The Irish bard Tadhg Og O hUiginn, who died in 1448, wrote this:
O Son of God, do a miracle for me, and change my heart; Thy having taken flesh to redeem me was more difficult than to transform my wickedness.
It is Thou who, to help me, didst go to be scourged by the Jews; Thou, dear child of Mary, art the refined molten metal of our forge.
It is Thou who makest the sun bright, together with the ice; it is Thou who createdst the rivers and the salmon all along the river.
that the nut-tree should be flowering, O Christ, it is a rare craft; through Thy skill too comes the kernel, Thou fair ear of our wheat.
Though the children of Eve ill deserve the bird-flocks and the salmon, it was the Immortal One on the cross who made both salmon and birds.
It is He who makes the flower of the sloes grow through the surface of the blackthorn, and the nut-flower on other trees; beside this, what miracle is great?
(From A Celtic Miscellany, trans. by Kenneth Hurlstone Jackson, p. 300)
What miracle indeed is greater? Many who have read Chesterton’s Orthodoxy have delighted at his attempt to “reenchant” the world and make the plain, everyday, perhaps boring, and “natural” things seem amazing an magical. Here I think the author is reflecting in the same vein.
Scientific naturalism carries with it a curious sort of entitlement. It is as if one DESERVES the salmon in the stream on account of our surviving the million-year Darwinian meat-grinder. Instead of a gift from the immortal creator, we take them for granted, scoffing at little children who still find their presence magical. (I’m looking at you Neil deGrasse Tyson.) Since we think we know for certain how they came about, then we feel allowed to disregard them as a gift. “Hey religions morons, show us a f**kin’ miracle!” we cry. But we have categorized truckloads of miracles out of sight already. We can point at little that isn’t already right under our noses.