Listening for Awe

I used to have all the answers. Not in an arrogant, finger-pointing way—at least not from my perspective—but in that quiet, internal way certainty often carries itself. I had a framework. A map. A theology that could explain everything from the condition of the human soul to the weather on a Tuesday.

Even after my deconstruction—after the scaffolding of certainty came crashing down—I’ve noticed something surprising: the instinct to teach, to explain, to fix... it’s still there. I catch myself in conversations crafting elegant little truths, offering conclusions like gifts people didn’t ask for. It’s humbling. And a little funny. Turns out, letting go of a worldview doesn’t mean letting go of the desire to shape the world.

There’s something deep in me that wants to share what I’ve seen, what I’ve learned. But more often than not, that urge is less about understanding and more about a desire to fix. It’s an old muscle memory. A need to assert meaning, to tidy up the mess, to speak when maybe I should be listening.

And I know I’m not alone in this. The world feels full of voices—so many people speaking, preaching, persuading. Social media scrolls like a marketplace of certainties, each booth shouting over the other. Even the softest voices sometimes carry the edge of urgency, the need to be right, to be known, to be followed.

It’s tempting to think this is just a modern problem—another symptom of digital life—but I don’t think it is. I think it goes deeper. Maybe it’s human. Maybe it’s ancient. We want to shape the world with our words, bend it toward the good as we see it. We think, If I could just say it clearly enough, maybe something would change.

And there’s beauty in that instinct. There really is. It comes from a place that cares. But I wonder how often our need to speak is tangled up with fear. Fear that if we don’t define things, they’ll stay ambiguous. Fear that if we don’t fix it, no one else will. Fear that if we don’t assert our perspective, we might disappear into the silence.

Listening, on the other hand, takes a different kind of courage. It asks us to trust. To open. To admit we don’t know. And that’s not something we’re often taught—especially in systems that reward the confident voice over the contemplative pause.

There’s a beautiful way to think about listening that goes beyond just holding silence between our words. Mark Nepo puts it like this:

“To listen is to continually give up all expectation and to give our attention, completely and freshly, to what is before us, not really knowing what we will hear or what that will mean. In the practice of our days, to listen is to lean in, softly, with a willingness to be changed by what we hear.”

Listening isn’t just waiting for our turn to speak. It’s a practice of surrender—a soft leaning into the unknown, where transformation begins. It invites us out of our desire to control or fix and into a space where we can simply be with what is.

The value of listening, then, is enormous. It’s how we open ourselves to others in a way that honors their experience, not just our own. It’s how we begin to see the world not as a problem to solve but as a mystery to engage. Listening creates room for empathy, curiosity, and wonder—qualities that can soften even the hardest edges of certainty.

Words are powerful tools. They can be the keys that unlock understanding—or the walls that shut it down.

When we use words with openness and curiosity, they invite others into our world and invite us into theirs. They become vessels for connection, empathy, and shared meaning. Thoughtful words can soften defenses, open hearts, and create new possibilities for seeing things differently.

But words can also be weapons. When wielded from a place of certainty or fear, they can close doors instead of opening them. They can shut down conversations, dismiss other experiences, and build invisible fences around our beliefs. Sometimes, in our eagerness to be right, we forget that every word carries weight—weight that can either brighten or darken the light between us.

This dual nature of language reflects something deeper about our inner landscape. Are we speaking from a place of love and curiosity? Or from a place of control and protection?

Back in my evangelical days, I carried a deep conviction that the world was fundamentally broken—wrong in its ways, needing correction. The church, as I understood it then, was the instrument to bend the world’s will toward what was “right.” Words were weapons and tools to fix, persuade, and convert. I believed firmly in marching forward with certainty, shaping the world to fit a divine blueprint as I saw it.

Now, looking forward, I see those words differently. I see words less as commands or corrections, and more as invitations—thought experiments, imaginative exercises to help us lean into awe rather than control.

The world, I’ve come to realize, is not just a problem to solve. It is unfolding exactly as it should—mysterious, complex, and full of subtle beauty. Instead of trying to force it into a neat box, words can become a way to explore, to question, to wonder. They are not final answers, but doorways opening onto new possibilities.

This shift—from “the world is wrong” to “the world is right” (or at least, as it is)—has changed how I engage with life and conversation. It invites humility over certainty, curiosity over judgment, and awe over control.

Don’t get me wrong. I still find myself being critical with people and ideas. I still am uncomfortable with anger and want to rush in and fix things. I see the hypocrisy in politics, religion and activism (which probably means I'm sensing my own hypocrisy). Staying curious instead of being fearful is challenging. But it’s a task I’m willing to take up.

Because beneath the urge to control or judge, there’s a deeper invitation—one to lean into the mystery of life with wonder instead of certainty. To hold both the brokenness and the beauty without rushing to label one or the other as final.

I’m learning that the world is not simply a battleground for right and wrong, but a vast, unfolding story that invites us to show up as explorers rather than conquerors. Sometimes that means speaking, sometimes it means listening, and often it means doing both with an open heart.

Maybe the greatest practice is living in a state of wonder—embracing the unknown with awe, trusting that the world is exactly as it should be, even when it feels messy or confusing.

And in that wonder, I find a quiet peace that no certainty could ever give.

Down 1.3 lbs.