I recently had an encounter with a young earth creationist who, upon hearing I was "into science", took it upon himself to try and convert me away from my obviously flawed worldview. After a couple of pointless back-and-forths in which he cited the "fact" that "evolution is only a theory" and the complexity of the eye, among other dead horses, I asked him if he'd let me finish my cheese and chutney sandwich in peace, as it was clear neither of us was going to persuade the other. I was bored, he was blinkered. Once he'd left, however, something he'd said about the "wonders of the Lord's world" got me to thinking. People claim that theism allows them to find wonder in the world around them, and cite this as something on which atheists somehow miss out.

Poppycock, says I.

Take lightning, for example. Reading filoraene's description of the physics behind the phenomenon does anything but quench the little furnace in my heart that keeps me wondering about such things. Instead, it makes the lightning all the more fascinating.

For millennia, humans have tried to explain lightning. Dozens of civilisations came up with Thunder Gods to try to give a reason for the sky being torn asunder ever once in awhile. The Aztecs had Xolotl, also associated with death, fire, and misfortune. The Native Americans spoke of the Thunderbird, whose wings stirred the wind to create thunder.

The Thunderbird soars though the skies, the clouds beneath him warping and swirling as his wingbeats stir them into turmoil. One of the many brightsnakes he carries gripped in his powerful talons suddenly wriggles free of its brethren as it makes a break for the ground in a frenzied zigzag, casting a raw white incandescence across the land. The Thunderbird turns in the air with a flick of its wings, casually demolishing the sound barrier as he dives after the writhing serpent, the rumbling peal that gives the bird his name flying outwards, echoing off the mountains and causing the ground to quiver and tremble.

And of course, there was the Norse god Thor, and the Graeco-Roman Zeus and Jupiter, all of whom utilised their power over thunder and lightning to smite the bejesus out of pretty much anyone that pissed them off.

"That's the last time that wretched mortal rapes one of my dryads," thought Zeus to himself as he wrought a thunderbolt from the clouds that surrounded Olympus. He didn't bat an eyelid at the piercing light it emanated as he glared groundwards, seeking out the impudent human who'd been foolish enough to try and get his leg over a spirit without consequences. Curling up his lip in contempt and sighting along his arm, the King of the Gods flung the jagged shard of energy towards the wretch, watching it carefully as it sped along its intended path. The unfortunate perpetrator didn't even have time to blink before the tip of the bolt penetrated his skull, killing him instantly. Zeus' deep, rumbling laughter could be heard for miles around as he gazed down at the smoking pair of boots that remained where the good-for-nothing mortal had stood but a moment ago.

Sure, the idea of magical birds of prey and vengeful bearded immortals is pretty wondrous, but that's no excuse for not finding it equally wonderful, if not moreso, when we can explain the thunderbolts. How could it not be wondrous when trillions upon trillions of minute ice crystals whirl and collide and tumble together, generating a massive field of energy in an arena thousands of feet above our heads? How could it not be wondrous when this field forces electrons away from their nuclei, forming a conductive gas that is constantly sending out bright light as the energy levels within the atoms fluctuate wildly? When the plasma is forced into a barely organised shape by the field around it, the head of the shape being forced quickly downwards, pulling a trail of conductive ions behind it. When the field this streamer carries induces the ground to do the same, bringing a streamer leaping up from the surface to touch its skyborne brother. When the massed electrons in the cloud above instantly course down the pathway that has been created for them, forming a sawtooth pillar of current between the sky and the earth as they leap groundwards, at temperatures approaching five times those on the surface of the Sun. When the superheated air is filled with nitrogen and oxygen and ions and electrons, which force themselves outwards, producing shockwaves that can be detected from many miles away. When the ground the lightning strike has been turned to a jagged root system of silica glass. When the sight and sound of a great column of raw power lancing down through the sky, sending out a painfully bright burst of light and a rolling peal of noise that batters against mountains and buildings, strikes fear and awe into the hearts and minds of all who see it.

Tell me that isn't just a little bit wondrous.