Stardust
For spiritual seekers on a rational path, science and imagination about the cosmos can be inspiring. This sermon was delivered on February 13, 2011.
I love dinosaurs. I mentioned this in the newsletter. It bears repeating. My fascination with them really took off about eight years ago when I was planning a birthday party for myself and joking about getting old. People brought me all kinds of neat dinosaur things: a sandwich cutter that makes my PB&J look like a pair of Brachiosaurus, a T. rex T-shirt, dinosaur glitter stickers, and so on. I now have more dino-tchochkes than any grown woman ought to. I enjoy them, and it would be OK if I never got any more. Anyway, after that, I started to get a reputation.
I was doing a lot of ministry with children at the time, and I found that dinosaurs were good conversation-starters for the eight- to ten-year-old set. Kids don’t necessarily want to come right out and talk to their minister. It helps to have some way to build trust. So if I can correctly identify the Stegosaurus on their sweatshirt or ask relevant questions when they tell me that the Deinonychus is their favorite, kids are more likely to be able to tell me later if there’s something on their minds.
Well, now I had to be able to keep up with scientific current events in order to maintain my credibility. Paleontology has moved on since the eighties, apparently. I had a pretty good science education when I was a kid, but I somehow missed a lot while I was busy growing up. I had a vague recollection that the name Brontosaurus had given way to Apatosaurus. I might have heard something about feathered dinosaurs. In addition to new discoveries happening all the time at dig sites all over the world, we’ve got DNA analysis, we’ve got imaging techniques for fossils still encased in rocks, we’ve got computer models to help scientists understand fossilized trackways. It’s amazing.
What started out as a pop culture collection became a shared search for truth and meaning with the kids in my congregation. From there, I couldn’t help but keep up the search in my spare time. Now I get updates every day on my computer about new discoveries, the latest artistic reconstructions, and debates between paleontologists. Dinosaur science is millions of years in the making, yet it’s new every day.
Reading about dinosaurs reminds me that even the history of humankind is a paragraph in the epic story of our planet. That makes me reconsider what’s truly important. In the process of fossilization, one thing becomes another. Bone becomes rock. Lush forests of ferns become fuel. What else might change with enough time and energy? Watching the practice of science progress, my sense of wonder is tinged with hope. We are capable of learning so much; perhaps we can learn to live in peace.
I don’t spend quite as much time keeping up with astrophysics and space sciences, but I think they are just as inspiring. This morning’s prelude (“We Are All Connected” by Symphony of Science) is an example of creativity sparked by serious, peer-reviewed science. Projects like Symphony of Science, along with meaning-makers in churches like this one, can reflect on verifiable discoveries in such a way that the poetry comes through. We can take what we know, revel in amazement, and figure out what that means for the way we live our lives. For a lot of Unitarian Universalists, this is the essence of spirituality: discovery, awe, connection, and ethics based on truth. The scientific story of the universe lends itself to the spiritual search by helping us think about time, motion, and wonder.
Time
Time, with all of its vastness and also its split-second relevance, might be too difficult for me to fully grasp. That doesn’t mean I’m not going to try. This morning’s Time for All Ages story (Born with a Bang by Jennifer Morgan, illustrated by Dana Lynne Andersen) talks about what happened in the first few seconds of the universe to eight and a half billion years later with the formation of a young planet earth. Within a fraction of a second after the big bang, sub-atomic particles formed. Within a few minutes, the universe had Hydrogen and Helium. Yet it took a couple of hundred million years for the universe to generate light in what we think of as visible wavelengths. Some changes seem to happen instantly. Some take a long time to manifest.
We’ve learned a lot about the origins of the universe in the last forty or fifty years. New telescopes let scientists see farther into the cosmos, which also means farther back in time as the light from long-ago stars finally reaches us. Recently refined computer models lead astronomers to suggest a complex early universe, with stars forming in companionship. Previously, they thought the primordial stars, the mother stars as the Time For All Ages story described them, were formed in isolation. Science gives us evidence for a lineage that traces back to the beginning of time. All of the elements in our bodies came from that first generation of stars, cooking Hydrogen and Helium into things like Carbon, Oxygen, Iron, Calcium. We are made of star-stuff (to quote Carl Sagan).
What meaning can we draw from this? Science can help us understand how we got here. Art, poetry, ethics, and (if I may be so bold) spirituality can help us appreciate what we’ve got and decide what to do about it. In terms of time, what I learn from the universe story is both patience and the pivotal potential of a short moment. We never know when we might be facing the personal or political equivalent of the emergence of Hydrogen. This very moment is precious. Right now could be a turning point. That being said, the universe story is also a long story from our vantage point. I can hardly imagine anything older than the earth itself, yet our solar system is a young family looking back through generations to the big bang. Some things take awhile to build up to.
Thinking about time in both vast and tiny terms, I can better appreciate movements for justice. I think about the people of Egypt, who waited thirty years for a more accountable government, yet it seems to many of us in America that the changes of the past three weeks happened in the blink of an eye. I hope for the end of Don’t Ask Don’t Tell and the beginning of marriage equality in Maryland. When we talk about positive movements, we must always remember the history of racial justice in this country, how long and how hard people worked to come this far, and how much more we have to do in pursuit of equality. As it says in the Talmud, “It is not incumbent upon you to complete the work, but neither are you at liberty to desist from it.” (Pirkei Avot 2:21) In other words, what we do now matters, but our links across time ensure that we are not alone.
Long journeys and pivotal moments resonate with our experience in human terms. The universe story can inspire us to make the most of today, and to have confidence in the power of persistence through generations. Time is both precious and abundant.
Motion
Perhaps the speed of change has to do with our vantage point. Depending on where we sit, we can see the details or the horizon, the present or the past. We may have more or less information about the matter and energy that are available for transformation. Change means that resources get moved around. With enough heat and Hydrogen, we get Oxygen and eventually water. Sometimes it takes a different perspective to understand that the ingredients for change are all around us.
I remember a time in high school when two friends and I went out to watch a lunar eclipse. We pulled over on a road that was familiar but not busy. At the time, this stretch of road ran through fields and overgrown gardens, away from streetlights and shopping malls. We stopped the car, spread out a blanket on the grass, and enjoyed a late-night picnic with a broad view of the sky. My friend left the car radio on so we could listen to the classic rock station playing Pink Floyd’s “Dark Side of the Moon.”
It felt to me as if the earth stood still while we watched the moon draw her cloak around her. Intellectually, I knew better. I knew that the eclipse was the product of bodies in motion, and that it did not look the same to people all over the planet. Yet I felt stillness. In my memory, there was no wind that night. Tall cedar trees kept watch, as if they had always been there and always would be.
I eventually came to understand the ways that the spinning earth affected me personally. When I lived in California, communicating and traveling across time zones to reach people at home reminded me frequently of the planet in motion. I watched the shrubs in my parents’ neighborhood become trees, and I watched trees become firewood. The solstices and equinoxes marked turning points in my energy level. After being old enough to observe myself for a couple of years, I could plan the calendar based on the momentum of the season. Change is going to happen. Noticing the movement of matter and energy helps us to harness that change, to cooperate with the forces that create and uphold life.
It seems to me that this lunar perspective, with which we notice both the feeling of stillness and the signs of change, could inspire us in our congregational life. There is something comforting for me about the reliability of this church. We meet every week except for the two holidays at the turning points of the liturgical year. This building is strong and well-kept. It might seem like life here is as it was in the beginning, is now, and ever shall be.
Yet I also see a people on the move. I see children and youth who are growing and asking different questions every year. I see adults whose concerns shift with the condition of the country and the cycle of life. Newcomers become friends and members. As a group, we have different passions and resources than we did even two years ago when you were first considering having me as your minister. We cannot assume that having always done something a certain way is going to continue to be the best method for channeling our energy.
What are we called to do together? How are we moved to cooperate with the forces that create and uphold life? As surely as the moon circles the earth, as surely as the tides pull in and out, the community around us is changing. In our quest to be a hospitable, compassionate, spiritual community, we are going to need to change to stay true to our expectations of ourselves. That might mean a different perspective on pledging or membership or the way meetings are run. That might mean more participation in service beyond the congregation. We might find ourselves experimenting with models of education or worship. That’s up to you.
Change can be scary. We might be nervous about asking more of ourselves at a time when the state of current events is leaving some of us feeling drained. We might worry about losing the sense of security—the feeling of stillness—that comes from keeping things the same, even when those things aren’t working as well as they used to. Perhaps there have been times in your individual life when you felt the same way. Each one of us is a body in motion.
With a lunar perspective, we see that stillness and change are simultaneous. They are both true, depending on your vantage point. We can move with the tides and still take comfort in the assurance that this community provides a gentle, welcoming light.
Wonder
So far, I’ve talked about the inspiration of space science on how we think about time and motion. Perhaps the most profound effect that science has on me relates to a sense of wonder. Learning more about rational, scientific explanations for how the universe is unfolding only add to my sense of awe and my gratitude for life. There is a sense of joy and connection in discovering that the same elements and laws of nature are at work in our bodies and among the galaxies.
There’s a story by Clarke Wells that I think of in relation to stars. He wrote:
Several years ago and shortly after twilight our 3½-year-old tried to gain his parents’ attention to a shining star.
The parents were busy with time and schedules, the irritabilities of the day and other worthy preoccupations. “Yes, yes, we see the star—now I’m busy, don’t bother me.” On hearing this the young one launched through the porch door, fixed us with a fiery gaze and said, “You be glad at that star!”
I will not forget the incident or his perfect words. It was one of those rare moments when you get everything you need for the good of your soul—reprimand, disclosure and a blessing. It was especially good for me, that surprising moment, because I am one who responds automatically and negatively to the usual exhortations to pause-and-be-more-appreciative-of-life-unquote. Fortunately I was caught grandly off guard.
(From 100 Meditations, edited by Kathleen Montgomery)
As Wells learned, a single star is awe-inspiring. Sometimes we need help noticing. Science brings to our attention an amazing reflection of reality. An entire sky full of stars is almost unbearable if we stop to think about it, all of those giants of energy hurtling through space, sending their light through the millennia to meet us.
We are related to all of those stars. In this morning’s prelude, we heard astrophysicist Neil deGrasse Tyson say, “The molecules in my body are traceable to phenomena in the cosmos. That makes me want to grab people in the street and say, ‘have you heard this?’”
I’m not sure what I would do if a scientist surprised me in the street with enthusiasm about our connection to the universe. It seems like the sort of thing an eccentric mystic would do, or something the teens would say to each other at a UU youth conference. Since most of us don’t encounter science evangelists in the street, we have to try harder to open ourselves up to the awareness of wonder.
Knowing that the story of the cosmos has followed reliable laws of nature does not take away the amazement. Among all of the planets in all of the galaxies, the elements have combined to create a home for life here. Among all of the beings that have existed on this planet, we are among the lucky ones who can remember and imagine. In all of the history of humanity, short as it is, the people of our generations have the ability to learn directly about the surface of other planets, to send messages back out to the cosmos, to see images of our own planet swimming through space.
We are blessed indeed. The universe has unfolded such that we have the precious and rare opportunity to seek and to understand. What meaning shall we draw from this? What do we want to do with this gift?
It seems to me that letting ourselves revel in awe of the interdependent web would be a start. Sing praises, write poems, read scientific papers, do what you can to spread enthusiasm for the world we are lucky enough to inherit. Keep doing those things. For Unitarian Universalists, the free and responsible search for truth and meaning is a religious experience.
If we’re ready to go further, we can advocate for the process of discovery. We can’t take for granted the freedoms of accurate science in the classroom, scientific research unfettered by corporate interests, or the will to use our collective knowledge to preserve our planet.
A sense of wonder is a powerful thing. Let us honor the stars that we are made of with appreciation for the universe as it is and burning curiosity for what we have yet to learn.
Conclusion
Space science is inspiring. Not only can we learn amazing things about the nature of time, matter, and motion, we can use metaphors from science to better understand the wisdom of our experience. In the history of the stars and in the history of social justice, change happens in both the short and the long term. We learn that perspective makes all the difference in viewing something at rest or in motion, whether that something is a community or a planet. Let the stars in the sky and the star-stuff within us make us glad.
So be it. Blessed be. Amen.
