Showing posts with label Stars. Show all posts
Showing posts with label Stars. Show all posts

Wednesday, February 26, 2020

The Redemption Project - Dust


Stars, as far as we know, all form the same way. In the gassy expanse of a nebula—itself a remnant of a dead star—atoms of hydrogen fall into each other's gravity and begin to orbit one another. Their shared mass creates a small well, which curves space and draws more atoms into a dance. As more join, the dance speeds up and, as it does, it generates heat.

Eventually enough atoms join this dance that things not only grow hot but crowded. Atoms start to disturb one another, nearly run into others. Eventually, the heat and the press of the crowd push two atoms together, and...something explosive happens.

As I write this our sun's atoms are continuing this dance, which began eons ago. Hydrogen atoms are combined to become helium, causing an incredible amount of energy to be released. Energy that is transmitted as heat and light that crosses ninety-three million miles to our soil and skin. And, it'll keep doing this for several million more years.

Today is Ash Wednesday, a day we start a new season by reminding ourselves and each other that we're human. Our short lives barely register against the long lifespan of our sun. And where it will leave behind a cloud of gas that can glow in brilliant colors, we will become dust, gray and dull.

This can be a depressing thought. I'm small and finite and weak. I don't shine like the sun. What little light I reflect can't even illuminate a small room. Stellar remnants fill light-years and their glow can be seen across the galaxy for millions of years. All signs I was here will, in a couple of generations, be gone. Except, of course, the dust that is caught in the wind to glow as motes in the sunlight.

Our sun's rays have been filled with such small motes since it was young. After its fiery birth there were lighter elements in the remaining gas. In the heat of our proto-galaxy, some of these bits of hydrogen and helium were forged into heavier ones like calcium and carbon. They, however, amounted to little more than dust in the orbiting cloud.

Yet, in the heat and pressure as eons passed, some of that dust began to clump together, growing larger, attracting more particles as it began to spin. And, over time, as the dust clung to each other, the pressure subsided, the great heat began to cool.

And the dust had come together to form a new, beautiful world.

Friday, December 10, 2010

Third Sunday of Advent


The prayer traditionally read this week begins "Stir up your power, O Lord." It's a real rousing beginning, and one that, for me, conjures up the idea of a coming storm. I think of too-warm weather, a sepia colored world, wind that slowly keeps rising, and a general feeling of tension in everything as creation waits for the clouds to break and the rain to pour down, drenching everything and everyone in its wake.


I must admit my thought of hard rain and the relief that comes when the gathering storm finally gives way provides a window into my own spiritual life. I had hopes that this season of Advent would be a time when my parched soul might find an end to its long drought. Maybe it's just that in these weeks when the message of God's love plays from every store PA system and non-stop-til-Christmas on the radio I thought that the withering and weak spirit within me might at last be stirred up and I could feel, again, the wonder that is a relationship with Christ.


However, with two weeks behind, I have yet to feel even a twinge of life from beneath my breast, much less a sense of being stirred up. And rather than rain that cures the dry, cracked ground, I find myself confronted by night after night of cold, clear stars: stars which, even though they are fire, are too far away to kindle anything within me.


I shouldn't, I suppose, be surprised at this. God really isn't one for getting stirred up. When people begged and hoped for a great champion to throw off the Roman yoke, they got a child who grew up to talk about love and peace. And as I look west for a sign of clouds growing and billowing on the horizon, there are only soft sunsets that give way to clear, cold nights that reveal the universe.


Earlier this year I would have responded to all this with anger, shaking my fist at the sky. Now, I suppose God has worn me down. Now I merely turn and go back inside, sheltering the tiny candle flame of hope that sputters in the gentle, chilly breeze. And this week, I pray for that stirring up, even as I'm coming to believe that God just doesn't work like that. That no matter how much I need a rain that saturates me from head to toe, I will walk out each night to find only dry air. As much as I need some hint that Christ is close to me, is still near, there is just the cold and starry night. While I am ready to welcome the billowing and powerful clouds of the storm, I see only clear skies.


And I wonder, staring at the crystal clear constellations, who could ever find hope in the stars of Christmas night?


Stir up my soul, O Lord.