This question is in response to yesterday’s first Advent post, which you should read first if you haven’t already. What do the wonders of the night sky reveal to you? What light or whiteness keeps them from being seen?
Remember: Invisible does not mean absent. Unperceived does not mean unimportant.
This question immediately reminds me of the desert sky in Tucson. Nothing like it. At that time (it was 35 years ago so it might be different now) the city had laws limiting the number of street lights and lights on the highways to prevent the artificial light from diminishing the vibrancy and intensity of the night sky. I worked at night - driving for hours through the mountains that surround Tucson. Often I’d get to a peak and turn off my car and lights to take it in.
The outlines of the saguaro cactus and the mesquite trees, the skyline backlit from the bright moon. The shades of deep blue and gray playing across the sky. The darker it got, every shadow, shape and light had more definition. Everything was closer, cleaner clearer. The white lights feel noisy without saying much. The night desert sky in it’s silence speaks volumes.
The first thing that came to mind for me with this question was a video we watched in my evangelical youth group growing up. In it the speaker, a youth pastor himself, who'd done a little astronomical digging, attempted to show us just how massive the stars are. The video closed with Psalm 33:6 (God breathed the stars, as they translated it). It was designed to make you feel small, to feel God's gargantuan largeness. But I think this focus (and I think I can call is a focus that the white church has primarily dominated the narrative on)on a big God and a small me obscures something. Yes, God is big, but God is also small, present in the mundane and tiny. When I pause to reflect on God's presence with me as I make tea, as I struggle to wake up, as I sit at my computer and research Ruth for a paper, I see a God who is small. To me the wonders of the night sky reveal God: creator, but also sustainer, of both the stars and the humans who reside beneath them.
Yes. In the city we can’t see the stars as clear. The light in our city windows where people read, cook, love, fight and put babies to bed are our stars. Our proximity in living near each other in out metro spaces, maps our constellations that are vertically to our dark seemingly starless city night skies. When I land at night in a place outside of the city (while my bags are still in the car) I step out and look up. The horizontal stars are there to greet me.
This question immediately reminds me of the desert sky in Tucson. Nothing like it. At that time (it was 35 years ago so it might be different now) the city had laws limiting the number of street lights and lights on the highways to prevent the artificial light from diminishing the vibrancy and intensity of the night sky. I worked at night - driving for hours through the mountains that surround Tucson. Often I’d get to a peak and turn off my car and lights to take it in.
The outlines of the saguaro cactus and the mesquite trees, the skyline backlit from the bright moon. The shades of deep blue and gray playing across the sky. The darker it got, every shadow, shape and light had more definition. Everything was closer, cleaner clearer. The white lights feel noisy without saying much. The night desert sky in it’s silence speaks volumes.
The first thing that came to mind for me with this question was a video we watched in my evangelical youth group growing up. In it the speaker, a youth pastor himself, who'd done a little astronomical digging, attempted to show us just how massive the stars are. The video closed with Psalm 33:6 (God breathed the stars, as they translated it). It was designed to make you feel small, to feel God's gargantuan largeness. But I think this focus (and I think I can call is a focus that the white church has primarily dominated the narrative on)on a big God and a small me obscures something. Yes, God is big, but God is also small, present in the mundane and tiny. When I pause to reflect on God's presence with me as I make tea, as I struggle to wake up, as I sit at my computer and research Ruth for a paper, I see a God who is small. To me the wonders of the night sky reveal God: creator, but also sustainer, of both the stars and the humans who reside beneath them.
Yes. In the city we can’t see the stars as clear. The light in our city windows where people read, cook, love, fight and put babies to bed are our stars. Our proximity in living near each other in out metro spaces, maps our constellations that are vertically to our dark seemingly starless city night skies. When I land at night in a place outside of the city (while my bags are still in the car) I step out and look up. The horizontal stars are there to greet me.