In the Garden of God's Glory

There are always those events in life which, despite how eagerly you may await them, always seem to fall short. That vacation you've been pining for over the last year reveals itself to be nothing special in the end; the new restaurant you've wanted to try for months turns out to be awful; and the highly anticipated final season of your favorite show - well, that is the worst offender of all. Hopefully such occurrences are few and far between, but they happen nonetheless, no matter how vehemently we might push up against them. Indeed, life is full of disappointments.

And then, every so often, things go not only as expected, but far, far better.

Several years ago, before I gave my life to Christ, I was with my family up North during our summer vacation. Not too far North, mind you, but far enough. We were on the Northernmost tip of the Bruce Peninsula in a little town called Tobermory, situated right along Lake Huron. Tobermory was a second home for my sisters and I growing up. Somewhere down the annals of time, my dad ‘stumbled’ upon the place, claimed it as his discovery, and subsequently brought our family there two to three times a year for the next twenty years - it was lovely.

It was rumored during that year in question that there would be a meteor shower on the very same week that our family happened to be cottaging up there. I say ‘rumored’ because, let’s be honest, a healthy skepticism of the weather network is not only an exercise of common sense, but outright wise. After all, even if there was a meteor shower, a lot could still go wrong: it could be cloudy on the nights in question, veiling our view entirely, or the shower could be delayed and trickle into the morning hours, thus limiting the starkness offered by the night sky, rendering the cosmic spectacle mundane.

In God’s good pleasure, none of these inconveniences came to pass. Upon arriving at Little Cove near midnight, a small beach nestled among the pines just off the beaten path, my father, sister, and I were treated to an experience I have never forgotten. Indeed, the heavens themselves seemed to have opened. 

Before us stood the pillar of the Milky Way, our own galaxy, adorned in rich hues of violet and sapphire, shining into the darkness like a jewel. The trail of the Lord’s robe, replete with stars beyond count and colors out of time, flooded the night sky. As the darkness gathered further to the North and South, away from the brilliance of the Milky Way, small streaks of light could be seen as they bowed slowly downwards - the meteors. They looked like satellites at first; tiny pinholes in the universe, leaving razor-thin tails of cosmic dust in their wake. 

It was as though the Milky Way at the center of this drama held the very universe intact, like a mighty braid of stars, leaving the meteors to fall like loose strands of hair to the left and the right. Before us, the impenetrable veneer of the lake, black and void, reflected the heavens back upon itself in an unending, unrelenting symphony of praise to her Maker. Trillions of voices taking up their harps in absolute harmony, one by one, echoing endlessly through the unmeasured plain of the universe.

What I observed during that meteor shower, even as an unbeliever at the time, left an imperishable mark upon my soul, such that I shall never forget it. I don’t know how long we sat on the edge of that lake, utterly entranced, but when we finally gathered our things and left, the roaring of the universe kept pressing on. It felt like leaving a theater during the climax. Even with our backs turned, the cathedral of the cosmos continued in praise; for we were not her true audience - we just happened to stumble upon an orchestra in concert, one that has been playing for a very, very long time.

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We’ve all heard the saying, “If a tree falls in the forest and no one is around to hear it, does it make a sound?” Allow me to propose another question: if no one sees it, does God still get the glory for it? The answer to both questions is a resounding yes. Just as “the Spirit of God was hovering over the face of the waters” at creation (Genesis 1:2), so too does His omnipresent reign overshadow the work of His hands to this very day. There is not a hair, sparrow, or tree that falls without the Father’s permission. 

The God who individually fashioned the sparrows and lilies is the same God whose speech gave form to the stars of heaven. He made all these things - the furious and the fine, the seen and the unseen, the mighty and the intimate - that we might see Him for who He is. These were made chiefly for His glory, whether seen and enjoyed by us or not, but also as guides to us so that we might praise Him in proper context.

“For what can be known about God is plain to them, because God has shown it to them. For His invisible attributes, namely, His eternal power and divine nature, have been clearly perceived, ever since the creation of the world, in the things that have been made. So they are without excuse” (Romans 1:19-20).

There are worlds beyond imagination populating the vast cosmos, each adorned with its own landscape, climate, and beauty. Worlds that have never been seen by men, angels, or demons, and perhaps never will be. These exist for Him, and Him alone. 

Upon the outskirts of each of these worlds is a sun, some the same size and glory as our own, while others are many hundreds of thousands times larger and fiercer. Yet, each sun sets upon the world they shepherd when the day is done, taking care not to deviate from their given course. 

A dear friend of mine once told me, “Try your very best to watch at least one sunset a day, it’ll do you good.” He was joking, of course, but consider this: we are limited to only one sunset a day, but for God that number is in the hundreds of trillions. He Himself is present upon every world in the universe, tending to it with care as though it were flowers in His garden. There is work to be done in the howling infinite, who else to do it but God? For Jesus not only made the universe, but He maintains it also - “For by Him all things were created… and in Him all things hold together” (Colossians 1:16-17). And when the day of work is done, He rests in the cool of His garden as the evening sun sets - a few trillion​ sunsets at a time. 

Can you bear the weight of ten trillion sunsets? Because He can.

If no one ever sees it, does God get the glory for it? Yes, yes He does. It is a sobering thing to consider that there are potentially worlds and stars and entire universes that God has made for just Himself. Realms beyond the peeping eyes of men and angels - for Him, and Him alone to enjoy.

I would encourage you, dear reader, to spend some time in the book of Job, particularly chapters 38-41. In it, God answers Job “out of the whirlwind” and presents an astonishing account of Himself, one of majesty coupled with profound intimacy. He is Lord of the morning stars, the Father of the rain, and yet He is gentle and lowly at heart. Our God is the one who binds “the chains of the Pleiades” while also leading lion cubs to their supper. He tends to the far reaches of His universe and yet makes time to watch as “the mountain goats give birth” (Job 39:1). Allow me to end with words from G.K. Chesterton’s book Orthodoxy, wherein he articulates these truths far better than I:

“Because children have abounding vitality, because they are in spirit fierce and free, therefore they want things repeated and unchanged. They always say, “Do it again”; and the grown-up person does it again until he is nearly dead. For grown-up people are not strong enough to exult in monotony. But perhaps God is strong enough to exult in monotony. It is possible that God says every morning, “Do it again” to the sun; and every evening, “Do it again” to the moon. It may not be automatic necessity that makes all daisies alike; it may be that God makes every daisy separately, but has never got tired of making them. It may be that He has the eternal appetite of infancy; for we have sinned and grown old, and our Father is younger than we.”

Take heart, brother and sister, for though He is the Maker of the stars, you were made in His image, and the stars were not.

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Photo by NASA, Unsplash