A Theology of Watching Fireflies

When visiting home during the summer in Pennsylvania, one of my most favorite things is watching the fireflies. They come out at dusk and float slowly around, their bioluminescence flickering on and off, filling backyards and fields with magic. My mother loves a quip I once made, "God made fireflies slow so that children can catch them." It's hard to describe the tiny miracle of catching a firefly in your hands, cupping it gently, and watching it glow through your laced fingers. Then opening your hands and letting it fly away into the dark.

One night this last summer, watching dusk fall, I began to gaze out over the grass watching for the fireflies. There were not many this particular night, but if you patiently looked the fireflies made their appearance. I just looked and looked as the dusk deepened into night, the glow of the sunset smoldering before going dark. All the while, the fireflies danced.

It struck me, given all the things I've written recently about the spirituality of looking, the sacredness of attention, and the holy discipline of perception, that there is a theology to watching fireflies. Watching fireflies is a deeply sacramental activity. A gentle magic surrounds us if you're willing to sit still and look.