Now faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen… By faith we understand that the worlds were prepared by the word of God, so that what is seen was made from things that are not visible.
There is something about being out under the night sky, especially somewhere far away from city lights. The stars are at once very close and very, very far away. There is a sense of eternity, of incomprehensible distance between us and these unknown, beautiful silver specks scattered in the sky. In the winter especially, the stars are brighter, and the sky becomes alive with constellations. I always look for Orion as a sign of the colder seasons coming. Sometimes you might spot a satellite, moving very slowly across the sky – at other times, the sudden magic of shooting stars and meteor showers. I still remember college nights, driving out with friends past Dayton to Reddish Knob, where we would watch the sun set over West Virginia and then the stars and the moon come out – and one year, the stunning view of Comet Hale-Bopp passing close by – close by, in astronomical terms, being 122 million miles[1] – but close enough that it was visible for a year and a half from Earth[2].
There is something about the quiet, vast beauty of that vast expanse of interstellar space that grounds us in physical space, making us very aware of the small patch of solid ground we’re standing on, and at the same time very aware of an infinity of space arching over us, mysterious and distant and also so close we feel like we could almost fly up and away into it. Stargazing is not unlike prayer. It prompts quiet, inspires wonder, and brings us closer to a God who is both infinite and intimate.
Today’s reading from Hebrews recalls a story about stargazing from Genesis, the story of Abraham and Sarah, who over and over had followed God’s commandments, even when it meant traveling through unknown lands, even when what God told them didn’t make any sense – for instance, God’s promise that Abraham and Sarah, even in their old age, even in Sarah’s barrenness, would bear children. God takes Abraham outside, under the night sky, and tells him, “Look toward heaven and count the stars, if you are able to count them. So shall your descendants be.” Abraham and Sarah’s story is a very human story. They wrestle with doubt. Sarah’s first response to God’s telling her she will have a child is to laugh, but their faith in God, in things unseen, carries them through.
The anonymous 1st-century author of Hebrews is writing to Christians who have been persecuted and marginalized, who are struggling with their faith in a culture that does not accept them, who are waiting for God’s promises of a new kingdom, a new homeland, that has not appeared yet. The writer reminds them of the story of Abraham and Sarah to urge them to hold fast to faith, even when they cannot see the way ahead.
Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
A month ago, stargazing made the news. More specifically, a telescope made the news – the James Webb Space Telescope, which had been launched into orbit last December, the largest telescope launched in space, sent out on a 5- to 10-year mission[3]. (I’ve been doing some reading.) The James Webb Space Telescope is able to collect seven times more light than its predecessor, the Hubble telescope, so scientists now can see farther into the universe than ever before. In July, the telescope started sending back its first public images of stars and nebulae and galaxies as far away as 13 billion light-years, which means we can now look far, far back in time, 13 billion years – almost to the birth of the universe itself. We didn’t know what to expect, but in looking out into the deep universe, we are now seeing and learning more and more.
The pictures coming back are beautiful and strange, and strangely familiar – stars that look like gemstones, galaxies that look like the microscopic cells that make up our bodies. The Carina Nebula looks like cliffs or giant waves in a red ocean. It is described as a stellar nursery, a place where stars are born. It is 7,600 light-years away[4]. The Cartwheel Galaxy[5] is shaped, as you might expect, like a cartwheel because somewhere along the way it collided with another galaxy that passed right through it, and now the Cartwheel is expanding. It looks a little like the circles that appear when you throw a pebble into a pond. It’s 500 million light years away[6].
A group of five galaxies named Stephan’s Quintet[7], which was first discovered in 1877, we can now see close-up, and CNN even waxed poetic, describing them as looking like they are dancing together[8].
For the first time ever, human beings are able to look back through billions of years of space, to see and understand a little more about the universe we live in. The night skies that we have looked into for thousands of years with wonder and awe and fear is not a void – there is beauty and life and dancing galaxies, in what looks like empty darkness.
What does this have to do with questions of faith (you might be wondering)? As I was reading today’s passage from Hebrews, I kept coming back to that image of the night sky and the idea of what is seen and what is unseen – the stars and the unknown dark space between them.
Faith is the assurance of things hoped for, the conviction of things not seen.
In times when we feel we are traveling through wilderness, not unlike Abraham and Sarah, the conviction of things not seen is a challenging one. We hope for many things – for health, for job security, for our children and grandchildren to be happy, for pandemic and political conflict and war to end. And when we only see wilderness, when we only see the empty spaces between stars, when we do not and cannot know the way forward, it is difficult to hold onto faith in the unseen.
A few months ago, I told a seminary friend that it was hard to be in that uncertain, in-between place, feeling a little helpless and afraid of what the future might hold, and she shared with me an observation from one of our professors that she carries with her in her own uncertain moments. She pointed out that in the times when we are waiting, when we cannot see what will happen next, that is where God is working. That is where the Spirit is moving.
Faith is the assurance that God is present in what seems like emptiness. When we are in uncertainty, in liminal spaces, the places that seem empty, when we can’t see what is ahead or hold out any hope, that is where God is working.
And somehow, these new glimpses through a telescope into God’s vast universe underline that for me. Whether we are facing the unknown spaces in between the stars or the unknown spaces in our lives and in our world, we can be certain that what is unknown and unseen is never a void. There is great beauty and life in what seem like empty places. God is working in the deepest reaches of creation, birthing new stars, and setting music for galaxies to dance to. Where there seems emptiness, where hope seems dimmest, God is there.
Amen.
— The Rev. Cara Ellen Modisett, Curate, Trinity Episcopal Church of Staunton
Ninth Sunday After Pentecost, Year C, August 7, 2022
Epistle: Hebrews 11:1-3, 8-16
[1] https://www.britannica.com/topic/Comet-Hale-Bopp
[2] https://www.pbs.org/wgbh/nova/spacewatch/comets.html
[3] https://webb.nasa.gov/content/about/faqs/facts.html
[4] https://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/goddard/2022/nasa-s-webb-reveals-cosmic-cliffs-glittering-landscape-of-star-birth
[5] https://www.nytimes.com/2022/08/04/science/cartwheel-galaxy-webb-telescope.html
[6] https://www.nasa.gov/feature/goddard/2022/webb-captures-stellar-gymnastics-in-the-cartwheel-galaxy/
[7] https://www.nasa.gov/image-feature/goddard/2022/nasa-s-webb-sheds-light-on-galaxy-evolution-black-holes
[8] https://www.cnn.com/2022/07/16/world/webb-images-science-newsletter-wt-scn/index.html
