The Truth Shall Make You Odd

Are you superstitious? 

When I was young, I was superstitious about cracks in the pavement and would not so much walk as hopscotch my way along paths so as to avoid bringing bad luck upon myself by a misplaced step.

I remember being in my grandmother’s garden one early summer’s evening and picking some beautiful, delicate flowers, which I took to her in what I thought was a loving gesture. 

She met me at the door and bellowed: ‘Get that out of my house!’ When I asked why, she told me that it was cow parsley, which is also known as ‘Mother Die’ and if you pick it, you cause your mother’s death! I spent the next few weeks worrying that I would become the cause of my grandmother’s untimely demise. I didn’t: she lived for another 17 years after the event, so either it’s nonsense or the cow parsley death angel was slow on the uptake. It turns out that this superstition developed as a way of deterring young people from picking deadly hemlock, which looks very similar to cow parsley.

There are, of course, the classics: don’t walk under a ladder; never break a mirror; keep your umbrella folded indoors. These three misdemeanours carry a sentence of seven years bad luck each!

Then we have horoscopes, fabulously vague statements that could apply to anyone in any situation, which make predictions about our futures based on the stars and planetary alignments. For a laugh, I looked up my horoscope for today. Astrologer Russell Grant predicted that, and I quote: ‘A cheque, grant or bonus you hoped to have received by now has been delayed.’ I’ve had a word with my boss and said that I’m happy to wait for my bonus.

All of these superstitions suggest that our lives are in the thrall of some faceless arbitrary force, which imbues inanimate objects like pavements, mirrors, ladders, and planets with the power to make or break our lives. Regardless of how good you are as a person, your life can be changed for the worse by one unfortunate graze of the button on your umbrella.

The piece you have just heard is a setting of words from the prophet Amos and psalm 139, composed by contemporary composer Jonathan Dove. I love how the twinkling arpeggios in the organ part invoke imagery of the stars and planets circling in the night sky. I love how the choir part begins tentatively, as if in awe of the universe, but gradually gains confidence in the thought that there is a divine presence in the universe, before resolving in a major key, as if resting safe in the knowledge that God is holding all things in existence.

I wonder if you’ve noticed that the mornings are much darker and the nights are drawing in. I love this time of year. I love how the evenings get colder and clearer, crisp skies reveal the moon and the stars; a sight we haven’t really seen in recent months, unless we’ve stayed up really late. 

I don’t know about you, but whenever I look up at the night sky and take in its jaw-dropping beauty, I get all existential. I stand in awe of the majesty of the rolling spheres; I sense my own insignificance in this vast and possibly infinite cosmos; I wonder if life has a purpose or if we are hostages to random chance.

You won’t be surprised to learn that, for me, contemplating the night sky doesn’t lead to nihilism, the belief that all life is random and meaningless, or that we are slaves to some arbitrary invisible force which governs our destiny by the alignment of the planets. And the clue as to why I think this is to be found in the words set to music by Jonathan Dove:

Seek him that Maketh the Seven Stars and Orion, 

and turneth the shadow of death into the morning. 

Alleluia, yea, the darkness shineth as the day, 

the night is light about me.

For me, the brilliance of the night sky points towards something beyond, an infinite and divine presence. The maker of the seven stars, who turns the shadow of death into the morning, for whom darkness is as bright as the day, is the God of love, who holds all things in time and eternity in his loving embrace. In those moments, I come to know that whilst I may be a microscopic spec on the vast page of the history of the universe, still I am known and loved.

As the evenings get darker and the night sky reveals itself in ever-increasing splendour, I invite you to contemplate the fact that your life isn’t a result of infinite rolls of the cosmic dice, nor is there some capricious force out to rule your life with ladders, umbrellas and planetary alignments, but that you matter, you are seen, you are known, you are loved by the one who made the seven stars and Orion.