The Original Screen
We were made to look up. The first humans had no ceilings, no lamps, no notifications pulling their eyes to a rectangle. They had the sky — a great, dark, diamond-spangled canvas that turned slowly overhead and preached every night. That was the original "screen," and it had only one channel: the glory of God.
We have traded it for a smaller one. And the smaller one has a smaller message. It says: look at yourself, look at your metrics, look at what you are missing, look at what you should buy. The heavens say something else entirely. They say: look at Him.
Wonder Is a Discipline
We tend to think of wonder as a feeling that happens to us — a gift of childhood we lose. But David treats it as a discipline. "When I consider your heavens," he writes (Psalm 8:3). Consider is a verb. It is something you choose to do. You decide to step outside. You decide to look. You decide to let the bigness of the sky re-size your problems.
Wonder is not the loss of adulthood. It is the recovery of it. The child marvels because everything is new. The saint marvels because everything is gift. Both are looking up.
A Small Liturgy
Try this: once a week, take your phone outside with you — but leave it in your pocket. Walk to where you can see at least a few stars. Breathe. Name one thing in the sky you can see tonight. Thank God for it. That's it. That is the whole liturgy.
It will not solve your problems. It will re-size them. The God who numbers the stars also numbers the hairs of your head, and the same sky that preaches His greatness also whispers His nearness.
The Recovery of Up
A people who look up become a people who hope up. The sky is a constant, gentle argument against the smallness of our worries and the flatness of our screens. It was put there on purpose. And the One who put it there is coming back through it.
Look up tonight. It is the oldest act of worship there is.