When the Morning Stars Sang Together

Between the parsonage in which I grew up and the church where my dad was the pastor there was a yard, perhaps fifty feet wide and the length of the church. It was big enough to have a few shade trees that made it hard to grow grass underneath. The fact that my brothers and I considered it a ball field helped neither the grass nor the integrity of the church windows. It was surrounded by concrete and asphalt and houses with little strips of lawn that could be mowed in a few minutes. For me it was an oasis, my first enduring encounter with the natural world. I learned the name of every tree and valiantly grew puny radishes in their shade. The sunniest spot, just outside our back door, was reserved for my mother’s tomato plants.

My first awareness of God as Creator came from spending hours outside in that yard, just as my first language about God came from my father’s mouth in the church next door. I’m not sure that I saw much difference between them; words and experience added up to the same thing. Or perhaps not. There was always something beyond those words, something inexpressible. I saw it in the way my dad sometimes could not speak about what he felt so deeply. I saw it when the sun shone through the sycamore leaves, way up where the bark was fresh and white.

Now I live where I’m surrounded by the created world. From our house I can see deer standing at the edge of the woods a half mile away. I can watch the sun come up on the horizon precisely when it is supposed to. Prairie flowers go through their progression from daisy fleabane to wild parsnip to sunflower to goldenrod. Meadowlarks and bluebirds sit on the power line. I am as far from being in a big city as I can get.

And yet I am no more in the midst of creation than when I was playing ball under that big sycamore, hoping I wouldn’t foul the ball into a window. Instead of puny radishes I grow bright geraniums. I no longer have to know the name of every weed (although I do). The One who created all this still sustains me, still provides moments of inexpressible joy when the bluebird sings or the setting sun glows on the distant woods. It is then that I give thanks for creation, for the privilege of having been born into this beautiful world. It is then that I know why the morning stars sang together and the heavenly beings shouted for joy when God created the world. It is truly a gift of grace. May this glory of the Lord endure forever, and may the Lord always rejoice in all his works.

[Pentecost 4: Job 38:1-11; Mark 4:35-41; and Psalm 104:32 for the last sentence.]