THE GOSPEL IN ASTRONOMY — WRITTEN IN MOONLIGHT
Lift your eyes at night and you will see a sermon that has been preached longer than any cathedral has stood. The moon—silent, steady, faithful—hangs in the dark like a witness. It does not shout; it reflects. And in its quiet glow, the gospel is written in the language of the heavens.
The moon has no light of its own. It shines only because it turns its face toward the sun. Cut off from that light, it becomes invisible—still present, still real, but no longer radiant.
Here is the gospel in simplest form: life, beauty, and guidance flow from abiding in the light. “I am the light of the world,” Jesus said. “He who follows Me shall not walk in darkness, but have the light of life” (John 8:12). The moon preaches what discipleship looks like—receiving, reflecting, and refusing to pretend the glory originates with us.
The moon rules the night—not as a tyrant, but as a servant. It governs tides, steadies the oceans, and shapes the rhythms of the earth. The Bible speaks of this ordered kindness: “He made the moon for seasons; the sun knows its going down” (Psalm 104:19).
Even in darkness, God has not left the world without structure, without beauty, without guidance. The gospel declares the same truth—when the night falls, God is still governing; when we cannot see the sun, His purposes are still pulling the tides of our lives toward redemption (Romans 8:28).
The phases of the moon tell another gospel truth. It waxes and wanes; it appears full, then thin, then hidden, then returns again. Yet the moon itself is never destroyed. What changes is our vantage point.
So it is with the life of faith. There are seasons of fullness—joy visible to all—and seasons of thinning light, when hope feels like a sliver. But Christ is not diminished by our seasons. “Jesus Christ is the same yesterday, today, and forever” (Hebrews 13:8). The gospel assures us that absence of feeling is not absence of presence.
The moon also marks time. Long before clocks and calendars, humanity looked upward to know when to plant, to rest, to celebrate. God tied sacred patterns to lunar cycles—Passover, new moons, appointed feasts—embedding redemption into time itself (Leviticus 23:5; Psalm 81:3).
In Christ, time finds its meaning again. The gospel is not rushed; it is patient. It tells us that history is not random, and neither are our lives. There is an appointed fullness—“when the fullness of the time had come, God sent forth His Son” (Galatians 4:4).
And then there is this quiet wonder: the moon is scarred—marked by craters, struck again and again—yet it still shines. It has endured violence and remains faithful to its calling.
Here, too, the gospel speaks. Christ bears scars still—marks of love, not defeat. “By whose stripes you were healed” (1 Peter 2:24). The moon reminds us that suffering does not cancel purpose; redeemed suffering often becomes the very means by which light is most clearly seen.
One day, Scripture tells us, the moon will no longer be needed in the same way. “The city had no need of the sun or of the moon to shine in it, for the glory of God illuminated it. The Lamb is its light” (Revelation 21:23). Until then, the moon continues its nightly sermon—faithful, borrowed, beautiful—pointing beyond itself.
So when you see the moon tonight, remember the gospel it reflects: turn toward the Light; trust God in the dark; endure your seasons; keep shining with what you have received. The heavens are still declaring the glory of God (Psalm 19:1), and even in the night, grace is visible.
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Lord Jesus, Light of the world, turn my face toward You. Teach me to reflect what I receive, to trust You in the dark, and to shine faithfully until the night is gone. Amen.
BDD
