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Friend, one of the most marvelous days on the calendar is almost here.  

As many of you are aware, I’ve always been fascinated by the summer solstice—and for good reason.  Even the barest scientific explanation of it still fires the soul with wonder—the crescendo of the lengthening days, the farthest tilt of our planet toward the sun before it obeys its orbit once more.  There’s something about this transition that captures my imagination, and every year at this time, I feel the anticipation—the bewitching expectancy of High Summer.  

I’m not alone in my wonder.  Nearly every civilization has commemorated the summer solstice with elaborate celebrations, some of which date back thousands of years.  And these ceremonies were accompanied by colorful traditions.  Mythical creatures from dragons to fairies were believed to roam the earth on this night and to be visible to mortals, especially those willing to anoint their eyelids with fern spores at the stroke of midnight.  Bonfires were an important and nearly universal element of the midsummer traditions; in fact, in Ireland, the evening of the solstice is still called “Bonfire Night.”  Lore associated with fires included leaping over the embers for good luck, tossing a pebble into the flames to make a wish, and scattering the ashes in one’s garden to ensure a bountiful harvest.  Love was woven throughout midsummer traditions too, with this night being viewed as particularly favorable for romance.  Even the dew of Midsummer was venerated for its supposed healing properties.  

Oh, these are fanciful tales, sure.  But when I step outside on the longest day, I’m besieged by the oddest feeling—as if the ancient wonder of my ancestors still slumbers in my soul.  The lyrics may be forgotten, but the tune is still familiar.  The earth shimmers, all green and gold, and the sun seems suspended directly overhead—as if time itself is holding its breath for one hushed moment of mystery.  And when the last light leaks from the deepening dome of sky—when the longest day fades into the brief beauty of the shortest night—when the crystal constellations once more scribble the stories in the stars and the darkness is redolent with crickets’ chorus and firefly flash—then I can feel the same tingle of mystery, the same shivering expectancy that urged the ancients to be watching for magic around every corner.  

We find no such gossamer legends these days.  Science has swept the slate, and we modern folks pride ourselves on being far more urbane, on having outgrown such primitive notions.  Yet what, really, have we learned?—we who possess the shameful prize of being possibly the most suspicious and skeptical generation in history?  We’ve shrunk the world to fit our own meager assumptions.  We can explain everything, but we understand nothing.  And when we lose the whisper of wonder, we’ve lost much indeed—not only our connection to the past, but our faith for the future.  

Please don’t misunderstand me:  I’m not advocating superstition.  Fears born from ignorance are fetters that should rightfully be removed.  Nor am I deploring the great scientific advancements, the discoveries that have pointed us along the path of progress.  What I am applauding is not the whimsical beliefs of yore, but the attitude behind them—the acceptance that there is far more to this world than we see.

No, I’m not referring to dragons dancing in my backyard or spells cast like cobwebs over my heart; I’m thinking of something that, unlike these antiquated myths, is radiantly real.  At the edge of our understanding, beyond the borders of our five senses, lies the spiritual realm.  The physical world that can be touched and tasted is far from comprehensive.  What we see is only a tiny fraction of all there is.  

This doctrine has lost traction in our mechanistic age, where we demand an oversimplified religion, with truths that can be neatly pigeonholed and sized to fit our own portraits of possibilities.  Many people, even devout Christians, struggle with this concept, fearful that such a belief is outdated in a modern age, or that it is inextricably linked with occult practices.  However, the existence of the spiritual world is declared throughout Scripture.  Colossians 1:16 addresses this reality in a matter-of-fact way:  “For by him all things were created, in heaven and on earth, visible and invisible, whether thrones or dominions or rulers or authorities—all things were created through him and for him”; the Greek words used here refer to forces beyond mere earthly powers (ESV).  This verse is a reminder that our faith operates in worlds beyond our frame of reference.  Outside the confines of the physical earth, yet far closer than we realize, hover not just the “principalities and powers” of Satan’s schemes, but the triumphant glory of Christ that forever secures His saints.  

Even secular science has begun to acknowledge the existence of what it cannot prove.  Physicist Lisa Randall, a theorist with Harvard University, is one of these intrigued scientists who has begun to seriously explore the possibility of other states of being.  A quote from Randall explains her rationale:  “There could be more to the universe than the three dimensions we are familiar with. They are hidden from us in some way…but even if they’re invisible, they could affect what we actually observe in the universe. There are lots of things we cannot see with the naked eye that turn out to be based in reality” (emphasis mine).  Appropriately, Randall’s new book detailing her theories is called Knocking on Heaven’s Door.  Of course, we Christians know what Randall and her colleagues are feeling; like a man fumbling his way through a dark room, they’re bumping against the spiritual world.  

“[W]e look not at the things which are seen, but at the things which are not seen; for the things which are seen are temporal, but the things which are not seen are eternal” (2 Corinthians 4:8 NASB).  The spiritual world is not just a fuzzy metaphor or an ethereal pie-in-the-sky concept.  It’s a present reality—far more real than our own tangible sphere.  The Bible proclaims it with unerring accuracy.  The ancients knew it, knew it intuitively, in their lives that had not yet been divorced by distraction.  Science knows it, as anyone must who dares to gaze unflinchingly into the heart of the unknown.  And if we’re honest with ourselves, we believe it too; we realize that both our great attacks and our great victories are originating outside this world.   

Yet tragically, this concept often fades into forgetfulness for us.  We can so easily slip into a pattern of living as if this world is all there is—as if our own efforts are the only bridge between success and failure.  The idea of the spiritual world becomes just that—an idea, blurred in the back of our minds.  And that’s where we err, because you see, this isn’t a theological tenet suitable only for intellectual discussion.  It’s a practical philosophy that radically realigns how we live.  

Just think again about the summer solstice traditions.  You see, the ancients did more than merely believe the spiritual world was there.  They didn’t just mentally assent to its existence or teach it as a dry textbook application.  Instead, they expected it to impinge upon their lives.  Spiritual realities weren’t faraway fiction; they were a real and very present part of life.  

And I find this convicting.

You see, these people were following spurious, often silly, superstitions that operated only in a prescribed window of time—and that called for some rather foolish actions (like leaping an open fire).  Yet they willingly and gladly made room for the miraculous.  In contrast, here I stand—endowed with the truth of the gospel, the assurance of the Spirit’s continuous work, and the calling to take strong steps of faith.  How much more convinced of the spiritual world I should be!  Yet if I’m honest, so often I live with my head down.  I look around at what I can see—my towering circumstances, my meager resources, my limited time—as if it is all I’ve been given.  I evaluate decisions from the point of view of this world.  I don’t anticipate the possibility—the probability—of spiritual intervention.

I’m reminded of the story of Elisha and his servant.  Enraged that Elisha had been assisting the Israelites in defeating the invaders from Aram, the king of that country sent an entire army to capture the prophet.  When Elisha and his servant awoke in the morning, the army had completely surrounded the city in which they were staying.  They were trapped—at least, it appeared that way.

Terrified, Elisha’s servant cried out, “Alas, my master!  What shall we do?”  Elisha quickly cautioned him:  “Do not be afraid, for those who are with us are more than those who are with them” (2 Kings 6:15-16 ESV).

This statement must have sounded like wishful thinking or stubborn self-delusion—until Elisha followed it with this prayer:  “O LORD, please open his eyes that he may see.”  The awe-inspiring verse that follows is guaranteed to give goosebumps:   “So the LORD opened the eyes of the young man, and he saw, and behold, the mountain was full of horses and chariots of fire all around Elisha” (v. 17).  

Perhaps you are more like Elisha.  Perhaps you feel the mantle of God’s strength on your shoulders.  Perhaps you’re blessed with unshakeable faith and unfailing spiritual vision.  

But if you’re like me, you probably identify more with Elisha’s servant.  I’ve seen seemingly insurmountable challenges.  I’ve examined myself and seen a weakness that couldn’t be compensated for.  I’ve begun to flail in fear.  And then suddenly, unexpectedly, inexplicably, God shows up—and I am left in the middle of the miracle, filled with a mixture of awe at His intervention, gratitude for His help, and shame that I could have ever doubted.  The miraculous was so close—as it always is—and I didn’t see it.  

“LORD, please open [our] eyes.”  May that be our prayer—to never lose sight of the spiritual realities behind our everyday world.  It is so easy to live and act as if the material world is all there is.  But when we do this, we rob ourselves of so much.  God has implanted “eternity into man’s heart”; the supernatural is woven through and around our spirits (Ecclesiastes 3:11b ESV).  And it is when we expect the miraculous—when we look beyond the material—that everything changes.  

Just examine the story of Elisha and his servant again.  What I find particularly amazing is that the servant’s newfound vision didn’t change the circumstances.  The army was still there.  The threat was still real.  The escape was still inconceivable.  But although seeing God’s power didn’t change the servant’s situation, it changed him.  Faith replaced fear.  Courage replaced cowardice.  Elisha and his servant went boldly to face the enemy—and they saw God work a great victory of deliverance.

I sometimes wonder if the reason we don’t see more victories is because we don’t fight more battles.  We seem to live life constantly on the defensive, afraid and anxious and alone.  But I believe that the more of the spiritual world we see—the more expectant we are that God will intervene—then the larger we will live.  When we hear Jesus say, “Take heart; I have overcome the world,” we have a faith that is not afraid to dream extravagantly (John 16:33 ESV).  When we remember His words that “I am with you always, to the end of the age,” boldness is birthed in our hearts (Matthew 28:20 ESV).  And those acts of courage spark the miraculous power of God in our lives.  What if our eyes were open to see the armies of God around us?  What if we took Him at His Word and claimed His promises over ourselves?  

I know what would happen.  The Spirit would ignite our souls like never before…and the whole world would be set ablaze.  

There is so much around us that is mysterious and miraculous—even the solstice itself.  And if what we see is so incredible, imagine the wonder and beauty and fathomless awe of what we cannot see—the great reality of which our entire universe is a mere peninsula.  Let’s not make the mistake of limiting our gaze only to this present world.  Instead, let’s expect to see the miraculous—to be interrupted by the Holy Spirit.  Let’s expect God to invade our lives, day by day—at midsummer and midwinter and every time in between.    

Did you enjoy this post? What are you learning during this special time of year? Let me know in the comments! Also, you can find more Midsummer legends and trivia here, or read more about Lisa Randall’s work here.