universe. But these moments gently contradict that fear. They do not argue or persuade. They simply reveal.
They suggest that behind what we see is a presence that delights; one that creates not out of necessity, but out of fullness. A presence that invites us not only to observe, but to participate, to become, in our own small way, part of that ongoing wonder.
And so, awe becomes more than a feeling; it becomes a doorway. We are reminded in Acts 17:27 that “God intended that they would seek Him and perhaps reach out for Him and find Him, though He is not far from each one of us.”
The world, then, is not empty. Existence is not an accident. Beyond what we can fully grasp—yet close enough to be felt—there is a joy that has been present since the beginning, still resonating through all things, quietly waiting for us to notice.