All things denote there is a God. Even watermelon. I’m serious. Does anything taste quite so exquisite as a juicy slice of watermelon on a hot summer’s day? And why should it? Unless, of course, God loves us and wants us to be happy.
In the Book of Mormon, the thirtieth chapter of Alma, the forty-fourth verse, the Prophet Alma declares, “[A]ll things denote there is a God; yea, even the earth, and all things that are upon the face of it, yea, and its motion, yea, and also all the planets which move in their regular form do witness that there is a Supreme Creator.” Amen to that, I say. Ditto. Play it again, Sam. Those words ring true for me. Always have.
A while back, I read Stephen Hawking’s A Brief History of Time. I’ll admit that most of what I read there probably went blasting straight over my obtuse head. (And to think Brief History is a dumbed-down physics textbook for us lesser mortals.) Even though Sir Stephen himself was a famously devout atheist, I felt like he was shouting out God’s love on nearly every page. Of course God exists. The universe is too magnificent for it to be otherwise.
Strange as it might be for a man of science to dismiss religion, I’m equally perplexed by religious types getting bent out of shape over science. So maybe there was a Big Bang. Hold onto your hats, people. Our ways are not His ways, and thank goodness for that. Doesn’t mean God is any less in charge. All I see is the blooming of a cosmic rose.
Which brings me to my next point. When I think on God’s goodness, I mostly do think big. Creation itself is, after all, pretty darn gargantuan. The night sky gives me goose bumps and elicits exclamations of, “How great Thou art!” However, as I drove home from work one day last week, it dawned on me that perhaps I can be a little farsighted, and oftentimes the evidence of God’s love is a whole lot closer to home.
What of miracles like humor and curiosity and compassion? What about music? And, yes, even watermelon. Why would any of those things matter if God wasn’t in charge and we weren’t his offspring? There’s complexity, cohesion, and beneficence all around us. The burden of proof, I’m convinced, isn’t on God. It’s the other way around – if only you’re willing to see it.
Chris lives in Lincoln, Nebraska, with his wife, Sara, and their six young children. Chris enjoys stories by Ray Bradbury, starry night skies, and cherry limeade. He has also watched every episode of Star Trek: The Next Generation more than once. Chris is the author of Red: A Football Novel.