What makes you pause, stare, admire? What leaves you in awe? Your reverence reveals what you love and who you are. What amazes us speaks.

The Gospels whisper secrets about what astonishes men. Their pages gasp with wonder, fill with emojis, punctuate with exclamation points. We get to see men and women stare wide-eyed, stunned into silence at what they see and hear — especially when the Spectacle of heaven and earth took on flesh and tabernacled among us.

In Mark 6, for example, we witness Jesus’s hometown marveling at his teaching.

He went away from there and came to his hometown, and his disciples followed him. And on the Sabbath he began to teach in the synagogue, and many who heard him were astonished, saying, “Where did this man get these things? What is the wisdom given to him? How are such mighty works done by his hands?” (Mark 6:1–2)

Their astonishment is proper — scientific, we might even say. They rightly observe wisdom falling from another world and works accomplished by hands other than those of an obscure carpenter. Blessed are their ears to hear his voice; rightly are they astonished. Where did this man — one of us — get these things? If they had asked him, he might have answered, “The Lord God has given me the tongue of those who are taught” (Isaiah 50:4).

But their awe, like fresh fish left under the sun, begins to spoil and stink. Thoughts begin to wake them from their wonderment. “‘Is not this the carpenter, the son of Mary and brother of James and Joses and Judas and Simon? And are not his sisters here with us?’ And they took offense at him” (Mark 6:3).

Their amazement sours into disgust. Wait a second — tell me this isn’t Mary’s kid who grew up in Joseph’s house. Tell me this isn’t the older brother to little Judas and Simon. Who does he think he is exactly? He may have traveled and gained a reputation, but we know him. He grew up with us, as one of us; we are his forest, and shall we now seek shelter in his shade? Crabs in a bucket, as they say.

Greater Wonder

Yet this is not the greatest astonishment of the text. In response to their offense, six words follow that make us cry out with the psalmist that such knowledge is too wonderful for us: “He marveled because of their unbelief” (Mark 6:6).

The God-man stares back. He who made the world and everything in the world — this one who hung up the stars in the sky and flung down galaxies at heaven’s feet — what in all creation could make the Man of Marvels marvel?

Unbelief.

“The unbelieving heart of man is a wonder to God.”

Do not pass by this point too quickly. When the Son of God came to earth, he was not amazed by the Jewish temple, was not staggered by the brilliance of the Greeks or the vastness of Rome’s empire. He was not awestruck at man’s wealth or prestige or even his people’s religiosity. Rather, he was shocked by his people’s unbelief.

And what increases our wonder at Jesus’s wonder is knowing what he already knows. In other words, why is Jesus marveling? He knows the world of stubborn hearts already. He knows his mission is to be rejected unto crucifixion — by his own people, no less. And we know that he knows the pattern of Israel rejecting her local prophets because he responds, “A prophet is not without honor, except in his hometown and among his relatives and in his own household” (Mark 6:4). Yet for all of that, he still marvels at their unbelief. Their distrust of him — his words, his works, his Person — fills him with wonder.

Another Marvel

So, when the Son of God takes on flesh and enters his world, he does not warm at his hometown’s homage; he marvels at their hard-heartedness, their unlawful suppression of evidence, which kills child-eyed wonder meant for worship. They hear the voice of the God of Abraham, Issac, and Jacob and reject that voice because of his birth certificate. The unbelieving heart of man is a wonder to God.

Now notice the only other time that Jesus is said to marvel in the Gospels. Do you recall? When a centurion appeals to Jesus on behalf of his paralyzed, suffering servant,

[Jesus] said to him, “I will come and heal him.” But the centurion replied, “Lord, I am not worthy to have you come under my roof, but only say the word, and my servant will be healed. For I too am a man under authority, with soldiers under me. And I say to one, ‘Go,’ and he goes, and to another, ‘Come,’ and he comes, and to my servant, ‘Do this,’ and he does it.” When Jesus heard this, he marveled and said to those who followed him, “Truly, I tell you, with no one in Israel have I found such faith.” (Matthew 8:7–10)

This soldier sees before him a warlord of wellness, saying to paralysis, “Go,” and it goes, and to healing, “Come,” and a man is made well. And he also sees such a dignitary that his house is unworthy to receive him. In no Israelite did the Lord find such faith.

So, what makes the incarnate Son of God wonder? Faith — its plentitude, overspilling the lip, and this from a Gentile. What makes the Son of God wonder? Faith — its absence, arid and lifeless, and that from people who professed to serve his Father. O Lord, increase our faith.

The Mighty One Unable

Return to the verse I passed over: verse 5. Another wonder awaits.

He could do no mighty work there, except that he laid his hands on a few sick people and healed them. (Mark 6:5)

First, we saw the God-man marvel. Now, we see the God-man unable (edynato) to do something. He cannot do a “mighty work” there (though he does lesser works that any mere human would call mighty). Why is he unable? He had just raised a little girl from the dead before traveling to his hometown (Mark 5:21–43). Had Jesus lost his power on the trip? No. The fault lies not with him but with them.

He can enact no mighty work because they have no receptive faith, no hopeful expectation, no trust in him. Rather, he discovers offense and pride and suspicion. So, he lays hands on a few sick people, heals them, and departs from there, marveling.

Can He Work Mightily Among Us?

Will Christ do mighty works among us today? His question may give us our answer: “Do you expect me to? Trust me to? Do you have faith?” The Christ of two thousand years ago is the same Christ today — except he is now exalted in power at the right hand of God, having made propitiation for our many sins of unbelief. But we still need ask: Does un-centurion-like faith keep us from centurion-like wonders? God may not frequently answer us exactly as we pray, but do some (or many) of our unanswered prayers result from unbelief?

If so, hear another Gentile with an enviable quantity of faith assert, “God will be as good as your faith. He will never allow you to think better of Him than He is” (C.H. Spurgeon Autobiography: The Early Years, 1834–1859, 25). Isn’t that a secret power in the life of Charles Spurgeon, along with many other sons of Abraham? They thought highly of their God, and their God proved higher than their faith. He will not let us think better of him than he is. Do you believe it? If not, be stirred by the grand deeds done by faith in Hebrews 11, accomplishments that towered abundantly above what the askers could think or imagine, even when some were imprisoned and killed.

Have we, we of little faith, considered that the higher these believers reached into the heavens to mark the height of God’s goodness, the more they discovered they were wonderfully mistaken? They may have thought they captured his stature and fullness. Then he stood upright in his glory to reveal that they only marked the hem of his garment. Or he lay down on two wooden beams that framed the infinite dimensions of his love and authority and goodwill toward men. How small is our faith compared to his right to our trust?

Go to the King

Saints of the past returned home, like the centurion, to find their sons and daughters healed, as it were, only regretting that they had not asked for more. Why not us?

Come, my soul, thy suit prepare,
Jesus loves to answer prayer.
He Himself has bid thee pray,
Rise and ask without delay.

Thou art coming to a King,
Large petitions with thee bring,
For his grace and power are such,
None can ever ask too much. (John Newton, “Come, My Soul, Thy Suit Prepare”)

And the “too much” that the centurion dared not ask is what we cannot live without: that he would dwell with us under our roof. Though unworthy as he, the peak blessing is to have him live with us in our homes — or better, for him to come and take us with him to his. And this we say is our certain destiny — should we then suspect him to do so little who has already done so much?

Dare to believe great things of an even greater God; mountains can yet be moved in our days. Lord, help our unbelief, and give us that faith to make even you marvel.