I have always loved the night sky.

When I was fifteen, I saw a meteor shower forecasted on the news. The internet was in its infancy and social media did not exist, so when I glimpsed the headline on the evening news, I marked my calendar for the upcoming night when the sky was supposed to be lit with meteors. We lived rurally, so it wasn’t too hard to get away from the city lights. I slipped out the front door in the middle of the night and lay down in our driveway. What I remember, as much as the rapid streaks of light across the dark sky, was how small I felt. So utterly small and inconsequential. And yet, I knew that the God who had created the universe knew my name. And the feelings of insignificance and love collided happily in my chest.

I’ve spent many nights chasing that feeling as an adult. I regularly take detours to see rainbows and sunsets. I’ve walked down my street in my pajamas in the night trying to glimpse whatever stellar event might be happening. (I’m not saying it’s safe to do this, but I am saying that I do it.) I’ve dragged my family out to a farm road in the middle of nowhere so often that they know exactly where we’re going when I tell them it’s time to look at the stars. We’ve looked for meteor showers (but haven’t yet caught any), planet alignments (we did catch some), and northern lights (which dumbfounded us with their beauty).

There’s something about witnessing things that are so vastly bigger than you that is good for the human soul. We are so often too large in our own estimation, caught up in worries and work and little flickering screens that provide constant soul-numbing dopamine hits. We carry a perceived version of the world in our pockets, and it is too much with us.

That’s why when we encounter large-scale astonishing global or terrestrial events, we drop what we’re doing and stand in awe. I enjoyed following the Artemis II mission around the moon and back, mostly because I cannot imagine the glimpse of the universe that the four astronauts were fortunate enough to see, but also because I cannot fathom the math-minded brilliance of the scientists and physicists who made such an endeavor possible. I know I wasn’t the only one watching the Orion burn its way through the earth’s atmosphere while my heart pounded with a bit of fear. Anyone who watched breath a collective sigh of relief when splashdown occurred at precisely 7:07p.m. We were relieved and amazed.

If you’ve been on social media at all lately, you’ve likely witnessed the endearing feeling of camaraderie with the watching world as you followed the moon mission. It strikes me that we can lay differences aside and feel love and compassion with people we’ve never met for four astronauts we’ve also never met. We’ve had a feeling of connectedness in our amazement when we’ve seen the dark side of the moon for the first time or earth rise in the distance. That feeling is remarkable. 

It’s the same feeling we had when we witnessed the total solar eclipse in April of 2024. Our little town was in the path of totality, and people traveled in to find a spot to watch. I stood in a park with hundreds of strangers and cheered and cried when the sky darkened in the middle of the day. I remember whirling around to see the 360-degree sunset during those few minutes of totality—astonished and nearly in disbelief. When I saw reactions from others online, I saw that the feeling I was struggling to put into words was common. I had a similar feeling when, last fall, I drove my family out of town to see the northern lights dip down into southern Missouri. The dancing smear of fuchsia across the sky made my eyes well with tears. There it was—that feeling of big and small tangling up my chest. When I saw all the pictures online the next day, I knew I wasn’t alone in that feeling. What is that feeling and why does it make me feel connected to those who witnessed the same night sky event?

There’s a sociological term for this phenomenon. It’s called collective awe, and it is defined as sharing the experience of awe with a large group of people.[1] Collective awe engenders a feeling of camaraderie with people who have witnessed the same event. Some of the global events where I’ve witnessed collective awe in recent years include the aforementioned solar eclipse, northern lights, the gathering of world athletes at the Olympics, and the Artemis II mission, among other things. We watch elite athletes compete in ways we cannot imagine our bodies moving, astonished at the collision of discipline and talent. We hold our breath when human beings commandeer spacecrafts that hurdle them into inky blackness of space. We look to others who also saw those dancing pink lights and ask, “Did you see it? Wasn’t it amazing?!” We are looking for confirmation that the feeling of awe is shared. When it is, we are linked by a human experience of witnessing wonder and feeling small in its wake.

Why do we chase this feeling of collective awe? I wonder sometimes about the desire to witness a wonderous event or spectacle with other people, and I think that internal yearning to see greatness in community speaks to how we were made. All of creation exists to bring glory to God. He is the creator, the author of life and faith. He spoke the universe into existence. When I zoom in on my phone to look closely at all the galaxies that are caught on the James Webb telescope, I think, how can there be so much out there? If you need an example, take a quick look at Cat’s Paw Nebula. Or the most recently discovered galaxies—all three hundred of them. Remember our earth is inside one galaxy. The Lord spoke it all into existence, every star, every planet. He calls them by name.[2]

And yet—He knows my name. And your name. And, according to Psalm 139, He is intimately acquainted with all our ways. He loved us long before the very first star was born, before He created time and bound it with twenty-four-hour perimeters. Before galaxies existed, He planned to send Jesus to live, die, and be raised for our salvation.[3] If ever anyone deserved a universal collective awe moment, it is the God of the universe who knows you better than you know yourself and sent His Son to rescue you from your sin.

Praising Him is what we were made for. Like the moon reflects the light of the sun, you were meant to radiate His glory as an image-bearer. Thus, your heart will only ever be satisfied when, as John Piper loves to put it, you are glorifying Him.[4] But think about the moment you’re in His presence forever. Think about people from every tribe, tongue, and nation gathered around His throne worshiping Him in the new creation.[5] Think about the collective awe of worshiping with every saint who ever lived in the uninhibited presence of God almighty. Think of never leaving His presence, of existing with Him in sinless, pure eternity in a world He will restore and renew. Think of the galaxies, the mountains, the rivers and seas, the trees that always bear fruit, the city with its gates flung wide open.[6] Think of never running out of reasons or distractions to stand in awe of Him. Think of that feeling—a new creation form of it—that presses awe into the small corners of your heart. Think of the weight of wonder on your chest, forever linked with the people of God who together with you are witnessing the God who named every star. The God who made you His child. A happy collision of collective awe and wonder in every chest for every single day of forever. I can’t wait.

The other night I told my family there was supposed to be a meteor shower after dark. My husband said, “So I guess we’re going out to our spot?” Without arguing, everyone put shoes on with their pajamas and we drove out to the farm road in the middle of nowhere. The blessing of stargazing in rural southern Missouri is how flat it is—there is literally nothing to obstruct your view. My family humored me for about an hour, and although we never saw any shooting stars, we noted the constellations, how close Jupiter is to the moon right now, and remembered when we came out to this spot last fall for the northern lights. I leaned back against the side of my car and rested my neck, looking straight up. “What is man that You are mindful of him?” I always think. It’s not the created things; it’s the creator I’m so enamored with. How can He make all this and still know every hair on my head? What is man that You are mindful of him, I thought. Just like the northern lights. Just like the solar eclipse. Just like the meteor showers of my teenage years when I laid in the driveway counting shooting stars. Just like the nights stretched out in the backyard because the sky was bigger than my problems and I needed to remember who was holding it all together.[7]

Collective awe is interesting sociological concept to me, but I know in my bones it’s what we were all made for when the subject of the awe is the creator of heaven and earth. Our experiences of it in this life are silvery shadows of what awaits us when Christ returns.

 

Think of the weight of wonder on your chest, forever linked with the people of God who together with you are witnessing the God who named every star. A happy collision of collective awe and wonder in every chest for every single day of forever. Share on X

[1] “Collective Awe and Prosocial Behavior,” Brigid Stegemoeller, https://academics.depaul.edu/honors/curriculum/Documents/2016%20Senior%20Theses/Stegemoeller,%20Brigid%20Senior%20Thesis%20WQ15-16.pdf
[2] See Isaiah 40:25-26.
[3] See Ephesians 1:3-6.
[4] See Piper’s book, Desiring God, or read this article.
[5] See Revelation 7:9-12.
[6] I’m indebted to Randy Alcorn for his descriptions of heaven in his book, Heaven.
[7] See Hebrews 1:3, Colossians 1:17
Photo by Thom Schneider on Unsplash