Author Lynda MacGibbon reflects on meeting a cabbie named Emmanuel, on the miraculous catch of fish in Luke 5, and astonishment in our lives today. (Aussi disponible en français)

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Stepping out of the cab, I turned. “Thanks for such an interesting ride. Can I ask your name?”

“Emmanuel,” the cabbie responded, eyes twinkling.

“Ah,” I replied. “God with us.”

“Yes, you are right,” he replied, shifting his car into gear.

I walked away, holding back the urge to proclaim, “Can you believe it? Can you believe I just met an angel?”

Nineteen years later the experience remains a treasure, a transcendent moment I’ll explain more about later. But first, an explanation as to why I’m revisiting the memory now.

It’s autumn

In my 61st year I’m rereading the Gospels. They are as familiar as family. Perhaps too familiar. So I’m asking God for new insights, praying not-so-simple one-liners:

When I arrive at Luke 5, Peter, James and John are fishing through the night and catching nothing. In the light of day Jesus suggests they try again. With appeasement on their minds, they cast into the deeps. Their nets can’t even hold the catch.

In my journal I reflect:

The disciples are astonished by what they witness Jesus doing, who He seems to be. Astonishment is a big word. Have I been astonished by God’s activity lately?

Then another short prayer:

I want to be astonished!

Exactly like that, with an underline and an exclamation point. This is no ordinary request. I must embellish it, underscore it, exclaim it. I don’t want to contain it. As if that would be possible.

It’s Valentine’s Day

“I’m thinking about astonishment these days,” I say to my friends Don and Janet Buckingham as we pass naan bread and scoop curried lamb over biryani. “What do you think about it?”

Sitting in a Vancouver restaurant, we are picking up a tradition that’s dear to us. We are old friends. I stood in their wedding 40 years ago and now, whenever we find ourselves in the same city on Valentine’s Day, we celebrate.

My question sparks a lively conversation that can’t be finished over one meal, so we plan to connect again via Zoom. A month later they’re still in Vancouver, but I’ve returned to Ontario. That we can see and hear each other in real time ought to astonish. But this technological wizardry, like so much else, has become mundane.

We chat about books we’re reading, signs of spring, and grandchildren. Janet holds up stick figure art of Oma and Pops, drawn by a three-year-old. “Kids have a way of looking at the world that to us seems ordinary but to them is quite extraordinary. They can spend a half an hour looking at a bug,” says Janet. “We never go to the park without coming back with a rock, a couple of sticks. We come into the world with childlike astonishment. And then we just get used to everything.”

Can that change?

“I’ve been thinking about the preconditions for astonishment,” says Don. “The first is we need to stop. Something needs to rock your world so you stop and notice. The second? You have to be in a position to receive something outside yourself.”

I think he’s on to something.

In this age of excess and distraction I am rarely surprised, much less astonished. Too often I’m holding a smartphone, that portal into everything I think I could ever want. My fingers, rather than my mind and spirit, direct the moments and hours of my day. But when my fingers plant flowers, turn the pages of a book or simply tuck themselves in my pockets as I go for a walk, my mind and soul set the pace and clear space for wonder.

It’s one month later

John Franklin, theologian, philosopher and friend, calls me from his mechanic’s shop, a flat tire relegating us to a quick phone conversation rather than the longer Zoom we’d planned. John is another friend who has agreed to explore astonishment with me. I’m eager to hear his perspective, given that he is executive director of Imago, an organization dedicated to art and faith.

“Astonishment is not surprise,” he muses. “When we are surprised, whatever has happened, we can still explain it logically. Astonishment leaves us with mystery. It’s beyond explanation.” Then my friend begins to talk about the big catch. Luke 5. The very place astonishment surfaced for me. My heart leaps.

“When the disciples go out fishing and catch no fish – and then so many fish – they’re astonished,” John says. “They’re thinking, We’re professionals. We know how this works. But what happened, that’s what caused astonishment.

“Astonishment is a by-product of something else. We wonder, What is going on?”

It’s not only Scripture that astonishes John. “Poetry, food, film, art – these are portals to receive what God has to say to us.”

Then my friend begins to talk about the big catch. Luke 5. The very place astonishment surfaced for me. My heart leaps.

His tire fixed, John needs to go. “You know,” he says, “the world is not flat. The world is multilayered. We’re often trapped on the surface. We’ve lost depth.”

I began believing in God when I was five years old and was taught it’s proper theology – perhaps even the best – to know God by reading the Bible. I believe in miracles and that there is life after death. But I also appreciate reason and logic. I have experienced disappointment and disillusionment. Sometimes the Bible becomes too familiar, and I stop expecting it and things outside its pages to startle me. But God is not limited by my limitations.

It’s one day later

Steve Bell’s email, written in a plane 30,000 feet above the earth between Winnipeg and Calgary, lands in my inbox. He’s a wordsmith and a musician. I am curious to read his thoughts. In a lovely moment of serendipity, I see he’s picked up on John’s theme. Are these conversations swirling in the cosmos? Astonishment is beginning to astonish me.

“In our time,” Steve writes, “the word astonishment itself is used in ways that flatten its meaning. Like the word awesome. We’ll say a great pair of jeans is awesome. But when we use awesome for something like jeans, we end up with no words for things that truly inspire awe.

“The first time I saw Bruce Cockburn was astonishing. He opened a whole world of Christian spirituality for me that centred around issues of justice and mercy that has altered every agony, hope and prayer ever since. I’ve had several mystical experiences that I should one day write down. But, true to the nature of what is truly astonishing, it’s hard to find words to explain the inexplicable.”

Steve’s right. It is hard to find the words. But I can still hold and share a story. I add the word remember to Don’s advice to stop and receive. Remembering – recollecting – my astonishing experiences remind me this world is infinitely multilayered and not flat, not predictable. Retelling astonishing stories – or stories of astonishment – bears witness to the ways transcendence awakens me to something new happening within. Even if what I am experiencing is outside my understanding.

Now, remembering Emmanuel

Emmanuel, the Toronto cabbie, didn’t appear entirely out of the blue. He was an answer to prayer. Before I met him I asked God for opportunities to share my faith, partly so I could convince myself I’d know what to say should anyone want me to explain it.

I explained, as well as I could in that astonishing moment, the concepts of grace, forgiveness, love and witness.

When I first climbed into Emmanuel’s cab, he pointed to the sign on the office building – InterVarsity Christian Fellowship. “Are you a Christian?”

“Yes,” I replied, and Emmanuel handed me a Bible, frayed and well thumbed.

“Can you explain these verses to me?” he asked. The Bible was open to Romans 5 with a bookmark in Acts 17. I explained, as well as I could in that astonishing moment, the concepts of grace, forgiveness, love and witness.

“Does this make sense? Do you understand?” I asked. And Emmanuel smiled in the rearview mirror and said, “Yes. I do.”

Lynda MacGibbon is the author of My Vertical Neighbourhood: How Strangers Became a Community (IVP, 2021). She lives in Toronto where she serves as InterVarsity’s vice-president, people and culture. She posts more writing at LyndaMacGibbon.com. Taxi illustration: Eva Bee