I discovered that it wasn't quite as late as I thought it was, and that my head didn't hurt quite as much as I thought it did. Talking to mailboxes will have that effect on one, one what I am not sure at the moment. Back to the stars.
On the way to Mass at seven Saturday night, we were driving west down the main street of Berea following, like the wise men of old, a very bright Venus. When we got to the church, I looked for Mars above and to the left of Venus, thought I saw it for a moment, but no. We were at church early since Mary was the lector (otherwise we get there just as everyone is standing for the first hymn; our less than punctual arrival used to embarrass me, but I have grown accustomed to it, and no one seems to notice anymore, not that there are many there to notice). Since I still had time before the service, I went back outside to check the very clear sky once more.
The sky had grown just dark enough in that brief time that Mars had come into view. How delightful. I wanted to ask the priest to take everyone outside before Mass because I imagine most people seldom look up and most do not know what is up there when they do. The Psalm for the service was 147 with the fitting verse:
He determines the number of the stars,
he gives to all of them their names.
(qui numerat multitudinem stellarum /
et omnibus eis nomina vocat.)
The lines look and sound very fine in Latin too.
Since Mary had to read, she couldn't join me, which was unfortunate since I had been trying to show her Mars for most of my life, it seems. Either it is not there, or it is too faint, or the sky is cloudy. Of course I hurried out of church after Mass, but Mars had already set. Well, there is the rest of the month, one hopes, and the spectacular pairing occurs on the twentieth through the twenty-third of February when Mars passes Venus. Surely one of those nights will be clear. "The two planets pass each other on February 21 by less than half a degree," says my Abrams Planetarium Sky Calendar.
Ever since the other night when I was outside talking to Mrs. Henderson's mailbox, I have been thinking about the stars and the rich lesson they offer on the theme of appearance and reality. Some ancients thought they knew what was up there; some knew they didn't really know, and were not so presumptuous to believe they did. Looking at Jupiter that night and Saturday night too, I thought even then about the Medicean moons, so called, that Galileo saw moving with Jupiter. I can't see them just standing in the street and looking, but I can see them when I bring my binoculars. There are, however, we now know, many more moons around Jupiter than just those four. Not only that, the universe is packed with stars that we can only see through those powerful telescopes like the Hubble, now in space. The point is that what was hidden that night was so much more in my mind than what I was actually seeing, and what I was seeing was only a small yet brilliant image of what Jupiter looks like from a different perspective, with its hugh mass and swirling red spot, etc. Given our failure to see and understand what is before us, we ought to exercise humility. But we don't. Given the way we behave we should be ashamed, but we aren't. Given the beauty that daily confronts us, we should be in awe and give thanks. But no one knows what awe and majesty are anymore. If we did I suspect we would be constantly overwhelmed when we looked up.