The Heavens are Telling
Psalm 19
One year ago last week, Sarah, Megan and I had just returned home from a day out. We had returned home later than we normally do. The sun had set, and the twilight was deepening, and the first bright stars were shining through. Megan pointed straight up and asked “Daddy, what star is that?” I was embarrassed, because I couldn’t remember. Up until this point, Megan was only interested in Venus, the shining planet often referred to as the evening star. Yet Venus had long since dipped into the sun’s glare, and so I didn’t know… but I did have my brand new iPhone. So I downloaded an astronomy app, pointed the device at the sky, and was able to tell Megan that it was a star called “Vega.”
If she hadn’t asked that question, we would not have our two telescopes, nor would we have thought to have a star named in memory of her baby sister. In the time since, my whole family has engaged in admiring the wonders of the heavens. This past summer Sarah, Megan and I went camping on Manitoulin Island, to experience truly dark skies at our first “Star Party.” Imagine camping, but pulling out the campfire, and putting in a telescope… and doing it with other people… most of whom had telescopes much larger than ours. The skies we saw out there were astounding, I learned first-hand that the human eye is remarkably adaptable to the dark, if we just give it the chance. Away from the glare of artificial light at night, we were able to see our way around the campsite with only starlight itself to see with… and my God, in the purest sense of that expression, the sky is truly full of stars.
I couldn’t help but hear the echoes of Psalm 19 that weekend.
“The Heavens are telling the glory of God!”
Curiously enough, two weeks later, Sarah and I would be singing in a 172 voice choir, and we would sing Joseph Haydn’s magnificent treatment of this text… and now, for world communion Sunday, we hear the echoes of Psalm 19 again. I have to say that when the Psalmist who wrote the 19th Psalm proclaimed that the Heavens are telling the glory of God, they had no idea how profoundly right they were.
So beyond me geeking out about my new telescope, let me share a personal reflection that I wrote over the summer:
When you look into the clear night sky, especially from blazing city lights, chances are you may see a smattering of stars. These are the brightest ones in our sky, amongst thousands visible. Go to someplace dark, and you may get a glimpse of how full the sky is of stars. As we have learned, even that is just a glimpse. If you stay up late tonight , into the wee morning hours, you may see the constellation of Orion. It is the brightest constellation in the winter sky. Come December, you won’t have to stay up late to see it.
Four bright stars on it's perimeter, and three bright stars that make up its belt. They have been called the Magi, or the Three Kings at various points in history. Appropriate, given the season, I think.
Below these three lie another line of three fainter stars. Often called Orion’s sword. The middle star is far more than just a star. It is a nebula, a massive cloud of gas where stars are being born… a stellar nursery if you will. It lies some 1400 Light years away from earth, and is some 24 Light Years across. These are numbers that are really too big for us to get our head around. For a comparison, if our galaxy was the size of Mississauga, the Great Nebula would be about the same distance between this pulpit, and the street entrance to SpringCreek Cemetery next door. The cover of this morning’s bulletin is a close-up of the Great Nebula. That wasn’t planned, I had intended to use this image this morning no matter what was on the bulletin. Call it providence! So let’s use this as an image to teach us something about God.
At the core of the Great Nebula of Orion are a handful of brilliant young stars, whose powerful solar winds have blown out a hole in this cloud, opening it up and lighting it up so that we can observe it for the cosmic flower it resembles. It is an appropriate metaphor, because there are hundreds of new star systems being formed throughout the cloud. The gasses condense, pushed together to critical mass by either the stellar winds of the central stars or even shockwaves from a nearby supernova. Condensed together, and pulled together by their own gravity, nuclear fusion begins to happen and they ignite, forming new stars, each capable of perhaps even developing new life on their own. It is as if we are getting a glimpse of the very hand of God at work.
This is symbolic of new life, new hope. The death of one star creates a shockwave that creates more. It is a profound revelation to realize that the universe itself is hardwired for resurrection. The heavens are telling the glory of God. No words are said, nothing is heard, and yet they ring throughout the cosmos in a far more powerful way than we could ever imagine. It is something to remember, that is often washed out by the glare of city lights.
The heavens are telling the glory of God, and yet, so often we have so much blare and glare in our lives that we simply don’t see it. If there’s a lesson I’ve been learning in exploring the stars, there is much to be said for dialing it down. After all, what does the “noise” around us wash out… what of God’s wonderful universe do we miss.
In Psalm 19, there’s this kind of odd turn of phrase.
“Day to day pours forth speech, night to night declares knowledge.”
And then it seems to contradict itself:
“There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard.”
Hunh? What the heck does that mean? Day pours forth speech, yet their voice isn’t heard?
The real secret comes in the next line, “yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.”
Taken together, it is this wonderful tribute to how much the skies are a testament to the wonder and glory of God, even when they stand in silent vigil above us. The words that we use, as effective as they are in communicating with one another, can’t hold a candle to the sheer awe of the universe. Sometimes the most profound revelations of God’s love come in the very moments of silence when we stop for a moment and contemplate the wonders of the universe. I have to ask the question of how much we really miss because we surround ourselves with all kinds of things that get in the way of the most meaningful things in life. I think creation is yelling to get our attention, not only because we abuse it, but also because of how beautiful and wonderful it is, and we don't always see it, hear it, experience it. It would seem a waste in such a magnificent universe that this is if there was nobody around to appreciate its beauty. As far as we have come, I think we are in constant danger of focusing too much on the noise we generate ourselves, that we miss what God is trying to say.
What if we took the time to stop, to slow down, and dial down all that blaring noise and glaring lights that we fill our lives with. What if in letting ourselves see in the dark, and listen to the silence that we might realize exactly how profoundly wonderful this universe is, and as insignificant as we might feel on this tiny speck of dust in the universe, we matter to God.
Amen.
Sermon preached Sunday, October 2, 2011; Clarkson Road Presbyterian Church
Mississauga, Ontario; The Rev. John Crowdis
One year ago last week, Sarah, Megan and I had just returned home from a day out. We had returned home later than we normally do. The sun had set, and the twilight was deepening, and the first bright stars were shining through. Megan pointed straight up and asked “Daddy, what star is that?” I was embarrassed, because I couldn’t remember. Up until this point, Megan was only interested in Venus, the shining planet often referred to as the evening star. Yet Venus had long since dipped into the sun’s glare, and so I didn’t know… but I did have my brand new iPhone. So I downloaded an astronomy app, pointed the device at the sky, and was able to tell Megan that it was a star called “Vega.”
If she hadn’t asked that question, we would not have our two telescopes, nor would we have thought to have a star named in memory of her baby sister. In the time since, my whole family has engaged in admiring the wonders of the heavens. This past summer Sarah, Megan and I went camping on Manitoulin Island, to experience truly dark skies at our first “Star Party.” Imagine camping, but pulling out the campfire, and putting in a telescope… and doing it with other people… most of whom had telescopes much larger than ours. The skies we saw out there were astounding, I learned first-hand that the human eye is remarkably adaptable to the dark, if we just give it the chance. Away from the glare of artificial light at night, we were able to see our way around the campsite with only starlight itself to see with… and my God, in the purest sense of that expression, the sky is truly full of stars.
I couldn’t help but hear the echoes of Psalm 19 that weekend.
“The Heavens are telling the glory of God!”
Curiously enough, two weeks later, Sarah and I would be singing in a 172 voice choir, and we would sing Joseph Haydn’s magnificent treatment of this text… and now, for world communion Sunday, we hear the echoes of Psalm 19 again. I have to say that when the Psalmist who wrote the 19th Psalm proclaimed that the Heavens are telling the glory of God, they had no idea how profoundly right they were.
So beyond me geeking out about my new telescope, let me share a personal reflection that I wrote over the summer:
When you look into the clear night sky, especially from blazing city lights, chances are you may see a smattering of stars. These are the brightest ones in our sky, amongst thousands visible. Go to someplace dark, and you may get a glimpse of how full the sky is of stars. As we have learned, even that is just a glimpse. If you stay up late tonight , into the wee morning hours, you may see the constellation of Orion. It is the brightest constellation in the winter sky. Come December, you won’t have to stay up late to see it.
Four bright stars on it's perimeter, and three bright stars that make up its belt. They have been called the Magi, or the Three Kings at various points in history. Appropriate, given the season, I think.
Below these three lie another line of three fainter stars. Often called Orion’s sword. The middle star is far more than just a star. It is a nebula, a massive cloud of gas where stars are being born… a stellar nursery if you will. It lies some 1400 Light years away from earth, and is some 24 Light Years across. These are numbers that are really too big for us to get our head around. For a comparison, if our galaxy was the size of Mississauga, the Great Nebula would be about the same distance between this pulpit, and the street entrance to SpringCreek Cemetery next door. The cover of this morning’s bulletin is a close-up of the Great Nebula. That wasn’t planned, I had intended to use this image this morning no matter what was on the bulletin. Call it providence! So let’s use this as an image to teach us something about God.
At the core of the Great Nebula of Orion are a handful of brilliant young stars, whose powerful solar winds have blown out a hole in this cloud, opening it up and lighting it up so that we can observe it for the cosmic flower it resembles. It is an appropriate metaphor, because there are hundreds of new star systems being formed throughout the cloud. The gasses condense, pushed together to critical mass by either the stellar winds of the central stars or even shockwaves from a nearby supernova. Condensed together, and pulled together by their own gravity, nuclear fusion begins to happen and they ignite, forming new stars, each capable of perhaps even developing new life on their own. It is as if we are getting a glimpse of the very hand of God at work.
This is symbolic of new life, new hope. The death of one star creates a shockwave that creates more. It is a profound revelation to realize that the universe itself is hardwired for resurrection. The heavens are telling the glory of God. No words are said, nothing is heard, and yet they ring throughout the cosmos in a far more powerful way than we could ever imagine. It is something to remember, that is often washed out by the glare of city lights.
The heavens are telling the glory of God, and yet, so often we have so much blare and glare in our lives that we simply don’t see it. If there’s a lesson I’ve been learning in exploring the stars, there is much to be said for dialing it down. After all, what does the “noise” around us wash out… what of God’s wonderful universe do we miss.
In Psalm 19, there’s this kind of odd turn of phrase.
“Day to day pours forth speech, night to night declares knowledge.”
And then it seems to contradict itself:
“There is no speech, nor are there words; their voice is not heard.”
Hunh? What the heck does that mean? Day pours forth speech, yet their voice isn’t heard?
The real secret comes in the next line, “yet their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.”
Taken together, it is this wonderful tribute to how much the skies are a testament to the wonder and glory of God, even when they stand in silent vigil above us. The words that we use, as effective as they are in communicating with one another, can’t hold a candle to the sheer awe of the universe. Sometimes the most profound revelations of God’s love come in the very moments of silence when we stop for a moment and contemplate the wonders of the universe. I have to ask the question of how much we really miss because we surround ourselves with all kinds of things that get in the way of the most meaningful things in life. I think creation is yelling to get our attention, not only because we abuse it, but also because of how beautiful and wonderful it is, and we don't always see it, hear it, experience it. It would seem a waste in such a magnificent universe that this is if there was nobody around to appreciate its beauty. As far as we have come, I think we are in constant danger of focusing too much on the noise we generate ourselves, that we miss what God is trying to say.
What if we took the time to stop, to slow down, and dial down all that blaring noise and glaring lights that we fill our lives with. What if in letting ourselves see in the dark, and listen to the silence that we might realize exactly how profoundly wonderful this universe is, and as insignificant as we might feel on this tiny speck of dust in the universe, we matter to God.
Amen.
Sermon preached Sunday, October 2, 2011; Clarkson Road Presbyterian Church
Mississauga, Ontario; The Rev. John Crowdis
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