The other day I was walking with my husband, in our neighborhood.
It's one mile if you walk up and down all three streets in this neighborhood and loop their cu-de-sacs at each end. One mile. The Pandemic Promenade. We meet up with various neighbors who also do this circuit, and pass others who hang out in their yards. Everyone stands at a respectful distance and asks, "How are you doing?" We look after one another's mental health a little bit, if we happen to see each other outside. Everyone seems to know our little dog. It's a bubble of life where most people work at home, nobody has lost a job, and nearly all of us are doing fine, so far. We keep six or more feet apart when we chat in the street, but we don't wear masks. The children play together as if everything were normal, filling the woods with nerf ammunition, splashing in pools and (more recently) jumping on trampolines.
Some kids miss school, while others are happy to be home.
Some of the adults are more affected than others by current events. A few live in abject fear.
The other day as I was walking, I thought how bleak it must be not to believe in God. I imagined how I might feel, if I thought we were here by random chance, eons of evolutionary sifting that finally, after a near infinity of time, resulted in a world full of oceans, sea creatures, plains, prairies, mountains, trees, rivers, birds, deer, squirrels, mice, mosquitoes, cats, dogs, alligators, hippopotami and humans.
The Universe is so huge, so unfathomably huge. I do not think we can really grasp the size of it, even when the math is laid out before us. The math we have is only approximate anyway, because nobody really knows where it all begins and ends, what its limits are.
In all the immeasurable Universe, nobody has come close to toting up how many galaxies there are, and then multiplying by some average number of solar systems per galaxy to calculate the number of solar systems. We have figured out that our own galaxy is not one of the biggest ones, and within our galaxy, that our solar system is not one of the biggest, either. We are average-to-small among galaxies and solar systems. As far as planets go, Earth is also average-to-small.
Yet, as far as anyone has been able to determine, there is no other planet that is covered with water and life the way Earth is. Of course, I eagerly admit that the Universe stretches to relatively infinite expanses beyond what we can know or see. Still, with all the scientific progress we have been able to make (and I think it is commendable, what we have attained), we have not found any other planet out there that is anything at all like our home. Now and then we hear a vague report about a few cells somewhere that might loosely resemble something that could take the form of water, or a very simple life form. But it's nothing like our dear Earth. Nothing at all.
Besides which, you have to consider the timing. Time is such a curious thing, isn't it? Time tells us that there are beginnings and ends, life cycles that start and finish. We watch the night sky at the beach, tracking meteor showers and falling stars. Falling stars are meteors that burn up as they cascade through space, but supernovas are actual stars that come to the end of their lives and explode. Stars have a lifecycle; even stars are subject to time and do not last forever. Our sun is not going to last forever. I think it is probable that even if there were some particles of pre-life on one of the other planets in our solar system, our sun will not last long enough for them to develop into anything. The timing of earth's ecosystems is perfectly coordinated with our sun. You could have a long argument about how and why this is, whether the proverbial chicken or egg came first, but I think you would never arrive at a confirmable solution.
If I thought all this huge expanse around us was merely a random result of randomly existing substances that randomly interacted over trillions and trillions of centuries, I would live in constant, overwhelming fear. What an overwhelmingly cold, heartless, impersonal existence, and the vast bulk of it totally outside our control or understanding: Our sun is going to change over its lifecycle, and this will certainly change our climate, and ultimately everything will go up in spectacular flames. Meanwhile there is nothing we can do about it, nowhere to go. Indeed, I think the only possible rational response to such beliefs must be deep depression. Alternatively, one can take the ostrich approach and refuse to consider the implications, pursuing hedonism, I suppose, because on the edge of such nameless, faceless darkness, why should silly things like honesty or unselfishness or sacrifice matter or make any difference whatsoever? And even if they do matter to you, how--on what basis--could you ever convince others to agree?
The other day as I walked with my husband, I looked at the trees lining our road, tall, majestic pines stretching into the blue sky, hardwoods now bare, but glorious in their foliage spring through fall. I saw small white clouds floating softly overhead in the blue expanse. Holly bushes lined the edge of the street, covered with copious clusters of brilliant red berries, so many berries.
God doesn't always make sense to me. I fully admit that I do not always enjoy the way He carries out His plans. But as I breathe in the air He created specifically for me and my species to breathe, when I drink a glass of the water He poured onto this world to bring forth life (Job 36:26-31), I am so thankful that He is God. He has a plan. He is in control. I don't have to try to figure out and harness the powers of the Universe, or be overwhelmed by the impossibility of doing so. It is good to learn, to discover, to explore. But at the end of each day, I can lie back and rest in the knowledge that there exists a good God who loves us, who created us, and who has plans to deliver us into a new, improved, unblemished Universe some day, in His perfect time. And that Universe will, I think, be somehow unchained from time. I do not understand how this will work, but I believe with all my heart that there will be no more endings, no more loss or separation, no more death. It will be okay.
I am thankful that God tells us to look not to the things that are seen, but to the things that are unseen. For the things that are seen are transient (even the stars and the galaxies), but the things that are unseen are eternal (2 Corinthians 4:18).
So, when there is a pandemic, or a war, or an economic collapse, or any other unpleasant thing that comes to pass on this poor old broken world, I do not need to be afraid. God is eternal, beautiful and perfect, and His eternal, beautiful, perfect Spirit lives inside of me, giving life to my spirit, keeping me until the day when I can be with Him face-to-face.
The Lord bless you and keep you
The Lord make His face shine on you
And be gracious to you
And give you peace
Forever.
Numbers 6:24-26
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