"The heavens declare the glory of God. The skies proclaim the works of his hands. Day after day they pour forth speech; night after night they display knowledge." — Psalm 19:1-2

"He makes springs pour water into the ravines; it flows between the mountains. . . He waters the mountains from his upper chambers; the earth is satisfied by the fruit of his work." — Psalm 104:10 & 13

"Let the sea resound, and everything in it, the world, and all who live in it. Let the rivers clap their hands, let the mountains sing together for joy; let them sing before the Lord..." — Psalm 98:7

Creation does not sit in silence. It did not slowly and sadly evolve from nothing, to compete for its fair share of molecules and die. The earth does not spin towards a burning nothingness. The seabirds do not fly without a call from the Creator.

Nature has always been magical and beautiful in my life. The trees dance through my imagination, and mountains soar high in my dreams. When the smell of cedar wafts into my nose, it brings memories and thoughts of adventure.

But I struggled to hold onto this God-glorifying, meaningful view of the earth and its wonders as I sat through long hours on a hard chair in Auburn science classes.

Creation died before my eyes. I watched my imagination wither as "flower" (in my mind) was reduced to a photosynthetic organism, a reproductive structure. A myriad of spotted, speckled, cackling creatures were transformed into scientific names on a chart, to spaces on an evolutionary graph. I grew funnily bitter towards them, that they would degrade themselves by participating in the sorrowful tomfoolery that is the theory of evolution.

Yes, I understand. Charts are not evil. They are helpful. But the reductionism of Darwinian thought transformed facts into foibles, all organisms into dark hallways leading to nowhere. Spinning molecules and atoms and dust. All from dirt and to dirt and nothing really mattered.

In my state, I would look at leaves and get angry. They were not enchanted as I once imagined. They no longer sang to their Maker. Time had shaped them for the purposes of survival. Why anything would want to survive just a little longer in the crappy place Darwinian theory makes earth out to be was frankly beyond me.

"Survival. Survival of the fittest. Death for the weak." It makes me want to puke.

Of course, Earth can be harsh. It is mangled by sin. But a Good Shepherd walks the fields; nothing passes without his permission.

"It is as if the sun rose and were a black sun." ("The Last Battle," C.S. Lewis)

A sun that does not rise to praise God is dark. It is terror. It is a void. For the objects that it shines upon are built only of blocks and march only to death.

This is what the majority of college science is ingraining into the minds of students, consciously or not. I almost in despair for them, because at least intellectually, the beauty is gone, the treasure robbed. Our senses may still aid in thrilling us. But we are one step closer to the void.

Lack of beauty and lack of purpose are a downhill path into questioning the validity of one's own existence.

No wonder. No wonder, souls are so drugged up, so sucked up,

into entertainment.

Avoid, avoid, avoid the void.

Oh Lord, breathe the beauty back into my lungs, the magic back into my imagination. Help me to shout with all creation.

To "Be still and know that I am God." To listen closely and hear once again the glorious song of creation.

Little by little, as I soak in the Scriptures, as I walk through the woods, it is coming back, unfurling fresh, my love of all things green and growing, furry and scampering.

Sing me back to life that I may shout with earth, "Worshiping the Lord with gladness; com[ing] before him with joyful songs" (Psalm 100:2).

Once again, I imagine great oaks moving gracefully behind my back, imagine the squirrels talking, and the breeze whispering tales of adventure. The Ents churn through my brain, the nymphs sing, the fairies fly. These whims of my imagination; they are pointing to something greater, pointing out that this earth is more than it appears, that the rocks will cry out in praise God if we will not. They all sing the ballad of home, of our home behind the rising sun, beyond the ocean's rim, through death's door. We'd do well to listen.

"So we fix our eyes not on what is seen, but on what is unseen. For what is seen is temporary, but what is unseen is eternal." — 2 Corinthians 4:18

I looked into the void and turned around.

Because God wouldn't and won't let me go. Day after day, He is surprising me with joy, enchanting me with His beauty.

Professors, textbooks, peers — they don't have the power to pull me away, to undermine the worship of all creation.

I am in love with the God-man with the nail-scarred hands, the one who wandered the world in dirty sandals, who calmed the raging storm, and resurrected with a rising sun on the third day, who sang into being everything that breathes and moves and has life, everything that is, at the dawn of this world.

The sun is not black, for the Son has risen.