Making Wonder Possible

IMAGE: Edmund Barlow looks at the moon while waiting for sunset at Cherry Spring State Park

Dear friends,

Over Labor Day weekend, my family traveled to the “Pennsylvania Wilds,” spending two nights in a Coudersport cabin with my son’s godparents. We were drawn to the woods by the promise of rural scenery, fun diversions, and most of all, the night sky. Cherry Springs State Park, just outside Coudersport, is an International Dark Sky Park, recognized as one of the best places on the East Coast for stargazing.

My family lives in East Liberty; our house is ringed by streetlights and hemmed in by neighbors and hillsides. Even when Pittsburgh’s clouds deign to part, we can spot only the brightest stars from our backyard.

The former airstrip that has become the Public Viewing Area at Cherry Springs, in contrast, is a huge flat field at the crest of a hill, miles away from any major town. It offers a 360-degree view of the night sky, with 10,000 visible stars on a clear night.

We were not alone in making our way to Cherry Springs on the holiday weekend; a long line of cars entered the parking lot with us, and the field was peppered with camp chairs, picnic blankets, and hobby telescopes. A food truck offered hot chocolate to warm up the unexpectedly chilly evening.

I saw people of every age and every race in the field: perhaps 300 people all together. Many of us gathered in an amphitheater at sunset for an orientation program led by a park ranger. He asked where we were from; responses came from near—St. Mary’s, Williamsport—and far—New York City, Florida, India.

As the sunset colors faded from the sky, more and more stars were visible. Finally, we could see the swirling fog of the Milky Way stretching all the way across the sky. We gazed back in time, at light that shined to us across millions of miles and hundreds of light years. We found constellations that tell thousand-year-old stories; we spotted satellites that tell of modern technological achievement. We waited for the setting of the waxing moon, and watched the stars grow even brighter in its absence.

All that, while moving and beautiful, was also just as I’d expected: the awe of gazing up at the night sky was what had inspired our trip to Cherry Springs in the first place. But I also experienced another kind of awe that night, one that caught me by surprise.

To be able to see the night sky in all its grandeur, our eyes need to adjust to the darkness, a process that takes twenty to thirty minutes. The briefest flash of white light reactivates our color vision and resets that timer all over again. To see in the dark, we need it to stay dark.

And amazingly, for hours on end, the crowd gathered in Cherry Springs stayed dark. No one pulled out a phone. No one shone a bright flashlight. No one triggered a camera flash by mistake. From across our diversity, across our multitude, the crowd prioritized the common good, and made wonder possible for one another.

Headlines might suggest that society is growing more inconsiderate, more self-centered, less able to collaborate. Stargazing in Cherry Springs suggests just the opposite: Cooperation is still possible. We can change our habits for the good of others. When we gather in search of mystery and awe, when we come together in search of something greater than ourselves, we can express care and kindness for one another. And in fact, that very kindness helps us to see the wonder we came looking for.

It happens in a hilltop field. I think it happens in our churches too.