My parents were my teachers. They homeschooled me and my four younger siblings from first grade through high school. At age nine or ten, my mother began to teach us about astronomy. We learned to identify the constellations of the northern hemisphere: Orion, Ursa Major (the Big Dipper), Ursa Minor (the Little Dipper), the Pleiades, and others. On clear nights, we gathered our astronomy books with their star maps, a flashlight, and an old, ragged quilt my grandmother had sewn years earlier. We divided these items up and headed out into the pastureland around our small home.
After finding a nice level patch of ground free from large rocks and cow pies, we unfolded our quilt on the dewy grass and laid down to study the stars. To my knowledge, no mystic or philosopher ever said, “To look at stars you must first close your eyes.” But they should have. When looking into the night sky, you should close your eyes for at least a minute to allow your eyes to adjust.
Some stars, such as Betelgeuse (in the constellation Orion), are so bright they can be seen in most circumstances. However, to see most stars visible to the naked eye requires preparation.
While lying in the field with my eyes closed, I could hear bullfrogs in the cow pond down the valley and innumerable crickets in the grass around me. I could feel cool, damp air on my face. I sometimes imagined what it would feel like to gather dew as a blade of grass. And I always anticipated what I would see when I opened my eyes.
Finally, the long minute passed, and I opened my eyes to gaze into the infinite depth of the night sky. That sounds cliché, but sometimes clichés say it best. For the sky is bottomless — infinitely so. I always forgot that, but when my eyes slid open, I suddenly found myself staring into eternity.
The experience never failed to stir something deep within me. I suppose it must have done the same for my brothers. Though we were ever driven by irresistible impulses to pinch, punch, and prod one another mercilessly, in those quiet moments under the firmament, we were, for a time, stilled. It seemed eternity somehow entered our finite beings.
The infinite expanse above us was ruled by order and stability. Each star had its place. Nothing was ever amiss. Polaris was reliably just slightly askew of true north, making his slow way around the top of the world, always happy to help you find your way. Orion never rose without his sword drawn for battle, and the Big Dipper persistently pointed to the Little Dipper. Planets moved about in the sky but always where expected. The order of eternity pressed itself into me. For those brief moments, I felt the immutability of God and the structure of His thought as if tactile things. It was there in the sky, written in letters too big to miss but too small to be noticed without concentration or perhaps meditation. Astronomy slipped into theology. How could this be?
Revelation
For the invisible things of him from the creation of the world are clearly seen, being understood by the things that are made, even his eternal power and Godhead; so that they are without excuse (Romans 1:20).
In the beginning, God created everything by speaking it into existence. Moreover, as Apostles John and Paul explained (John 1:1-3; Colossians 1:16), He created all things by and through Jesus Christ: the Logos. John’s use of the term Logos in the opening chapter of his Gospel was purposeful. He described Christ as the fullness of God’s ordered thought communicated to man. Christ is the fulfillment of God’s revelation received in two ways: through the created order (general revelation) and the Scriptures (special revelation).
Of course, the Apostles were simply expanding and clarifying what God already explained in Genesis 1. There, we learn God’s spoken thoughts brought the entire cosmos into existence. Unlike the gods of the pagans, who supposedly fashioned the universe from other substances, the Bible depicts God imagining and then bringing everything into existence out of nothing — ex nihilo — through the power of His word.
This revelation of God’s creative process gives us insight into how and why we perceive order in the universe. Abraham Kuyper explained that because of God’s creative work through the Logos, “the divine thinking must be embedded in all created things.” In fact, “there can be nothing in the universe that fails to express, to incarnate, the revelation of the thought of God.” The order we observe in the heavens and in the atom is an embodiment of the divine order of God, so “the whole creation” serves as a “visible curtain behind which radiates the exalted working of this divine thinking.” Thus, we are confident the perceived structure and orderliness of the universe is real and knowable (albeit imperfectly) by man.
General revelation is not limited to believers; it is a common grace enjoyed by all. Paul explicitly states no one has an excuse for sinfulness because God has so clearly revealed Himself to us through creation (Romans 1:18-20). Even pagan peoples, according to God’s common grace, have imperfectly perceived portions of the truth about the order of the universe, the coming judgment of mankind, and God’s invisible attributes, among other things.
The Pythagorean school of Greek philosophers provides a particularly excellent example of this truth. By observing the mathematical order of the universe, from musical intervals to the regular paths of the stars, they perceived that reality is structured in a specific way that calls man to order himself in harmony with the music of the spheres. Therefore, they worked to cultivate their souls toward virtue and self-control.
This does not mean the Pythagorean philosophers properly understood the relationship of the spiritual to the material world, the nature of the final judgment, or the gift of salvation through Christ alone. However, they perceived the Logos that carefully and harmoniously structured the universe and realized humanity does well to order our lives in sympathy with the framework of reality.
Return to the Stars
Three decades ago, as I lay under the stars in my little corner of Robertson County, Tennessee, I experienced the Logos, not unlike the Pythagoreans. However, I also had the benefit of God’s special revelation. The physical interaction with God’s transcendent order served as a bulwark for the instruction I was receiving from God’s Word at home and church.
In more recent years, the stars have served to remind me of the truths of God’s presence, power, and steadfastness. For this reason, I always try to keep them in sight. Unfortunately, light pollution in most densely populated areas washes out the night sky, and only the brightest stars shine through. This sad reality deprives us of a key aspect of God’s communication to us. For this reason, our family has been committed to living in the countryside.
Several years ago, our family traveled to a relatively small city for the National Convention. It was the first time our six-year-old son had spent more than an afternoon in a city of any size. A few days into our stay, he told his mother and me he was ready to go home because he missed seeing the stars.
Few things have warmed my heart so much. I was glad he missed the stars because I knew they were teaching him deep truths, they would help him stay on course, and ultimately, they will help him find his way home if ever he should stray.
About the Writer: Phillip T. Morgan lives with his wife Megan and their five children on a small farm in Robertson County, Tennessee. He is the History Program Coordinator at Welch College. Phillip is currently pursuing Ph.D. studies in history at Kansas State University (ABD) and holds degrees from Middle Tennessee State University (M.A., History) and Welch College (B.S., Music Performance, Biblical Studies).
