God’s glory shines through the earth, yet it also towers above the heavens. The brightest star in the night sky is already spending itself. Every sun is burning toward its appointed end. The whole created order is running on borrowed breath. God does not fade. He does not diminish. He is not wearing down by one degree. The Lord is full blaze forever.

“There are no atheists in rockets,” Artemis II pilot Victor Glover said, borrowing an old battlefield line and lifting it into the sky. 

Reid Wiseman, after returning to earth, admitted, “I’m not really a religious person,” then told of seeing a cross and breaking down in tears because he had run out of explanations.

He left earth in flame and returned to it in tears. Psalm 8 begins in that same stunned country.

David looks up and says, “O Lord our Lord, how excellent is thy name in all the earth!” Then he says it again at the end, as though wonder has walked him in a circle and brought him back to the same blazing center. This is prayer stripped down to its purest form. A soul turning toward God in admiration.

We have nearly forgotten how to do that.

David walks out under the night sky and lets the glory of God fall on him. He stands beneath the moon and stars and feels his own smallness without despair, because the heavens above him are not empty. “When I consider thy heavens, the work of thy fingers, the moon and the stars, which thou hast ordained” (Psalm 8:3). 

The sky is not an accident scattered across darkness. It is workmanship. The stars are not wild sparks. They are placed there by the hand of God.

The same witness rises from the earth under our boots.

It speaks from the white flash of a crappie in dark water, from cedar roots gripping Ozark rock, from calves bawling in a spring pasture, from wind moving through sycamore leaves, from thunder rolling low over the hills, from the silent geometry inside a spider’s web jeweled with morning dew. 

“The heavens declare the glory of God; and the firmament sheweth his handywork” (Psalm 19:1). Creation is never still. Day pours out speech. Night keeps preaching after the sun goes down.

A man can harden himself against that sermon. He can train his mouth to say chance, process, matter, time. Yet the world keeps pressing back with color, order, rhythm, proportion, force. 

The river does not carve its banks with a message stamped into the mud, but its very being says there is a Maker. The hawk circling over a field says there is a Maker. The stars over a gravel road say there is a Maker. David saw it. Every honest man sees it when he stands still long enough.

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