It may sound counterintuitive, but the more unexpected Jesus is in Scripture, the more believable He becomes.

Who else in the history of world religions—especially the ancient Near Eastern ones—could have dreamed up a God like the one revealed in the Gospel of John? This book opens with the eternal Logos, the divine Word through whom all things were made, speaking the universe into existence and closes with that same figure standing on a beach at dawn, grilling fish for breakfast for His weary disciples. Then, almost as an afterthought, John drops this line: “Jesus did many other things as well. If every one of them were written down, I suppose that even the whole world would not have room for the books that would be written” (John 21:25). It just hangs there, understated and staggering—like saying, “Oh, by the way, the Guy who just fried up breakfast for His friends did far more than you could possibly imagine.”

I first started thinking deeply about this after reading through John’s Gospel and being struck by that jarring contrast between its majestic beginning and humble ending. But the thought has also been sharpened by conversations with atheists. Whenever I post about Jesus on social media, skeptics often push back: “He didn’t fulfill the Old Testament prophecies exactly as they were described!” My response is always the same: If the early Christians were simply making this up, why on earth would they include details that look like inconsistencies or loose ends? Were the Gospel writers so incompetent or careless that they couldn’t invent a tidy, perfectly matching fictional Messiah who checked every box of Jewish expectation? Or is it far more likely that the prophecies were being fulfilled in surprising, unexpected ways—and that the authors were simply being honest about what they saw and heard?

Our unexpected Messiah

Consider the religious world of the ancient Near East, the very cultural soil in which the Israelites lived. The great Babylonian creation epic, the Enuma Elish, gives us a vivid picture of what gods looked like in that era. It is a story of warring deities, cosmic chaos, and violent conquest. The goddess Tiamat, enraged, spawns a horde of dragons, serpents, and chimeric monsters to wage war against the younger gods. Marduk rises as champion, slays Tiamat in brutal combat, splits her body to form the heavens and earth, and claims supreme power. Creation emerges from battle, blood, and domination. The gods are powerful, capricious, and often terrifying—beings who create through violence and rule through fear.

Now contrast that with the Messiah prophesied centuries later in Isaiah. Not a dragon-slaying warrior-god, but a gentle Servant: “He will not quarrel or cry out... A bruised reed he will not break, and a smoldering wick he will not snuff out” (Isaiah 42:2–3). The Suffering Servant of Isaiah 53 is “despised and rejected,” “a man of sorrows,” silent before His accusers, led like a lamb to the slaughter, bearing the sins of many—not by conquering with monsters and lightning, but by His own wounds healing us.

Jesus fulfills this prophecy in the most astonishing way. He is unimaginably powerful, yet profoundly relatable. The One who spoke the laws of nature into existence, who spun all the stars in the universe into being, who breathed life into non-life—He walked dusty Galilean roads in sandals. He ate fish and bread, breathed the same air we do, grew tired, and slept. Who would invent a God like that?

When He was accused, He stood silently before Pontius Pilate, offering no dramatic defense. He endured savage beating, mocking, torture, and the utter degradation of crucifixion. With a mere thought, He could have vaporized everyone involved. Instead, He bore the shame, absorbed the pain, and took on the punishment for sins not His own. Who would make up such a God?

What a human-made Messiah would look like

Imagine if we had invented the Messiah. He’d probably look nothing like the real Jesus.

At best, He might resemble a super-powered King David: a conquering hero who crushes the Roman occupiers, restores Israel’s glory, and rains down divine justice on the nation’s enemies—more like Marduk than the Servant of Isaiah.

At worst, He’d be the ultimate self-insert fantasy. In an episode of the TV show The Big Bang Theory the guys are facing months of brutal Arctic survival with the insufferable Sheldon Cooper. Raj, channeling his Hindu karma beliefs, declares that after enduring such horrible suffering he might be reincarnated as a well-endowed billionaire with wings.

That’s a Messiah our ridiculous hearts would design: an eight-foot-tall, impossibly handsome, ultra-wealthy alpha male riding around in a flying McLaren, zapping haters with lightning bolts, rewarding “us” (the righteous) while humiliating or destroying “them” (everyone else). He’d promise riches, power, and ravishing partners in the next life. He’d flatter our egos and never challenge us too deeply.

But the real Jesus? A poverty-stricken carpenter from backwater Nazareth, with an ordinary name and an unremarkable appearance, riding around on a donkey. He told us to examine our own faults first. To love our enemies. To turn the other cheek. To guard our thoughts. To walk a straight, narrow, often difficult path that offers no room for boasting and no way to earn our own salvation. His presence—now and for eternity—is the only reward we need. Nothing about Him flatters human pride, vanity, or base desires.

The astrophysical contrast

As an astrophysicist, the contrast in John’s Gospel hits me with special force.

Jesus is the God powerful and wise enough to create a universe so vast it defies imagination. Our observable universe stretches billions of light-years, containing hundreds of billions to trillions of galaxies—each a colossal continent of hundreds of billions of stars spread throughout the vast ocean of spacetime. Space itself teems with unseen energy that seems to come from nowhere as the universe expands.

This cosmos spans scales from subatomic quarks to living cells, to supermassive black holes, to galaxy clusters spanning millions of light-years. Massive stars explode in supernovae. Quasars blast jets hundreds of thousands of light-years long. Pulsars spin with dizzying precision. Neutron star collisions send gravitational waves rippling across the galaxy and forge heavy elements. The whole thing runs on elegant, intricate mathematics. From non-life, life arose—and from that life, conscious beings who bear the image of their Creator.

And the same One who orchestrated all of this—the deeds so numerous the world couldn’t contain the books describing them—became a flesh-and-blood man in ordinary clothes, His feet covered in the dust from which Adam’s body was formed, quietly grilling breakfast for His friends on a Galilean shore.

Who would make up a God like that?

No one. And that’s why I believe. The sheer unexpectedness, the divine humility, the perfect tension between infinite power and intimate love—it rings true in a way no human fantasy ever could. This Jesus isn’t the God we would invent. He’s far better than anything we could dream up. And He invites us to come to Him, just as we are.

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I’m debuting a new feature here: periodic digs into the archives to resurface pieces that still matter deeply to me—especially for all of you who’ve joined recently. (I still can’t believe my subscriber count has doubled in the last year. Welcome, and thank you!)

With May being Star Wars month, I wanted to share three favorites that wrestle with big questions through the lens of sci-fi and storytelling:

• How the vastness of the universe can crush us with insignificance or point us to a loving Creator who made us for eternal significance.

• Why stories of darkness, flawed heroes, and sacrificial resistance feel so true to the Christian life—and why they ultimately fill us with hope rather than despair.

• How true freedom isn’t rugged individualism but something deeper, rooted in faith and shared culture, and why we’re losing that common ground today.

These pieces explore the places where Star Wars, movies, science, and Christianity collide in surprising and hopeful ways. Whether you’re a longtime reader revisiting old favorites or brand new here, I think you’ll find something that stirs your mind and heart.

Here they are:

Star Wars keeps reminding me that creation is good. Rewatching Rogue One on Star Wars Day hit me with its powerful portrait of sacrificial love and heroic deaths in the face of overwhelming evil. As an astrophysicist, I see the universe as deliberately created by a loving Father—not random or indifferent. While its vastness leads many to despair and feelings of insignificance, Christianity offers the far better truth: we’re small in size but enormous in eternal significance, made of stardust by the God who entered His creation to defeat evil and bring us home. If you love sci-fi and thoughtful faith, give it a read.

Finding light in a dark galaxy far, far away. I used to hate how grim Rogue One and Andor felt compared to the hopeful original trilogy. Now I see their darkness serves a purpose: they show the real, painful cost of resisting evil. Through flawed heroes like Cassian Andor, these stories echo how God uses imperfect people for His purposes and remind us that our sacrifices matter—because we know how the story ends in victory, just as Christians know Christ has already defeated evil. If you love Star Wars and wrestling with faith in a broken world, this one’s for you.

Freedom, films, and faith. I moved to the U.S. seeking more freedom, but I’ve come to see that true individual liberty needs Christianity as its foundation—and that hyper-individualism is quietly destroying the shared culture that once united us. From the decline of movie theaters to the fragmentation of streaming, we’re losing common ground. Christianity offers the perfect balance: ultimate value for every person and deep connection in a family that transcends every divide. A reflection on movies, culture, and why we need each other. If you care about freedom and community, give it a read.

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I’ll be honest: when I first saw Mark Manson’s book The Subtle Art of Not Giving a F*ck prominently displayed in the bookstore, I rolled my eyes and walked right past it. The title struck me as pure gimmick—the kind of cheap provocation designed to grab attention rather than offer real wisdom. But then I came across this interview with Manson, and my opinion shifted. Here is a secular thinker, someone with no religious commitment, drawing on real life experience and insights of the ancient Greeks to arrive at truths deeply baked into Christian theology.

We in the modern West are obsessed with happiness. Have you noticed this? It’s right there in the American Declaration of Independence—the unalienable right to “Life, Liberty and the pursuit of Happiness.” And yet, for all our comforts, conveniences, and technological marvels, we seem more anxious, discontented, and fragile than ever before. I can’t help but contrast this with memories of my university days as an impoverished physics student living on cheap hamburgers and sheer determination. Life was harder then, materially leaner, but somehow both lighter and richer in satisfaction. A century or more ago, when daily existence demanded far more physical toil and offered far fewer luxuries, people often carried a quieter contentment than we do today with our heated seats and endless streaming options.

The late conservative writer P.J. O’Rourke captured this paradox vividly in essays about his experiences in some of the world’s poorest countries. Time after time, he encountered people who, by Western standards, had every reason to be miserable—yet they laughed easily, shared generously, and seemed genuinely joyful. They weren’t chasing happiness as a goal. It simply emerged from the way they lived.

So what’s going on?

Manson offers a compelling framework drawn from the ancient Greeks. They spoke of two very different kinds of happiness. Hedonia (from which we get the word “hedonism”) refers to the pursuit of pleasure, comfort, and short-term satisfactions. In today’s terms, that’s dopamine hits from likes, sugary treats, impulse buys, or binge-watching. It feels good in the moment, but it’s fleeting, and usually leaves us feeling hollowed out afterward.

In contrast, eudaimonia describes a deeper, more enduring sense of human flourishing—a life of meaning, purpose, and virtue that feels worth living even when it’s difficult. This is the happiness that’s long-term, the kind that quietly assures you that at the end of your days you’ll say, “It was all worth it.”

Our culture has become brilliantly optimized for hedonia—every app, advertisement, and algorithm is engineered to deliver quick comforts and emotional highs. Yet the research—and our own depleted lives—show that chasing these highs often leaves us emptier. True, lasting satisfaction comes not as something we grasp directly, but as a byproduct of something far richer.

Manson drives this home with what he calls the Backwards Law (an idea he credits in part to Alan Watts): The more desperately you chase a positive experience, the more you create suffering for yourself. Conversely, the more willingly you accept and even embrace a negative experience, the more genuine positivity flows into your life.

Think about it. The harder you try to impress people, the more insecure and unimpressive you feel. The more you obsess over looking beautiful, the more flaws you notice in the mirror. The more you chase money, the poorer you feel no matter your bank account. The more you demand constant happiness, the more easily life upsets you. But when you stop fighting reality—when you accept that life includes hardship, rejection, and struggle—a surprising peace and resilience often follow.

This led Manson to a powerful question: Instead of asking, “What will make me happy?” what if we asked, “What pain am I willing to endure? What struggle do I secretly enjoy?”

For me, it’s the satisfying burn from lifting heavy weights. I love that kind of pain. Or the deep, almost meditative focus of scrubbing a filthy space until it gleams—like the time I helped my brother and sister in-law clean their newly rented house from top to bottom after the previous tenants left it in a shambles. It was disgusting work—but also oddly rewarding. These aren’t easy pleasures, but they connect me to something meaningful. They point toward eudaimonia.

Manson also sketches three broad stages of human development that help explain why so many of us feel stuck:

• The childhood phase is simple and impulsive: “I want the cookie. Do I get it?” Life is all about immediate gratification.

• The adolescent phase becomes transactional. Once we realize other people have their own desires and perspectives, life turns into performance and barter. We wear the right clothes, say the right things, curate the right image, all to win approval, status, or that next “cookie.” It’s exhausting, inauthentic, and incredibly fragile. As many of us can recall from our middle school days, one misstep and the whole house of cards can tumble.

• The adulthood phase is marked by acceptance and unconditional values. You discover what matters so deeply to you that you’re willing to be disliked for it. You stop performing for the world’s applause and start living according to convictions that transcend circumstances. This stage is anti-fragile—setbacks don’t destroy you; they refine and strengthen you.

Many of us remain functionally adolescent well into our adult years, especially in our hyper-transactional, social-media-driven culture that constantly flatters us and tells us we’re special, entitled, and deserving of easy outcomes. Manson calls out the two faces of narcissism that result: the grandiose (“I’m superior”) and the vulnerable (“I’m a unique victim who deserves special treatment”). Both lead to the same exhausting demand: the world must revolve around me.

This is where the Christian faith comes through with particular relevance—and where the data become fascinating. Multiple studies, including from Pew Research, consistently show that actively religious people—especially those who live out their Christian faith—report significantly higher levels of happiness and life satisfaction than the unaffiliated. In the United States, 36% of actively religious adults describe themselves as “very happy,” compared to just 25% of the unaffiliated. Similar patterns hold in many other countries, with faith correlating to greater resilience, lower rates of anxiety and depression, stronger communities, and a profound sense of purpose.

Why? Because Christianity frames the paradoxical nature of true happiness—it has always invited us into eudaimonia. It calls us to meaningful struggle, radical acceptance of reality under God’s sovereignty, and the steady cultivation of virtue.

The medieval Church discovered the full riches of Greek philosophy in the 12th and 13th centuries, and wholeheartedly embraced it.1 Aristotle’s works flooded back into the Latin West, and Christian thinkers were enthralled. There was such excitement, such a giddy rush to incorporate his ideas, that it bordered on syncretism at times. But it was understandable, as the Greeks had given distinct voice to ideas that are deeply, sometimes subtly, embedded in Christian theology.

The high point came with Thomas Aquinas in the 13th century. In his monumental Summa Theologica, Aquinas masterfully wove Aristotle’s insights on virtue and human flourishing into Christian theology. He showed how habits like prudence, justice, fortitude (courage), and temperance weren’t just ancient Greek ideals, but practices we can and should lean into by God’s grace, in every season of life.

This mirrors the apostle Paul, who learned the secret of contentment whether in plenty or in want, because his hope and identity were anchored in Christ (Philippians 4:11-13). Jesus Himself warned that the world would hate His followers just as it hated Him first (John 15:18)—a liberating truth that frees us from the adolescent trap of constant performance.

The practical formula for happiness that emerges is this:

Meaningful struggle + willing acceptance = eudaimonia (deep, lasting satisfaction).

In my own life lately, this has moved from theory to daily reality. My cancer recently returned, bringing with it lifestyle restrictions I didn’t ask for, especially as a professional-level baker who loves creating (and eating) fabulous sweets. Far worse, this diagnosis forces me to confront uncertainty about how many years I have left on this earth.2 But, as Corrie ten Boom observed, fighting that reality only robs today of its strength. Acceptance—yielding what I cannot control to a faithful God while taking responsibility for how I respond—brings a surprising sense of freedom.

So, how do you find happiness? I lied a little in the title of this piece, because you don’t find happiness—you let it find you. And you don’t have to face cancer to invite happiness in. Ask yourself: What am I willing to struggle for? What am I willing to be disliked for? When you find those things and root them in love for God and neighbor, happiness stops being the desperate goal and becomes a quiet companion along the way.

Western culture has made us fragile by chasing hedonia. It’s time to reclaim the ancient wisdom—both Greek and Christian—that has sustained faithful souls for centuries: Pursue virtue. Embrace meaningful struggle. Accept what you cannot change. Trust the God who redeems every hardship and works all things for good.

A life well-lived in Christ isn’t always easy. But it is deeply satisfying. And joy comes as a gift, often when we least expect it.

If you enjoyed the article, I’d really appreciate it if you hit the like button below. It helps me see which topics resonate with readers and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you’d like to send this to a friend who might enjoy the science-and-faith conversation.

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In a delightful interview with Alex O’Connor, mathematician and Christian apologist John Lennox zeroed in on one of the biggest mistakes the New Atheists made: their fixation on the so-called “God of the gaps” argument.

They portrayed believers as intellectual cowards who stuff God into every unexplained corner of the natural world. We don’t understand lightning? Must be Thor hurling thunderbolts. We figure out the science? Goodbye, Thor—and eventually, goodbye God, as the “gaps” in our knowledge shrink to nothing.

Watch the full interview below (it’s well worth your time). Lennox dismantles this caricature with characteristic clarity and wit.

But the New Atheists’ framing has two fatal problems.

First, it ignores the boundary problems that science, by its very nature, can never solve. These aren’t temporary gaps waiting for better telescopes or faster computers. They’re fundamental limits where the physical world bumps up against the metaphysical.

Take the origin of the universe. Science excels at describing how things behave once they exist—through observation, experimentation, and repeatable laws—but it can’t address what caused the universe to exist in the first place. Things don’t pop into being from nothing, uncaused. There must be a cause for the universe, and it must lie outside the universe. And since one cornerstone of the scientific method is empirical observation, we have no way to observe or test what transcends the cosmos. That question sits forever beyond the reach of science.

Two other stubborn mysteries may fall into this same category: the origin of life and the emergence of human consciousness. We should pursue scientific understanding of these mysteries with vigor; but they have the feel of persistent, perhaps intractable, riddles. Science describes regularities; it doesn’t ultimately cause them or explain why anything exists to follow those regularities at all.

Second—and this is the part that resonates most deeply with believing scientists like Lennox and me—the “God of the gaps” gets our actual experience exactly backward.

My own journey to faith didn’t come from what I didn’t understand. It came from what I did. As a grad student, I studied the chemistry of the early universe through observations of distant quasars. The exquisite fine-tuning, the precise convergence of physical constants and conditions needed to make those measurements possible, the underlying order that allowed the Big Bang model to hold together—it all radiated a profound sense of intentional design. To me, it wasn’t a gap screaming for a filler. It was evidence pointing unmistakably to a Creator.

Lennox puts it beautifully: the more he understands the universe—its mathematical intelligibility, its laws that describe rather than create—the more it draws him toward God. He compares it to standing before a great painting. The untrained eye sees beauty; the expert, who grasps the technique and genius behind the brushstrokes, sees far more. Science doesn’t erode faith for those who see clearly. It deepens awe.

Of course, pre-scientific people did sometimes attribute unexplained phenomena directly to the gods. Nordic pagans invoked Thor for lightning, and that wasn’t primitive stupidity. In a sense, that reflected an early intuition of design and agency in nature—a recognition that the world doesn’t explain itself. Today, we understand the natural laws God “wrote” into the fabric of reality, but we don’t propose that He intervenes at every moment as the stage director of the universe. As French scholar Pierre-Simon Laplace famously told Napoleon, “I have no need of that hypothesis” when it comes to most everyday physical mechanisms.

But difficult questions remain. And here the New Atheists’ argument collapses under its own weight.

The Bible itself highlights three moments of radical novelty where God intervenes to bring something entirely new into existence. It uses the Hebrew word bara (”create”) specifically for:

• The universe itself (Genesis 1:1)

• Animal life (Genesis 1:21)

• Human beings, endowed with the neshama—the soul, the conscious “I” that interfaces the natural and supernatural (Genesis 1:27)

These align precisely with one known and two likely boundary problems in science. These aren’t “gaps” we lazily fill with “God did it.” They are philosophical and metaphysical realities where science reaches its limit. We infer the best explanation through reason, evidence, and the universe’s intelligible order.

Atheist scientists who grasped this discomfort often reached for alternatives. Years ago, as a grad student at UT-Austin, I attended a dinner featuring the late atheist Nobel laureate physicist Steven Weinberg as the speaker. He openly admitted that one motivation for the multiverse idea was to dethrone God as the only explanation for our universe’s beginning and its apparent fine-tuning.

Yet no one calls this a “multiverse of the gaps” even though that’s a perfect way to describe it. Why do we observe such precise constants in nature? Countless other universes! Why is gravity so weak? Ours is leaking gravity particles into other universes! It’s a catch-all that explains everything—and therefore nothing—while rendering our own existence meaningless.

Lennox and others have long pointed out that the New Atheists also misunderstood faith itself, redefining it as “believing where there’s no evidence.” In reality, faith is trust grounded in evidence, much like the trust we place in the rational intelligibility of the universe before we can even do science. As Einstein noted, genuine scientists operate with that kind of faith. Scientific laws describe what happens; they don’t breathe fire into the equations or cause the universe to exist.

The more I reflect on my own work in astrophysics, the more I see the same pattern Lennox describes: understanding doesn’t shrink God. It reveals the Artist more clearly.

It’s time to retire the “God of the gaps” smear once and for all. It’s not how thoughtful Christians think. The real question isn’t whether science will eventually explain everything without God. It’s whether the universe, in all its breathtaking order and intelligibility, makes more sense with or without a Creator who sustains the whole show.

If you enjoyed the article, I’d really appreciate it if you hit the like button below. It helps me see which topics resonate with readers and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you’d like to send this to a friend who might enjoy the science-and-faith conversation.

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The last Sunday of each month features Sunday Superposition, a special thank you for paid subs, whose generosity helps keep me writing here each week and ensures that most of my content is free. Each edition is a collection of candid personal stories, a hand-picked roundup of exciting science news, and something to make you laugh.

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When I was a research scientist at UT-Austin, I kept my faith quiet. I entered grad school there in 2001 already a theist, two years into a personal awakening. Halfway through my PhD, I became Christian.

I never hid my beliefs, but I didn’t broadcast them either. Over the next 11 years at the university, I don’t think I shared my faith with a single colleague. Looking back, that silence fills me with regret.

There were other Christians on the faculty—I knew of a couple, and one prominent professor only revealed his faith after retiring. As far as I could tell, none of them reached out to grad students or peers. The pattern felt familiar: Christians in academia often keep their heads down.

Why are we so hesitant to talk about our faith?

Fear plays a big role—fear of losing respect, status, or career opportunities. But is that fear justified?

Sometimes, yes. In 2007, astrophysicist Martin Gaskell—a colleague I knew from my time at UT—was a top candidate for the position of director of a new observatory at the University of Kentucky. Internal emails from the search committee revealed concerns about his evangelical Christian faith and perceived skepticism toward aspects of evolutionary theory.1 Despite being the most qualified candidate, he was passed over for the job. He sued the university for religious discrimination, and the case settled in 2011 with the university paying him $125,000 (while denying wrongdoing). Stories like Gaskell’s make the fear feel very real.

That said, such overt discrimination appears to be rare.

It’s true that scientists are less religious than the general public, by a large margin. Yet it’s not true that they’re uniformly hostile to faith. Sociologist Elaine Ecklund’s groundbreaking work, including surveys of nearly 1,700 scientists at elite institutions and in-depth interviews with hundreds, paints a more nuanced picture. In her book Science vs. Religion: What Scientists Really Think, she found that nearly half of these scientists identify with a religious tradition or spirituality in some form. Only a small minority were actively hostile to religion. She found that many non-religious scientists (like me, initially) entered the field already secular, and some turned to science precisely because they were searching for answers about existence. Far from dismissing faith, many of Ecklund’s interviewees expressed genuine curiosity about their believing colleagues and welcomed honest dialogue.

When I first read Ecklund’s findings, a wave of disappointment washed over me. I realized I had missed so many opportunities at UT—not out of hostility from others, but out of my own caution.

I believe the scientific community is more ripe for the Gospel than we might think. We may never recapture the era when most scientists, like Newton and Kepler, saw their work as an act of worship, but we could significantly shift the numbers if believing scientists found the courage to engage.

Why am I optimistic?

Our world is in the grip of a spiritual drought. In the West especially, people feel a profound lack of meaning, purpose, and connection. Pop culture feels like a wasteland. Smartphones and universal wi-fi have atomized people like never before. Even career, family, and good works can’t fill the emptiness. Deep down, many long for something transcendent.

Physicists, in particular (sorry, as a physicist this is going to be physics-centric), often enter the field chasing those same big questions: Why are we here? What is the meaning of it all? Without a religious framework, they look to the cosmos—to fields, quarks, stars, and galaxies—for answers. Christian philosopher William Lane Craig has called cosmology “a religion for atheists.” He’s not mocking the impulse, he’s acknowledging a sincere quest for wonder and order for those who were never raised with it through formal religion.

But try as they might to answer the big questions, scientists hit three hard boundaries where the empirical method simply stops: the origin of the universe, the origin of animal life, and the origin of human consciousness. Not coincidentally, these are the exact moments in Genesis 1 where the text deliberately uses the Hebrew word bara—“to create” something entirely new—rather than “make” (asah) or “bring forth” (hayah) from existing material (Genesis 1:1, 1:21, 1:27) At these frontiers, science brushes up against the metaphysical and the supernatural—and scientists are mostly aware of it, even if they don’t want to be.

Modern discoveries only heighten the tension. The elegant, immutable laws of nature. The exquisite language of mathematics that describes them. The overwhelming evidence of fine-tuning for life. When I gaze at a graceful spiral galaxy teeming with hundreds of billions of stars, or contemplate the intricate machinery of a single living cell, I see unmistakable fingerprints of intelligence and purpose. To me, the case for design is so compelling that it would require a kind of willful blindness—the very “blind faith” some atheists attribute to believers—to dismiss it.

Yet not every scientist sees it that way. Nobel laureate Sir George Paget Thomson, who discovered the wave nature of the electron, offered a telling insight in 1951: “Probably every physicist would believe in a creation [of the universe] if the Bible had not unfortunately said something about it many years ago and made it seem old fashioned.” He was commenting on the emerging Big Bang model versus the steady-state theory, but I suspect the same dynamic applies more broadly to the idea of God Himself. In a philosophical vacuum, stripped of all this cultural and religious baggage, most physicists would likely conclude that a transcendent, timeless, immaterial intelligence best explains why anything exists at all, and why the universe is so precisely suited for life.

The Bible and organized religion aren’t the problem—they’re God’s gracious gift, His clearest communication with us. But for many scientists, negative experiences with churches or believers, or a steady cultural diet portraying faith as irrational and regressive, have erected high barriers to belief. Their scientific work thus sometimes becomes an exercise in resisting what their own data quietly suggests.

But that’s where the solution begins. If cultural influences and personal encounters turned people away, they can also draw them back—starting with us.

Believing scientists can be what Ecklund calls “boundary pioneers.” We can courageously and lovingly reach out to colleagues, listening to their spiritual curiosities and longings. We can demonstrate that faith in Christ doesn’t require checking your intellect at the door—it liberates and sharpens it. We can show that a scientist can love the Lord with all their mind while excelling in their work, just as Kepler, Newton, Pasteur, and others did.

As Kepler famously put it, his astronomical discoveries were simply “thinking God’s thoughts after Him.” What a profound privilege—to trace the Creator’s logic in the cosmos.

The ranks of science are not a wasteland of hardened atheism. They are filled with thoughtful people asking the deepest questions, many of them quietly open to answers that point beyond the material. The real question is whether we, as Christians in these spaces, will have the courage to speak up, to listen, and to love well.

I regret my silence at UT. But it’s not too late—for any of us. The opportunities are still there, in labs and offices and conference halls across the academy. Let’s not miss them again.

If you made it this far—thank you—and liked my article, do me a favor and hit the like button below. This helps me understand which topics resonate with my readers, and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you want to send it to a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation. If you’re a free subscriber who would like to support my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

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When I was a young physics student shaking off the atheism I’d been raised with, one argument hit me like a revelation: the fine-tuning of the universe for life. The fundamental parameters of our cosmos—the mass of the electron, the strength of gravity, the cosmological constant—are dialed in with such exquisite precision that the most reasonable explanation is intentional design.

Astrophysicist Luke Barnes, one of the leading experts on this topic, points out that the Standard Models of particle physics and cosmology involve 31 fundamental constants and initial conditions. These aren’t derived from deeper equations; they’re free parameters we measure but can’t predict. Imagine a universe-generating machine with 31 dials, each capable of being set across a vast range of values. In our universe, they’re all turned to exactly the right settings to permit complex chemistry, stars, planets, and life.

Here are just a few striking examples:

• The cosmological constant (Λ): This controls the universe’s expansion rate. If it were larger by even a tiny fraction—roughly one part in 10¹²⁰—the universe would have expanded too rapidly for galaxies to form. Too small, and it might have re-collapsed long ago.

• The strength of gravity relative to the other forces: A slight increase, and stars would burn out too quickly or collapse into black holes. A slight decrease, and no stars or heavy elements would form at all.

• The masses of the up and down quarks: Tweaking these by small factors (e.g., increasing the down quark mass by a factor of ~3) would leave us with a universe of nothing but hydrogen—or worse, a sterile neutron-dominated cosmos with no chemistry possible.

• The electromagnetic force and nuclear forces: Their delicate balance allows stable atoms, long-lived stars, and the fusion processes that create the elements essential for life.

Barnes and others have shown that even modest changes in these (and many of the other parameters) don’t produce exotic universes teeming with alternative forms of life. Instead, they yield dead, boring, or violently inhospitable places: no atoms, no stars, no chemistry—nothing that could support any conceivable complexity.

We can picture those 31 dials. Turn even one just a hair off, and our life-permitting universe vanishes.

So how do we explain this astonishing precision? There are three main possibilities:

1. Chance

2. Necessity

3. Design

Chance says the universe could have had any configuration, but it just happened to hit this one. According to calculations within our current physics, the odds of randomly landing in the life-permitting range for these parameters are staggeringly low—on the order of 1 in 10¹³⁶ or worse for the combined “little question” of fine-tuning under our known laws. Physicists despise coincidences this monumental. No serious scientist shrugs and says, “We just got insanely lucky.” It’s not an explanation; it’s an evasion.

Necessity claims the laws of physics require these exact values—there was never any other option. But this doesn’t hold up. Nothing in the equations of the Standard Model or general relativity dictates the specific numerical values of these constants. They’re plugged in by hand; the theories work perfectly well with different numbers. As physicist Richard Feynman famously noted about the fine-structure constant (one of the force couplings), it’s a “magic number” with no deeper explanation from the laws themselves. If necessity were true, we’d expect a theory that derives these values uniquely. We don’t have one. Changing the dials doesn’t break the logical consistency of the laws—it just breaks the possibility of life.

That leaves design. Some Mind or Agent intentionally set the knobs to create a universe capable of supporting life. It’s the most straightforward, non-coincidental explanation.

Atheists often push back hard against this. When I posted about fine-tuning on X recently, the replies poured in—including some classics.

One common objection: “Of course the universe is finely tuned—if it wasn’t, we wouldn’t be here to observe it.”

This is the anthropic principle as a supposed defeater. It sounds clever, but it’s just a truism, not an explanation. Christian philosopher William Lane Craig illustrates why with a vivid analogy: Imagine standing before a firing squad of 50–100 expert marksmen, all aiming straight at your heart. They fire simultaneously. You open your eyes and realize you’re completely unharmed. Would you shrug and say, “Well, if they hadn’t missed, I wouldn’t be here to notice”? Of course not. The extreme improbability cries out for an explanation—perhaps the marksmen missed on purpose. The same applies here: the fact that we can only observe a life-permitting universe doesn’t make its existence any less surprising or in need of accounting.

Another reply I’ve heard twice now (it must be making the rounds): “Posting God as the explanation is epistemologically expensive.” In other words, invoking a complex, unproven God burdens us with too many assumptions compared to “simpler” naturalistic alternatives.

Fair enough—but what are those simpler alternatives? A multiverse where an infinite number of universes bubble up with random parameters, so we inevitably find ourselves in one of the rare life-permitting ones? Or the universe magically popping into existence from nothing, already perfectly tuned?

The multiverse sounds scientific, but Craig has leveled strong objections. An actual infinite multiverse leads to bizarre paradoxes (like the Boltzmann brain problem, where random fluctuations would produce isolated observers more often than ordered universes). It often requires even greater fine-tuning of the multiverse-generating mechanism itself. And it lacks independent evidence—it’s speculative, not predictive in a testable way. Positing unobservable infinities to avoid design more like special pleading and less like parsimony.

As for universes “popping into existence from nothing” with the right parameters… that’s not simpler than design. It’s magic dressed up in quantum jargon. If you reject God for seeming too “magical,” you can’t consistently embrace something far more ad hoc.

In his debate with Craig, theoretical physicist Sean Carroll suggested that a universe with very different parameters might still support some wildly different form of life—something we can’t even imagine. It was an intriguing thought. But Barnes has shown the problem: small tweaks to the dials don’t yield complex, interesting alternative universes. They produce sterile voids, featureless hydrogen soups, or rapid collapses where nothing enduring or complex can arise. Life of any kind—carbon-based, silicon-based, or exotic—requires stable complexity, and that narrow window is what’s astonishingly rare.

We’re left with the fine-tuning problem. Those who reject design keep searching for workarounds. But as a Christian, I’m not stuck. I see the universe as the work of a purposeful Creator—the same God in whom many of history’s greatest scientists believed. He crafted a cosmos with ends in mind, including (at minimum) a place where human beings could exist, where He could enter His creation in the person of Jesus Christ, and where an act of unimaginable love and sacrifice could reconcile us to Himself.

This explanation is not only elegant and parsimonious; it resonates deeply with the wonder I feel when I study physics. It’s why I left behind the atheism of my youth and devoted my life to following Jesus. The fine-tuning isn’t just interesting data to me, it’s a cosmic signpost pointing to the One who set the dials with care.

If you’re exploring these ideas and not yet convinced, I encourage you to dig deeper. Start with Luke Barnes’ papers on ADS and his excellent book with Geraint Lewis, A Fortunate Universe. The evidence is there, waiting to challenge your assumptions the way it once challenged mine.

If you enjoyed this piece on the fine-tuning of the universe, I have some great news to share.

I was honored to be interviewed for The Story of Everything, a stunning new documentary that explores the biggest questions in science: Where did the universe come from? Why is it so precisely calibrated for life? And what does the evidence from cosmology, physics, and biology really point to?

The film takes viewers on a cinematic journey through the cosmos and the intricacies of life, revealing the consistent signature of intentional design woven throughout nature—from the fundamental constants that make stars and galaxies possible to the elegant complexity inside every living cell. It features leading voices in science and philosophy, including Stephen C. Meyer, John Lennox, and others, and makes a compelling case that the universe isn’t an accident.

I appear in the film sharing my perspective as an astrophysicist—how the exquisite fine-tuning of the cosmos convinced me that our universe was crafted with purpose, and ultimately led me from atheism to faith in Christ.

The Story of Everything opens in theaters nationwide on April 30, 2026, with showings through May 6. It’s the kind of film that will hopefully inspire thoughtful conversations about science, origins, and meaning—perfect for believers and skeptics alike.

You can find tickets and more information at thestoryofeverything.film or at Fathom Entertainment.

If you made it this far—thank you—and liked my article, do me a favor and hit the like button below. This helps me understand which topics resonate with my readers, and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you want to send it to a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation. If you’re a free subscriber who would like to support my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

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I’m a huge fan of Andy Weir’s Project Hail Mary. When I first picked up the book, I couldn’t decide whether to devour it in a single binge or stretch the experience out as long as possible. It’s exactly my kind of novel: nuts-and-bolts hard science fiction packed with detailed (and mostly accurate) science, an urgent high-stakes plot, a slightly goofy and deeply relatable protagonist, and an unexpected but profoundly moving friendship.

So when I sat down to watch the movie adaptation, I wasn’t sure what to expect. What I got was… interesting. Not at all what I anticipated.

Where the book is a straightforward first-person narrative, the film leans interpretive, artistic, tonal, and almost poetic. It’s not quite the pure tone poem of Star Trek: The Motion Picture (which I love beyond all reason), but it echoes 2001: A Space Odyssey—that groundbreaking sci-fi arthouse classic that tells a vast, complex story largely through visuals and music. If I hadn’t read the book first, I’m not sure I would have caught everything unfolding on screen. The movie is visually stunning, superbly acted, and features wall-to-wall music that I sometimes found intrusive in the theater. I’m looking forward to a second viewing at home, where I can fine-tune the balance between score and dialogue.

Warning: mild spoilers ahead.

The story centers on Dr. Ryland Grace, a biologist turned middle-school teacher, recruited by the enigmatic and powerful Eva Stratt (played with quiet intensity by Sandra Hüller). The Sun is dying, infected by an Astrophage parasite, and half of Earth’s population will be wiped out in a matter of decades unless a solution is found. The stakes could not be higher.

The film opens much like the book: Grace awakens from induced coma aboard the Hail Mary, an interstellar spacecraft hurtling toward the Tau Ceti star system. He has no memory of who he is or why he’s there. Through a clever, low-tech experiment, he realizes he’s in an environment with 50% more gravity than Earth. The narrative unfolds in two braided threads—Grace piecing together his mission in the present, and flashbacks revealing how he ended up on this one-way suicide trip.

He learns he’s racing to Tau Ceti, the only nearby star not yet fully consumed by Astrophage. His task: discover why, find a cure, and send it back to Earth. There were other crew members, but they didn’t survive the long sleep. Grace is alone—until he isn’t.

The movie’s three central characters—Grace, Stratt, and the alien Rocky—carry the emotional weight of the story. In the book, Stratt is cold, calculating, and almost villainous in her single-minded drive to save humanity, a kind of reverse-Thanos with godlike authority and a sharp tongue. The film softens her edges. Hüller brings a layer of melancholy and quiet regret that makes her more human without diluting her power. She does what must be done, but it clearly costs her.

One of the film’s most captivating scenes comes just before launch, when the team unwinds with karaoke. Stratt unexpectedly takes the mic and delivers a beautiful, haunting song. Later, when the full weight of her decisions is revealed, Hüller masterfully balances steely resolve with deep sorrow. Ethics classes will be debating Eva Stratt for years.

Then there’s Rocky.

The promotional materials make no secret of him, so I won’t either: Grace encounters an enormous alien vessel at Tau Ceti. What follows is one of the most delightful first-contact stories in recent memory. Rocky, the last survivor of a crew from the 40 Eridani system, is genuinely alien—a five-legged, spider-like rock creature with no face, who “sees” via echolocation and “speaks” in trilling musical notes. He’s an engineering genius whose skills perfectly complement Grace’s knowledge of biology and astrophysics.

The film (and Weir’s original story) handles Rocky with real respect. Unlike most sci-fi aliens who are basically humans with latex appliances glued to their faces, Rocky feels truly alien. Yet through ingenuity, patience, and humor, the two forge a deep friendship. They save each other’s lives. Rocky watches over Grace while he sleeps—a necessity for Eridian biology that Grace comes to find comforting. Their eventual parting carries genuine emotional weight, knowing the vast distances between their stars means they’ll never communicate again.

The resolution? You’ll have to experience it yourself—preferably by both reading the book and seeing the movie.

Visually, Project Hail Mary is a triumph. The practical sets and effects are breathtaking, with Rocky realized largely through puppetry rather than pure CGI—a choice that gives him tangible presence. Ryan Gosling delivers one of his strongest performances yet as Grace: funny, vulnerable, brilliant, flawed, and heroic in the most human way.

The movie has the crowd-pleasing energy of something like Top Gun: Maverick, but with a more contemplative, wonder-filled soul. It’s the kind of big-screen spectacle that reminds us why we go to theaters.

Documentary filmmaker Marcus Pittman stirred up discussion on social media by calling Project Hail Mary a Christian movie. He faced pushback—especially from some Christians—accustomed to overt “faith-based” fare that often prioritizes altar calls over artistic integrity. Pittman points to the symbolism: a man named Grace on a ship called Hail Mary, who sacrifices himself to save humanity; death-and-resurrection motifs; the two deceased crewmates echoing the thieves at Golgotha; the four canisters sent back to Earth with the power to save everyone like the four Gospels; even Rocky as “the Rock.”

Whether you read it as explicitly Christian or not, the film carries a powerful undercurrent of grace, sacrifice, and hope. The movie adds a quiet line from Stratt that I don’t remember reading in the book: when asked if she believes in God, she replies softly, “It’s better than the alternative.” In a massive blockbuster, that moment lands with surprising resonance. I still get chills when I think about it.

I relate to Pittman’s frustration with much of modern Christian entertainment. Too often it trades the difficult substance of faith for an easy veneer. As Tolkien scholar Ralph C. Wood observed, the best art can be “all the more deeply Christian for not being overtly Christian.” Tolkien himself refused to turn his epic into mere allegory, preserving the integrity of both story and witness.

That’s how seeds get planted. Growing up atheist in secular Canada, my only real exposure to Christian themes came through Star Wars and The Lord of the Rings. They awakened in me a hunger for the spiritual that overt preaching never could have reached at the time. Good stories weave truth into the world subtly, beautifully, and memorably.

Project Hail Mary does exactly that. It’s a gorgeous, well-acted, scientifically grounded adventure with heart, humor, and a quiet but profound spiritual dimension. Whether you’re in it for the hard sci-fi, the unlikely friendship, the stunning visuals, or the deeper themes, it delivers.

Go see it on the big screen while you can. Then read (or reread) the book. Slowly, if you can. You won’t regret prolonging the experience.

If you made it this far—thank you!—and liked my article, do me a favor and hit the like button below. This helps me understand which topics resonate with my readers, and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you want to send it to a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation. If you’re a free subscriber who would like to support my work, please consider upgrading to a paid subscription.

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As an astrophysicist who’s spent years digging into the physics of the universe, I keep running into the same stubborn fact: the more I’ve learned, the harder it’s been to believe all of this is an accident. In fact, this is why I dropped my lifelong atheism in university and never looked back.

So, let’s talk about what I consider to be the five most compelling science-based reasons to believe in God.

1. Teleology — A fancy word for “the universe looks designed.” When I was an undergrad studying data for the Big Bang, everything I needed to answer my specific question—what was the chemistry of the very early universe before stars started cooking up heavier elements?—was conveniently in place. Too conveniently. A foolproof way to fingerprint every element and compound? Check. A smooth, powerful light source to backlight the most distant reaches? Check. An expanding universe that lets us rewind cosmic history just by looking at different wavelengths? Check. A transparent atmosphere so we can actually do the observations from the ground? Check. Laws of nature that don’t randomly change with time or place? Check. The list goes on. I literally could not have done the work unless dozens of these parameters lined up just right. It felt less like luck and more like an engraved invitation to explore the careful work of a transcendent Intelligence.
   

2. Beauty — The universe is flat-out stunning, and almost everyone agrees. In all my years I’ve met exactly one person who didn’t get excited over astronomical images, and that person was just a joyless oddball. We lose ourselves in shots of the Orion Molecular Cloud. We swoon over images of the Whirlpool Galaxy. Ancient people looked up at a sky thick with thousands of stars and decided it must be the home of the gods. But none of that beauty is required for our survival. It doesn’t give us any obvious evolutionary edge. It doesn’t even make us better people (well… maybe a little). Yet the cosmos is luxuriously, extravagantly, eye-poppingly beautiful. Even the math underlying the workings of the universe is beautiful. The only explanation that makes sense to me is that it’s the handiwork of a God who is even more luxuriously, extravagantly, eye-poppingly beautiful.
   

3. Fine-tuning — The fundamental constants and initial conditions of the universe—the strength of gravity, the electromagnetic force, the expansion rate right after the Big Bang—are dialed in to an absurdly narrow “Goldilocks” range. Nudge any of them even a tiny fraction and you don’t get atoms, stars, galaxies, or even a single living cell. The precision is so extreme that calling it “lucky” feels like a ridiculous cop-out. To me it looks intentional.
   

4. Enormity — Buckle up—this one gets weird. According to thermodynamics and quantum mechanics, it is overwhelmingly more probable that you are a single brain that just fluctuated into existence a second ago, complete with fake memories of this conversation, than that the entire 93-billion-light-year observable universe (with its galaxies, planets, and 10^30 living creatures on Earth alone) actually exists. That’s the Boltzmann Brain paradox. It’s not strictly impossible for the real universe to be here… but the odds are so lopsided that the most rational way to believe the universe we see is real (instead of your lonely brain hallucinating everything) is to say a God willed it into existence and keeps sustaining it.

5. Existence — Even a Boltzmann Brain needs an explanation. How would it begin to exist? How does anything begin to exist? The only things that don’t require an outside cause are (a) nothing, or (b) something that’s eternally self-existing. The Kalam Cosmological Argument puts it simply: everything else— that is, anything that begins to exist—has a cause. The universe began to exist, therefore it has a cause. That cause can’t be the universe itself, so it has to be something beyond, and something with agency (the ability to affect change) and will (the ability to consciously choose to affect change). And you can’t solve the problem by kicking the can down an infinite road of causes; eventually you need something eternal and self-existing. Sounds like God to me.

And there you have it, my top-5 science-based reasons for belief in God. These arguments don’t “prove” God exists in some scientific theory sense, but personally I’m convinced by any one of them—and the combined weight of all of them is impossible to ignore. These are the reasons I went from atheism to belief in God as a physics student, and why I continue to be confident in my beliefs.

If you made it this far—thank you!—and liked this article, do me a favor and hit the like button below. This helps me understand which topics resonate with my readers and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you want to send it to a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation. If you’re a free subscriber who would like to support my work, you can upgrade to a paid subscription.

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Most of us wrestle with uncertainty in one way or another. As a scientist, I’m driven to unravel as much as possible about the material world—it brings real comfort to (think we) know we’ve pieced together at least some of the universe’s workings. Yet I prefer at least some sense of mystery. A little unknown keeps discovery exciting. Without it, what’s left to chase?

But when it comes to my Christian faith, uncertainty feels different—less tolerable. From the comments and questions that flood my social media, I’m not alone. Believers and skeptics alike often crave ironclad answers about God.

We can know a great deal about God—through His Word, the patterns of history, proper science, prayer, personal experience, and more. Yet, despite our efforts, we eventually slam into a wall. He’s the Creator of everything: a cosmos bursting with hundreds of billions of galaxies and at least one planet overflowing with intricate life. He is the source of existence itself. His thoughts and ways tower so far above ours that some mystery is inevitable.

I’m (mostly) at peace with God’s mysterious side when life feels steady. But in dark times—like right now—I’m more like Job. I want explanations. I want to know exactly what He’s doing.

As some of you know, I’ve fought cancer multiple times over the past 15 years. I was considered disease-free since 2019—until this January, when my cancer markers suddenly spiked and a subsequent CT scan showed a large tumor pressing on one of my adrenal glands.

Sigh.

Back in the ring—for the fourth time.

I’m exhausted by it. Over a recent birthday lunch with a devoted sister in Christ—a friend who’s walked with me since before that first diagnosis in 2011—she admitted she’s wondering the same thing: What is God up to?

Unlike my earlier battles, I don’t sense His presence right now. In fact, I’ve rarely felt this alone.

Why is God allowing this—again? The question doesn’t consume me, but it surfaces, especially late at night. I have a young daughter, and my mind is always on her—her future, her heart, and in my most weary moments, whether she’ll still have a mom to raise and love her.

Why does God permit this kind of suffering—and far worse?

I don’t know. I may never know.

If ever there was a moment to embrace uncertainty, this is it.

Christians, in general, need to grow comfortable with not understanding everything about God. Scripture itself points us there.

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways,” declares the Lord. “As the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. —Isaiah 55:8-9

He gives us enough in Scripture—about Himself, about our condition—to trust Him deeply. The rest—whether we like it or not—requires faith.

Job learned this the hard way, only after God revealed the vastness of His power and wisdom.

Then Job replied to the Lord:
‘I know that you can do all things;
no purpose of yours can be thwarted.
You asked, “Who is this that obscures my plans without knowledge?”
Surely I spoke of things I did not understand,
things too wonderful for me to know.’” —Job 42:2-3

In that moment of awe and humility, Job laid down his demand for full understanding and embraced trust in God’s sovereign ways. This same posture of humble reliance echoes through Scripture centuries later, as Solomon offers us the practical key to living by faith when answers remain out of reach:

Trust in the Lord with all your heart and lean not on your own understanding; in all your ways submit to him, and he will make your paths straight. —Proverbs 3:5-6

How do we trust in the Lord this way? Again, scripture guides us: true peace comes when we approach Him like little children approach a perfect, loving Father—trusting His will, even when everything feels wrong.

People were bringing little children to Jesus for him to place his hands on them, but the disciples rebuked them. When Jesus saw this, he was indignant. He said to them, ‘Let the little children come to me, and do not hinder them, for the kingdom of God belongs to such as these. Truly I tell you, anyone who will not receive the kingdom of God like a little child will never enter it.’ And he took the children in his arms, placed his hands on them and blessed them. —Mark 10:13-16

Comfort with uncertainty comes most naturally when we rest in the One who holds the universe—and our fragile lives—in the palm of His hand. Admittedly, I struggle with this, and it may be partly the reason God allows my trials to continue.

If you’re walking through your own uncertainty right now—whether it’s health, loss, doubt, or something else—you’re not alone. I’d love to hear from you in the comments: What helps you trust when answers don’t come? Or if you just need to share, you’re welcome to do so.

I’m writing this on Saturday. By the time you read it on Wednesday, I’ll be one day post-surgery and (hopefully) recovering in the hospital. Thank you for reading, for praying, for being here. Your support means more than words can say.

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And—get this—best-selling author, Lee Strobel, has agreed to write the foreword to The Heavens Declare! I’m still pinching myself.

Introduction

I’m known online for my apologetics work. Being raised atheist and coming to Christian faith through science as an adult made me an object of interest for many people. Science is supposed to destroy faith, not produce it! I’m living testimony that that’s not true. For the last twenty years, I’ve leveraged my story and scientific experience to help Christians maintain their faith in the face of seeming scientific obstacles.

I was poised to write what I hoped would be a definitive book about scientific apologetics—until a time of seemingly unending trials upended everything. Battles with cancer, lingering depression from the loss of my first daughter, family struggles, political and cultural chaos, and the profound disorientation of the world’s response to the Covid-19 pandemic left me burned out and exhausted. What once felt urgent and inspiring now seemed like a dry intellectual exercise. I put that book aside and, for several years, focused simply on survival—regaining my health, figuring out what happens after questioning so many “givens” in life, and learning to lean on God day by day.

In the midst of that darkness, a friend gave me Ruth Chou Simons’ devotional Beholding and Becoming. Drawing from 2 Corinthians 3:18—“And we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being transformed into the same image from one degree of glory to another”—the book contends that we become what we behold. Ruth’s entries encourage “everyday worship” alongside her gorgeous watercolor artwork, which captures God’s beautiful handiwork in nature. I found it refreshing, inspiring. Reading it, I wondered: Could I do something similar? Instead of presenting my own art, could I present God’s living artwork—the universe itself, as captured vividly by technological marvels like the Hubble Space Telescope and the James Webb Space Telescope? And thus the idea for this devotional was born.

God first called to me through His wondrous universe at the age of nine, long before I learned to recognize His voice. His cosmos is vast beyond imagination: hundreds of billions of galaxies, each containing hundreds of millions to trillions of stars, stretching across space that has been expanding since its explosive beginning billions of years ago. Yet amid this staggering scale, I finally realized something deeply personal is unfolding. The same heavens that reveal the laws of nature also speak the truth about the character of their Creator.

I know this not as abstract theology, but as lived experience. As an astrophysicist, I’ve spent years immersed in data, equations, and observations of the heavens. The more I studied the universe—its elegant order, its finely tuned constants, its origin in a singular beginning—the more I sensed an underlying intelligence and purpose. What began as intellectual curiosity became a pathway to awe, and eventually to worship. I will never look at a nebula, a distant galaxy, or the faint glow of the cosmic microwave background without thinking of the God who spoke it all into existence.

In those years of faith, I have been tested in ways I never anticipated. In seasons of profound loss and suffering, the heavens became more than objects of study; they became reminders of a sovereign God who holds not only the universe, but the broken pieces of His children’s lives, in His loving hands.

This devotional is born from that journey. Across thirty reflections, I explore celestial wonders—from the shimmering auroras that dance in Earth’s magnetosphere, to the ancient light of creation still washing over us today, to the scarred yet purposeful Moon, the majestic rings of Saturn born from brokenness, the graceful galaxies evoking God’s extravagance, and beyond. Each entry weaves modern astronomy, Scripture, and occasional forays into fictional realms with relatable human concerns.

The heavens declare more than bare scientific facts; they point to a sovereign, creative, redemptive God. The aurora transforms solar fury into beauty through Earth’s protective shield, reminding us of divine provision during trials. The cosmic microwave background envelops us like an eternal baptism, echoing God’s first words and His ongoing work of renewal. The Moon, barren yet vital in stabilizing life on Earth, mirrors our own calling to reflect Christ’s light into the world despite our fallen state. Saturn’s rings, forged from destruction, echo Romans 8:28—God working all things for good for those who love Him.

These are not mere analogies. They are invitations to see the natural world as a testament to God’s glory (Psalm 19:1), His power (Habakkuk 3), His immanence (Psalm 139), and His redemptive love. In an age when many of us feel disconnected from natural wonder—overwhelmed by screens, noise, anxiety, or despair—this book aims to rekindle it. All you have to do is look through these pages—or, better yet, look up. The stars are still there, speaking God’s promises.

My hope is that as you read these entries and gaze at the incredible images, you’ll journal your reflections and pray the accompanying Scriptures. Through this simple practice of beholding, may you experience the same quiet astonishment I felt when I first saw God in His creation. The universe is not indifferent. It is purposeful, ordered, and autographed by a God who knows you by name. He who stretched out the heavens like a curtain (Isaiah 40:22) invites you to know Him more deeply through the very creation He called good.

I hope these pages stir your heart to joy, trust, and worship—the kind that endures even when the night feels long. The God of planets and moons, stars and nebulae, black holes and galaxies, is the God who draws near.

Let the heavens declare His glory.

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On February 10, 2026, a mass murderer went on a rampage in Tumbler Ridge, B.C., killing nine people—including five children and a teacher’s aide at his former secondary school, his mother, his half-brother, and finally himself. He wounded 27 others.

It was one of the worst massacres in Canadian history.

I haven’t eaten or slept much in the weeks since then. I break down weeping at the slightest provocation.

I don’t know anyone personally in Tumbler Ridge. I grew up in Prince George, the unofficial capital of northern B.C.—a midsize city about 100 miles from Tumbler Ridge, as the crow flies. There’s a shared culture in northern B.C.—rough, tough, and self-reliant—that’s distinct from the rest of the province. It’s home to me. So when I heard about the horrific event in Tumbler Ridge, it felt personal and devastating.

The photos of the victims are all over social media. People from that region seem to prefer Facebook, so I had to resurrect an old account to get the most up-to-date news.

The image on Facebook that tore my heart out was of Maya Gebala, a 12-year-old girl who was struck in the head and neck by three bullets and yet, by some miracle, survived. Airlifted to B.C. Children’s Hospital in Vancouver, she remains in critical condition, fighting for her life against all odds.

Her parents share images on Facebook of a vibrant, healthy, beautiful young girl. Videos show her canoeing with friends, donning silly Halloween costumes, riding horses, singing nervously but courageously in front of a crowd. She played hockey, she volunteered for local charities. By some accounts, she bravely tried to lock the door of the library where she and other children were hiding during the deadly rampage. Now she lies in a hospital bed, looking for all the world like a heartbreaking adolescent Sleeping Beauty, while Canada waits for her to awaken.

My husband urges me to stop following her story so closely—he tells me to keep caring, but with detachment. Concerned, he senses I’m losing myself in this tragedy, trapped in an empathetic gravity well that threatens to become inescapable. But I can’t stop.

I check the Facebook pages of Maya’s parents multiple times daily, my heart momentarily stopping every time I see there’s an update. Sometimes the news is good—she made it through the first night after doctors warned she almost certainly wouldn’t survive. She started moving and taking breaths on her own. At one point, she opened her right eye and could respond by moving her hand. Other times, the news is concerning—she recently underwent emergency surgery to relieve immense pressure in her head.

As of today, Maya has survived for 13 days and has surpassed every expectation given to her parents by her doctors. She has, at minimum, tens of thousands of people praying for her, sending her positive thoughts and energy, and her mother believes this is a contributing factor to her survival. Whether she ultimately survives and goes on to rehabilitation, it’s clear that her life—and that of her family—is forever changed.

Maya’s story has attracted the attention of countless people around the world, but in an existential way she’s become Canada’s Child, an emblem of tragedy uniting a beleaguered country. In a surprising but welcome gesture, both Canada’s Prime Minister, Mark Carney, and the opposition leader, Pierre Poilievre, arrived in Tumbler Ridge last week to offer condolences and support for the residents, even holding hands at one point during a vigil.

A GoFundMe set up to support Maya’s long-term recovery has raised almost $500,000 from thousands of donors. Hockey players across Canada are donning her name on their jerseys and sticks—her name was even featured on the UFC octagon. Her parents are calling her a warrior, and given her fight for life so far, it’s hard to deny that.

When I read through the comments on each Facebook post, I see echoes of my own struggle with Maya’s story. One woman commented, “For my own mental health, I need Maya to recover.” Others have mentioned sleepless nights and compulsive checking for updates. I admit, if I wake up in the middle of the night, I feel a strong compulsion to check for any developments, fretting if there’s no word. My first uninterrupted night of sleep came only after her mother posted a video of Maya opening her right eye and squeezing her hand.

Why are so many people—why am I—so deeply invested in this story?

Part of it is relatability—I have daughters. I’m from that region of B.C. We’re a hockey family. But it’s more than that.

I can’t answer for everyone, but for many of us it’s the utter incongruity of evil and innocence combined with the nature of social media. Social media with real-time high-resolution photos and videos makes stories like this feel like they’re happening right in front of us. For deeply empathetic people like me, this makes it almost impossible to detach. The questions torment us relentlessly: How does something like this happen? How does someone choose to do this to children?

It’s the incongruity of a sweet, healthy, vibrant young girl and the figure lying in artificial slumber in a hospital bed, clinging to life.

The incongruity of a younger sister mustering all the courage she has to approach a hospital bed, to tentatively hold the hand of a sibling who, two weeks ago, was the picture of youthful normalcy—her innocence providing no buffer, her short years providing almost no context for what she’s seeing.

The incongruity of two parents who adore their children, who work hard to provide a good life for their family, whose world has been forever turned upside down by a madman.

It makes no sense.

I can’t make it make sense.

I don’t want it to make sense—I want to live in a world where it doesn’t happen.

But I don’t—none of us does. That is my struggle. “For my mental well-being, I need Maya to recover,” says the commenter, speaking for so many of us. Those words echo in my head, because I know my mental well-being relies too much on a constructed view of the world that is incongruous with reality—a reality the Bible thoroughly explicates. The truth is, I have not fully accepted the depravity of this world. A sweet little girl with bullets in her head and neck is shattering what remains of my illusions. How will I pick up the pieces?

The overwhelming majority of comments on posts about Maya are—thankfully—kind, supportive, and positive. There are lots of prayers. Occasionally someone uses the sentiments of well-wishers to make a point: “Why are you praying to a God who didn’t stop this from happening?” they reply. While I certainly question the timing and placement of such responses, it’s not an unreasonable thing to ask.

Why doesn’t God stop evil people from harming the innocent?

I’ve wrestled with this question ever since I accepted Jesus into my life. To someone from outside the faith, it may seem absurd to trust, and even praise, God in the midst of horror. He had the power to stop this rampage, so why didn’t he? There is no easy answer to this question.

I’ve speculated about solutions to the problem of evil before, but the only response that gives me any comfort is that it will come to an end someday. The Apostle Paul tells us that the suffering of this world pales in comparison with the glory of the next (Romans 8:18). I must admit, his sentiment feels a bit academic right now; but I also consider Paul wrote this after his own intense suffering and while in a Roman prison. I choose to accept it as true. If it’s not, then I wouldn’t see any reason to trust God or to have any hope whatsoever. But God’s promise that this is temporary is the hope I cling to.

I began following credible accounts of near-death experiences after my first daughter died. A friend gave me the book Heaven Is for Real, and it was the only thing that gave me comfort in those weeks following Ellinor’s passing. I’ve listened to countless testimonies since then, and they continue to give me comfort—not just the comfort of knowing Ellinor is in the arms of her Heavenly Father, but of knowing God’s realm of love, peace, and joy is offered to every one of us.

Sometimes people respond angrily to that. Maybe it feels to them more like delusion than hope. But how else should I carry on? I could be angry about senseless violence and tragedies and turn my back on God, but what good would that do? In fact, it would make it all so much worse. These tragedies would no longer be evil, but just events that happen in a universe that doesn’t care about the innocent or anyone else. The truth is, I am sometimes angry with God. I’ve yelled at him, as the psalmists sometimes did—and then I accept that there’s no answer to the problem of evil that will fully satisfy us. If there was, I think we would already live in a realm in which evil doesn’t exist.

I will continue to pray for Maya and her family. I will continue to praise God as the perfect Father, who loves Maya and her family with an intensity we can never fathom. I may not understand his plan, but I’m trying to accept it. He did, after all, give that which was most precious to him, his uniquely begotten Son, Jesus Christ, so that we could be with him for eternity. That is enough.

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Friends,

I want to share something personal with you. Over the past several years, life has brought me more hardship than I ever imagined I could bear. Some of you know parts of my story—multiple rounds of cancer, loss of a child, family crises—but the truth is that the weight of it all has finally left me exhausted in body, mind, and spirit.

Recently, I returned home from an apologetics conference where, despite near-exhaustion, I was able to deliver what I’d promised. But as soon as I walked through the door, I realized I had reached the end of my strength. What should have felt like a meaningful opportunity instead left me depleted in body, mind, and spirit. It was the final signal that I need to rest.

As much as I love writing here, I’ve reached a point where I need to temporarily step back—to take a sabbatical. I simply don’t have the energy or creativity to write essays. To honor both you and myself, I am pausing paid subscriptions during this time. For those who have paid annually for subscriptions, your access to paid features will continue during the pause and your subscription will resume from where it left off when I return.

This is by no means goodbye. For now, I’m focusing my remaining energy on completing my astronomy-themed devotional, and when the time is right, I will return here with renewed strength and fresh insights to share. Until then, I need space to rest, to heal, and to recover joy in the calling God has given me for the last 20 years. I hope you will remain subscribed, ready to to hear from me when I return.

Thank you for your grace, your prayers, and your support. Your presence here has meant more to me than you know.

With gratitude,
Sarah

Sunday Superposition is usually an end-of-the-week collection of spiritual themes and stuff I find interesting. I’m in the midst of several time-sensitive projects and multiple crises, all of which are consuming my every waking (and attempting to be sleeping) moments. For this month, I hope you’ll pardon and enjoy this reposted Sunday Superposition from 18 months ago. It’s one of my favorites. Also, I’d appreciate prayers to get me through the next few weeks.

The end of independence

The spiritual theme this week is surrendering one's will.

There was a line of dialogue from Jane Austen’s Pride and Prejudice that always confused me. Miss Bingley, appalled at Elizabeth’s willingness to walk alone for miles through muddy fields to see her ailing sister, remarked that it showed “an abominable sort of conceited independence.”

When I read this book, I was no longer at the peak of my ultra-independent Objectivist days, but I was still stuck on the slopes of that mountain. Why would someone find independence abominable or conceited? Wasn’t independence the ideal? Shouldn’t we all strive for the utmost independence?

I think the scene was meant to highlight Elizabeth’s unvarnished rural appeal in contrast to Miss Bingley’s urban snobbery. But my reaction to the line hinted at a deep-seated problem that would dog me for much of my adult life.

I am by nature a stubborn and independent person. I had few friends growing up and spent a lot of time doing my own thing. It’s not that I was unable to attract friends, I just found other people inscrutable and unreliable. I had learned early, through impatience and disappointment, to do things for myself. I hated relying on other people.

The result of all that was a sense of ultra-independence that made something as dry and barren as the Objectivist philosophy momentarily appealing.

It didn’t occur to me in those days before I had come to Christ that not only is it impractical to be ultra-independent, but awfully lonely. I don’t know of a single example of a successful person who was “abominably independent.” Even the most competent and reclusive figures in history—people like Isaac Newton—had small circles of colleagues and friends who helped them do their work and make life worth living.

When I finally came to Jesus, I had already climbed (or more accurately, stumbled) down to the foothills of Mount Independence. I was willing to allow Him to have sovereignty over some parts of my life, but not all. Not because I loved those parts, but because I thought I could manage them better than He could. Oh, yes, there is such a thing as an abominable sort of conceited independence.

But reality intruded on this delusion, as reality often does.

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In 2018, evolutionary biologist and outspoken atheist Richard Dawkins tweeted a surprising cautionary note about the decline of Christianity in Europe, quoting Hilaire Belloc: “Always keep a-hold of nurse / For fear of finding something worse.” He linked to an article in The Guardian on a survey revealing that most young Europeans are non-religious and warned against rejoicing at the “death throes” of the “relatively benign Christian religion.” This is almost shocking coming from someone who once described indoctrinating children into Christianity as a form of child abuse.1

Now, another prominent atheist, philosopher and educator Peter Boghossian, is grappling with a similar realization. In a recent Substack post, he reflects on a debate with Gavin Haynes and Hugo Martin, where he confronts the fallout of a post-Christian West. He writes:

Coming off the heels of New Atheism, this is the situation in which we find ourselves. Traditional meaning-conferring structures have collapsed, and the consequences have been devastating. We’ve done (perhaps irreparable) damage to our institutions, we’ve mutilated the genitals of children on an industrial scale, our trust in systems has collapsed, we’ve become highly susceptible to a wide range of absolute fictions, social cohesion has eroded, we’ve calcified our polarization, and we’ve all experienced a dearth of kindness.

Not all of this, of course, is directly attributable to the collapse of Christianity, but it would be dishonest to say a significant portion of the madness we’ve experienced was not a direct consequence.

Boghossian’s words capture a sobering truth: the utopian, reason-driven world the New Atheists envisioned hasn’t materialized. Instead, we’re left with fractured institutions, eroded trust, and a society vulnerable to chaos. But his solution—or lack thereof—reveals a deeper struggle. He believes Christianity’s claims are false, and therefore encouraging belief in them, even for societal good, is demeaning. But, he asks, is that worse than a descent into societal madness?

I agree it’s demeaning to encourage belief in lies. If I didn’t accept the truth of Christianity’s claims, I’d feel humiliated pretending otherwise, even if I thought it were for the greater good. But clinging to a lie, however well-intentioned, rarely leads to anything good. Boghossian’s dilemma resonates with me—not because I share his disbelief, but because I once stood where he does, wrestling with the limits of atheism.

In my twenties, raised atheist in a post-Christian Canada, I embraced Objectivism, Ayn Rand’s philosophy of rational selfishness. It promised personal strength and independence, but when I began to think seriously about its premises, it crumbled under life’s big questions: What’s the purpose of existence? Where do we come from? What happens after death? It offered no coherent answers. Then, studying history, I was stunned to learn Christianity was the foundation of much of what I valued: human rights, the rule of law, prosperity, even modern science. Unlike Boghossian, this didn’t lead me to agonize over dignity versus pretense. Instead, it inspired me to wonder if Christianity might be worth taking seriously. That question launched a years-long journey from contemptuous atheism to devoted Christian faith, detailed in my testimony.

Boghossian’s quandary has a straightforward resolution: No one needs to feign belief to embrace Christianity, because Christianity’s claims hold up under scrutiny. This is why his oversight surprised me. A lot of Boghossian’s struggle to understand belief hinges on the improbability of Christian claims. In his debate, Boghossian speaks bluntly about miracles, like Jesus walking on water, assuming they’re “almost definitely false.” He once thought believers were just play-acting for community, citing a dinner with philosopher Daniel Dennett, who claimed entire groups, like Pentecostals, pretend to believe in miracles. Though he remains skeptical, Boghossian now acknowledges that some belief could be genuine, but the reality of miracles is perhaps irrelevant if belief in them is part of what prevents societal collapse.

By the way, the mutual Atheist-Christian tug-o-war over genuine belief and disbelief fascinates me. Some Christians assume atheists secretly believe but are rebelling against God. Meanwhile, atheists like Boghossian and Dennett seem convinced Christians are pretending, clinging to faith for a sense of belonging. Both sides miss the mark. I’ve known atheists sincere in their disbelief, just as Boghossian’s angst over societal decay shows his sincerity. But he and Dennett underestimate the transformative power of genuine faith. Christians don’t just seek community; many have been radically changed by belief in Jesus Christ, many even dying for their convictions.

As an atheist, I joined sci-fi clubs for camaraderie, drawn to the worlds of Star Wars and Star Trek, which inspired my career as a space scientist. Those communities mattered to me, but they didn’t reshape my values or demand any kind of sacrifice. I’d never die for Mr. Spock or profess belief in the miracle of transporters. Christianity, though, isn’t a social club built on fiction. Its impact on society—establishment of vital institutions, protection of the vulnerable, commitment to truth, social cohesion, and kindness as a virtue—stems from something far deeper, something real.

What convinced me, as a former atheist? Evidence, reason, and science. My journey to faith, rooted in my work as an astrophysicist, began with compelling arguments:

• The teleological argument: The universe’s logic and intelligibility suggest a purposeful intelligent design, not random chance.

• The Kalam Cosmological Argument: Combined with the inference of a personal cause, it points to the Abrahamic God.

• Objective morality: God offers the most coherent basis for justice, morality, and ethics.

• Fine-tuning: The universe’s precise conditions for life defy probabilistic odds.

• The ontological argument: The concept of a greatest possible being implies its existence.

• Life and consciousness: Their improbable emergence challenges materialist explanations.

• Near-death experiences: Credible accounts suggest a reality beyond the physical.

• Jesus’ life and impact: Historical evidence and His global influence over 2,000 years are unmatched.

• Genesis 1’s alignment with science: Its dozens of testable creation steps, from the universe’s origin to life’s progression, match modern cosmology and biology in precise order—odds of this being chance are incomprehensibly low.

Science bolsters this further. In my article on thermodynamics, I explain how statistical mechanics allows for extraordinary events we call miracles—like the parting of the Red Sea—within natural laws, though they’re so improbable they require divine intervention. Statistical mechanics and even quantum mechanics permit all but what I call “boundary miracles,” like the creation of the universe, the creation of life and consciousness, and the resurrection of Jesus Christ. These miracles, though they transcend physical laws, are still not a problem. Science may never be able to expand its domain to include whatever is outside the universe, but God, from his position outside the universe, can easily cross the divide between the supernatural and the natural.

Consider another miracle, one you can witness daily simply by turning to the first page of your Bible: Genesis 1’s remarkable precision. It outlines the universe’s formation, from the Big Bang to life’s development, in several testable steps, each aligning with modern science’s findings. The probability of this sequence being correct by chance is astronomically low. This isn’t guesswork; it’s divine inspiration, a living miracle we can verify today. If, in my worst moments, I’m ever tempted to question whether God is really there, all I have to do is recall the miracle of Genesis and my faith is reaffirmed.

Boghossian’s debate raises a deeper question. If the death of Christianity is fueling the decline, why not explore its truth? He understandably fears believing “false” claims, but the evidence ought to at least invite scrutiny. Christians don’t pretend for the benefits to themselves or to society; most of them genuinely believe. A society rooted in this faith, not as a cultural relic or a useful fiction, but as a conviction, reaps what even Dawkins and Boghossian lament losing. So, why not investigate the claims? The stakes—personal and societal—are too high to ignore.

If you liked this article, do me a favor and hit the like button below—it helps me know what resonates with readers and it boosts my writing. There’s also a share button if you want to send it to a friend who’d enjoy the science-and-faith conversation. If you’re a free subscriber who would like to support my ministry, you can upgrade to a paid subscription (which comes with some perks!).

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One of the things I find distressing is the number of people who have ever lived estimated at about 100 billion. It's hard to feel significant if you are part of a group that big. It's a little like being one of Elon Musk's many kids.

I’ve occasionally wondered what it would be like to be part of a larger family. Growing up with just one sibling—a brother I’m very close to—I never felt I needed more. Still, I sometimes wondered what it would be like to have two or three siblings. It might be nice. But thirteen? Most with different mothers? That doesn’t sound appealing. After my parents divorced and remarried other people, I was quietly haunted by the thought they might have more children. That would’ve meant their attention and resources would be diverted from me and my brother. Lack of attention was by far my greatest concern—I would’ve felt less important to my parents with more siblings competing for their limited time and care.

According to the Bible, we don’t have just one, two, or even thirteen siblings—we potentially have billions, almost all with different earthly parents. Though we share the same Heavenly Father and one Brother, Jesus Christ, it’s hard not to feel that God’s attention and resources are stretched thin with so many children. How can we possibly matter in a family that large? Can you even call such a vast group a “family”? Sadly, this seems to echo the feelings many Christians have about being isolated from God and their struggle to cultivate a personal relationship with Him.

I suspect this concern existed even in Old Testament times, when one’s sense of population was perhaps in the hundreds of thousands, not billions. Why else would passages like this appear?

“He determines the number of the stars and calls them each by name.” —Psalm 147:4

This verse in Psalm 147 follows the claim that God “heals the brokenhearted and binds up their wounds” and precedes the assurance that God is “mighty in power; his understanding has no limit.” If you’ve ever seen a night sky unpolluted by urban lights, the stars seem to number in the hundreds of thousands, though the actual number of visible stars from any point on Earth is about three thousand. Modern people are aware there are an estimated 100 to 400 billion stars in the Milky Way alone and up to 2 trillion galaxies in the observable universe. That makes Psalm 147:4 feel like an “Easter egg” for future readers, those who know the more accurate number of stars is vastly greater than what we can see at night. The point is, if an eternal God, not limited by time or understanding, can know all those stars individually and can deliberately create 100 billion souls, then time and resources are no issue.

Note that Psalm 147:4 doesn’t say God merely counts the stars but that He determines their number and calls each by name. This verse connects to the brokenhearted, implying that God, who deliberately creates and names perhaps one septillion stars (that's a 1 followed by 24 zeros), also determines the number of souls. One hundred billion is a tiny fraction of one septillion—God therefore has no trouble calling each of us by name.

The naming part is significant. One of the first tasks God gave Adam was to name all the animals. Why? Naming established Adam’s earthly dominion over them. More than that, it showed Adam’s role as caretaker, requiring a deep understanding of each creature. Naming in scripture signifies:

• Authority

• Deep understanding

• Personal, caring relationship

These are also hallmarks of the parent-child relationship, and it’s why parents get to name their children. So, when Psalm 147 says God calls the stars by name and pairs this with healing the brokenhearted, it means God not only has authority over His creation—including us—but also deeply understands and cares for us. This idea echoes in the New Testament, too.

In John 10:3, we’re told God “calls his own sheep by name and leads them out” of the gate. He knows each of us personally. This is reinforced in Matthew 10:30 and Luke 12:7: “And even the very hairs of your head are all numbered.” No detail is too small or numerous for God’s notice. Though God cares for all His creation, scripture emphasizes that we are more valuable than anything else on Earth. Matthew 10:30 is bookended by the claim that sparrows, though of little worth in human terms, are not outside God’s care—and we are worth more than many sparrows. This intimate knowledge is beautifully captured in Psalm 139:13-14:

“For you created my inmost being; you knit me together in my mother's womb. I praise you because I am fearfully and wonderfully made.”

Or consider Isaiah 49:16:

“See, I [God] have engraved you on the palms of my hands.”

Even in a sea of billions, God doesn't just notice us, He designs and remembers us with that level of detail.

Knowing scripture and the math of astronomy well, I can look at an image like the one below and grasp how God, who created and named every star, can know and love each of His children intimately.

Yet, I think many Christians, especially those who have been wounded by parental neglect, struggle to imagine a God who, despite being outside time and without limits, personally loves and attends to each of the 100 billion souls He created. This feels more like a heart issue than a head issue. I can answer questions like JT’s with scripture, math, and science, but addressing the heart is harder.

Some of you reading this may feel like ordinary people or nobodies, unworthy of God’s notice. But as C.S. Lewis reflected in The Weight of Glory, “There are no ordinary people. You have never talked to a mere mortal.” I truly believe that. With so many people on Earth, it’s easy to feel overlooked; but scripture’s assurances help bridge the gap between knowing God’s capacity and feeling His care. In our digital age, think about how AI systems can process billions of personalized queries in seconds—yet that’s a faint shadow of God’s timeless, limitless attention.

I hope the knowledge that God is fully capable of knowing and caring for each of the 100 billion souls He deliberately created offers at least the possibility of finding peace for those who worry about God’s capacity to love. If that head-knowledge resonates even a little, perhaps try this: Sit under a starry sky and say God’s name to Him and trust that He’s already calling yours back.

Related:

It’s good to feel small

Sunday Superposition #36: God knows your name

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Thanks for being a jerk

Twenty-eight years ago, I came home from work to find my fiancé had vanished. A colleague had driven me home, and he’d just pulled away when I realized I’d left my purse—and keys—in his car. I knocked on the door of my apartment, but Peter, who should’ve been home, never came to the door. Something didn’t feel right.

I was living in Vancouver, Canada, shacked up with someone who was spectacularly wrong for me. We’d met online. He moved to Canada from Australia to be with me and said he wanted to marry me. He was an entertainer and a compulsive liar. To this day, I don’t have a clear idea of why I was with him.

I stood outside the door of my basement apartment, looking through its small window for any signs of life. By that time, my work colleague, realizing he had my keys, returned to give them to me. Entering the apartment, I could immediately tell Peter was gone—like, gone gone. It had that palpable sort of emptiness. I ran to the bedroom. His dresser was emptied of clothes, his toiletries were gone. There was no note explaining where he’d gone or why. Nothing. Signs of a hastily washed load of laundry were all that remained.

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My daughter and I watch a lot of animated movies. She’s an aspiring animator, and we watch them as much for reference as for entertainment. Most are good, some are great, and every now and then, we find ourselves saying, “This is a perfect film.” These rare movies are flawless in every way: storytelling, characters, dialogue, setting, animation, soundscape, and music. You’re not just entertained, you feel changed by them. When we started compiling a list of Perfect Animated Movies, I noticed they all share one thing beyond those creative qualities: an overarching biblical theme. I’m not saying the filmmakers were necessarily driven by Christianity, but that these films are shaped by universal truths rooted in the Bible.

I’ve mentioned before that my two passions besides science and Christianity are movies and food. I can talk endlessly about both. So, I’m kicking off a series about these Perfect Animated Movies and their biblical themes, starting with Pixar’s WALL-E (2008), a poignant sci-fi gem that follows a lonely robot tasked with cleaning a trash-choked Earth. (Warning: spoilers ahead if you haven’t seen the movie.) On the surface, WALL-E seems like a charming environmental tale, but it’s far deeper. It’s a profound story about love, purpose, and our need for connection, and it’s filled with striking biblical parallels.

The hero, WALL-E, is the last functioning trash-bot on an abandoned and lifeless Earth, diligently arranging endless garbage into towering mountains. Somehow, for reasons blessedly unexplained, WALL-E is not only sentient, but a romantic. He loves the trappings of humankind and collects discarded treasures like lightbulbs, kitchen gadgets, Rubik’s Cubes, and Zippo lighters. His prized possession is a VHS of Hello, Dolly!, which he watches obsessively. In a heart-wrenching early scene, WALL-E gazes wistfully as the tender love song “It Only Takes a Moment” plays, the characters holding hands. Using only his expressive eyes, clever camera angles, and the soundtrack, the film conveys his aching need for that kind of love.

That ache is amplified because WALL-E is alone on Earth, a fact unexplained at first. From a storytelling perspective, there’s something compelling about the last being on Earth. WALL-E reminds me of I Am Legend’s Robert Neville, but without the horror. Like Neville, WALL-E’s only companion is a pet—a resilient cockroach. And like Neville, he’s desperate to connect with his own kind. Meanwhile, whether driven by programming, desperation, or a need for purpose, WALL-E diligently carries out his monotonous task, compacting garbage day after day.

Then two miracles happen. First, WALL-E finds a sprout amidst the trash and decay—organic life on a seemingly lifeless Earth. Genesis 1:11 comes to mind: ‘And God said, “Let the earth sprout vegetation, plants yielding seed, and fruit trees bearing fruit in which is their seed, each according to its kind, on the earth.”’ Life re-begins on Earth with plant life, just as it began in Genesis. WALL-E tenderly scoops the plant with some soil, places it in a boot, and adds it to his collection. Second, a rocketship descends, depositing a sleek, feminine probe named EVE. How long it’s been since WALL-E has seen another sentient being is unclear, but it feels like an eternity. He observes, cautious but captivated.

Once the rocketship leaves, EVE charmingly engages in play, revealing she’s a kindred spirit. WALL-E works hard but loves movies and collecting; EVE has a mission but delights in play. WALL-E watches, rapt, as she soars and pirouettes in the air. He’s fascinated, curious, and desperate for connection, yet fearful—EVE, though small and playful, can fiercely defend herself. Still, his courage is apparent as he approaches her, bringing her to his home to share his collection. She’s curious and amused, but when he timidly tries to hold her hand, she rebuffs him. The love story develops slowly throughout the movie, with EVE initially focused on her mission to find signs of life, brushing off WALL-E’s advances.

When WALL-E shows EVE the plant, it triggers her programming: she stores it inside herself, shuts down, and displays a flashing green symbol indicating she carries life. This is where WALL-E’s devotion shines through. He stays with the inert EVE, protecting her during storms and still trying to hold her hand.

When the rocketship returns to collect her, WALL-E desperately clings to its exterior, riding it into space to a luxury space cruise ship called the Axiom. The ship houses humanity’s descendants, exiled from a wasteland Earth centuries ago with a promise to return once it was cleaned and fit for life. WALL-E was part of that failed cleanup effort; EVE’s mission is to deliver the plant to the captain, triggering the ship’s return.

With minimal dialogue, WALL-E weaves a tender love story between WALL-E and EVE with gentle commentary on human purpose and the perils of material excess. The Axiom’s humans are the blobby descendants of those who fled Earth, each generation growing more accustomed to a luxurious life without purpose. With seeming limitless resources and attended to by an army of service robots, they’ve stopped walking, cooking, and talking face-to-face. They rely on floating chairs, consuming liquid food and communicating via screens—even when they’re next to each other. Released just a year after the iPhone debuted and five years before DoorDash, the film feels prescient. These humans, obese and with short, vestigial limbs, resemble helpless babies. Yet the movie treats them tenderly, with a hint of melancholy, not mockery. The subtle message: this is what happens when people succumb to ease and comfort.

The Axiom’s captain, McCrea, is also confined to a floating chair. He’s a conscientious man, but his position on the Axiom is largely ceremonial—he’s like the host of an endless vacation. When he learns of life on Earth, he’s fascinated. He calls up videos of what life was like in Earth’s past (featuring real-life actors, an interesting choice by Pixar’s animators), discovering that Earth was once green and beautiful and that life had meaning. He realizes they must return. But the villain of the movie, Auto, the ship’s autopilot, sabotages this. Auto, programmed by Earth’s last president to abandon the return plan, wants to keep the Axiom in space indefinitely. When EVE tries to deliver the plant to McCrea to trigger the return, Auto and his robots interfere. But McCrea, infused with a sense of purpose, and the dutiful WALL-E and EVE, fight to get the plant to the ship’s holo-detector.

WALL-E’s presence on the Axiom triggers change. While chasing EVE, who is subdued by Auto’s forces, WALL-E bumps into humans on their floating chairs, turning off their screens. This causes a woman to notice the ship’s spectacular view for the first time and connect face-to-face with the man beside her. WALL-E also inadvertently frees malfunctioning robots from a robot sanatorium, earning their loyalty and help. (I suspect this is subtle commentary about breaking the spell of conformity and the value of imperfect beings.) Through WALL-E’s dogged determination, principled devotion, and love for EVE, the plant reaches the holo-detector, and the Axiom returns to Earth. But in the process WALL-E is fatally wounded—nearly crushed, his circuits fried by an electric jolt from Auto, and his battery depleted.

Back on Earth, the humans disembark from the Axiom, disappointed by the barren landscape. McCrea laments, “Where’s all the blue skies and green fields?” Yet they’re determined to revive Earth. Once he overcomes his disappointment, McCrea plants the sprout brought by WALL-E and EVE, excitedly telling a child, “This is called farming! You kids are gonna grow all kinds of plants!”

EVE rushes to WALL-E’s collection, replacing his fried circuit board and crushed parts. But the resurrected WALL-E has lost his memory. Heartbroken, EVE gives him a farewell “kiss,” sparking an electrical surge that restores his memories. They reunite as “It Only Takes a Moment” from Hello, Dolly! plays, a song that has underscored key moments of the movie.

The juxtaposition of old-fashioned songs like “It Only Takes a Moment” and “La Vie En Rose” with WALL-E’s sci-fi imagery was a creative stroke of genius. It speaks to our timeless need for human connection, no matter how advanced we become. These songs, tender and nostalgic, contrast with the sterile Axiom and desolate Earth, reminding us that we will never transcend our need for love and purpose.

When I first watched WALL-E, I misread it as quasi-socialist propaganda against capitalism. This was just two years after my baptism into Christianity, and I still viewed the world mostly through a political lens. Years later, more mature in my faith, I saw it differently. The wreckage on Earth isn’t an indictment of capitalism but of using material wealth as a substitute for the joy of human love, connection, and purpose through difficulty.

That maturity in my faith also allowed me to recognize the profound biblical parallels in WALL-E. Life begins with vegetation sprouting on Earth. WALL-E, the lonely male on Earth, echoes Genesis 2:18: ‘The LORD God said, “It is not good for the man to be alone. I will make a helper suitable for him.”’ The Hebrew word translated as “helper” literally means ally. EVE, his ally in the struggle to return humans to Earth, arrives, and they share a new purpose. Humans overcome the temptation of ease and comfort to rebuild Earth through the sweat of their brows, becoming gardeners like Adam and Eve. The end credits, set to Peter Gabriel’s “Down to Earth,” soulfully depict this renewal through art styles mimicking history—from Stone Age cave paintings to Impressionism to 8-bit computer graphics—showing humanity’s subsequent journey to make Earth inhabitable again.

The heart of WALL-E as a Perfect Animated Movie lies in its biblical themes of love and purpose. Even Freud, who Peter Kreeft once described as someone who “occasionally comes up with nuggets of wisdom sandwiched between mountains of nonsense,” noted that humans need two things make life worth living: love and work. This universal message in WALL-E resonates all the more because the movie forsakes preachiness for truths woven organically into a relatable love story. As Tolkien scholar Ralph Wood notes in The Gospel According to Tolkien, stories infused with deep messages are most powerful when subtly delivered. And by eliciting deep emotions. WALL-E delivers its truths through a startlingly human robot love story and humanity’s rediscovery of purpose. The movie’s stunning visuals, genuine (mostly wordless) emotion, and gentle commentary elevate it from entertainment to an animated masterpiece.

I hope you enjoyed this first entry in my series on Perfect Animated Movies. If it’s been a while since you’ve watched WALL-E, does this inspire you to watch it again? Can you guess what my other Perfect Animated Moviefs might be? Feel free to comment, and to tell me what yours are.

Related:

Finding light in a dark galaxy far, far away

Freedom, films, and faith

Art through adversity

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Sunday Superposition is a premium perk for paid subscribers, an end-of-the-month collection of spiritual themes and links to stuff I find interesting. This week’s reflection is inspired by an entry from my astronomy-themed devotional.

God knows your name

He took him outside and said, “Look up at the sky and count the stars—if indeed you can count them.” Then he said to him, “So shall your offspring be.” —Genesis 15:5

In Genesis 15, God promises Abraham (then called Abram) He will bless him and make his descendants as numerous as the stars in the sky. In Genesis 22:17, God then expands this promise to descendants “as numerous…as the sand on the seashore.” That’s a lot of descendants. The stars in the night sky must have seemed great in number to ancient people, yet surely not countless as the grains of sand on a seashore. The Bible sometimes uses hyperbole to make a point, so I’m not concerned about literally reconciling God’s promise to Abraham with reality, but on understanding what God reveals with this comparison.

For most of human history, people had no concept of our Galaxy’s vastness or the existence of other galaxies. They only knew what their eyes showed them, which was stunning enough before electric lights dimmed the night sky for many of us. If you’ve lived most of your life in a city or suburb, like I have, you might feel awestruck the first time you see the stars from a remote, dark place. It’s hard to describe to someone who hasn’t experienced it: an endless sea of stars suspended in the cosmos, their countless lights twinkling as they complete their cosmic journeys through space, subtly stirred by Earth’s restless atmosphere. The last time I witnessed this, I laid on the ground for hours, captivated by the sight.

When I ask my astronomy students how many stars they think are visible from a single point on Earth with the naked eye, they often guess hundreds of thousands. It certainly feels that way. But in reality, we can only see about 2,000–5,000 stars, depending on conditions. The ancients knew the count was somewhere in this range, yet those few thousand stars inspired many to believe they were gazing at the realm of gods.

But God had revealed something important to the ancient Israelites in Genesis 1: the heavens were not the home of gods but His own creation. Their awe for the night sky thus became awe for the One who made it. If God alone could craft such a spectacle, He is truly great—and sovereign over all.

We modern people know something the ancients didn’t: the universe stretches far beyond our neighborhood of stars and includes many more galaxies besides our own. By estimating the number of stars in a typical galaxy and the number of galaxies in the observable universe, we arrive at a staggering figure for the true number of stars in the heavens—10 billion trillion—a number far closer to the grains of sand on a seashore than the few thousand stars visible in an ancient sky. I believe this was an “Easter egg”—a hidden treat—for modern, scientifically-literate readers of the Bible, who can truly grasp the comparison’s depth. It also expands the scope of God’s sovereignty, encompassing billions of trillions of stars, not counting what may lie beyond the observable universe.

Read more

The notion that science and Christianity are inherently at odds is a persistent myth, one that seems to linger in the cultural ether. Once loudly proclaimed by New Atheists like Christopher Hitchens, Sam Harris, and Richard Dawkins, this idea has lost much of its original fervor, as these figures have faded from prominence. Yet their influence endures. Hitchens famously claimed, “…the attitude of religion to science…is always necessarily problematic and very often necessarily hostile,” insisting that “religion poisons everything.” Harris reinforced this view, asserting, “The conflict between religion and science is inherent and (very nearly) zero-sum. The success of science often comes at the expense of religious dogma; the maintenance of religious dogma always comes at the expense of science.” These ideas have seeped into mainstream thought, shaping the perspectives of countless people, many of whom may not even be aware of the source.

This narrative has had far-reaching consequences, not only for non-believers but also for Christians. Some abandoned their faith, while others rejected modern science. Still others embraced science but confined it to a separate sphere from religion (“Science tells you how the heavens go; religion tells you how to go to heaven.”). This artificial divide obscures the profound, mutually supportive relationship between reason and Christian faith that has shaped the modern world.

In truth, modern science owes its origins to Christianity—a fact that dismantles the New Atheist narrative. This article will first explore the historical synergy between Christianity and science, showing how Christian principles provided the foundation for modern science. Then, we’ll delve into the lives of three remarkable scientists—Johannes Kepler, Michael Faraday, and James Prescott Joule—whose Christian beliefs directly fueled their groundbreaking discoveries in physics. These are not just stories of Christian faith fostering virtues like diligence or humility, though such qualities are important. They are stories of Christian convictions driving scientific breakthroughs. Why does this matter? As Sam Harris aptly put it, “…either a person has good reasons for what he believes, or he does not. When a person has good reasons, his beliefs contribute to our growing understanding of the world.” Challenge accepted, Sam.

Part 1: The Christian origins of modern science

The idea that science and religion are inherently opposed gained traction in the 19th century with figures like Thomas Huxley, Darwin’s “bulldog,” who claimed science triumphs over “extinguished theologians” like strangled snakes beside Hercules’ cradle. In the 21st century, New Atheists amplified this, portraying religion as a barrier to progress. Yet, as historian Edward Grant observes, “Modern science [indisputably] arose in seventeenth century Europe and nowhere else.” If Christianity is a “science-defeater,” how could this be, when 17th-century Europe was the heart of the Christian world?

When I point this out to critics, I often get weak rebuttals, like “Science arose in spite of Christianity,” or “Scientists were Christian in name only.” But these claims crumble under scrutiny. Sociologist Rodney Stark analyzed the beliefs of 52 key figures of the Scientific Revolution, and found that 50 were Christian—a staggering 96%—with 60% being devoutly so. Far from being nominal, these scientists saw their work as an extension of their faith, a point illustrated by the three exemplars we’ll discuss later.

To grasp why science emerged in Christian Europe, we must first define science. Is it just a collection of facts? French mathematician Henri Poincaré wrote, “Science is built up of facts, as a house is built of stones. But science is no more an accumulation of facts than a heap of stones is a house.” Science is not merely a collection of facts or explanations but a system of knowledge held together by a particular worldview—a philosophy of science. Its core elements include:

• The search for truth about the natural world.

• Adherence to the scientific method.

• Following all available evidence.

• Faith—yes, faith—in natural laws.

This last point is crucial. Never, ever, ever let anyone tell you faith has no place in science. Science requires trust that the universe operates according to consistent, discoverable laws, a trust rooted in a specific theological framework. To understand why only Christian Europe provided the conditions for modern science, let’s trace the historical context.

A brief history of science

Humans have been on an upward intellectual and technological trajectory since prehistoric humans built the first tools and traced celestial events on cave walls thousands of years ago. Ancient Egyptians and Mesopotamians calculated astronomical patterns and built marvels like the pyramids. In the 7th century B.C., Greek philosopher Thales of Miletus proposed naturalistic explanations, earning the title “father of science.” Pythagoras advanced mathematics, Plato and Aristotle established inductive and deductive logic, and Aristarchus proposed a heliocentric universe. Other cultures also excelled: Babylonians invented trigonometry and cartography; Romans engineered aqueducts and concrete; the Chinese developed paper, the compass, and gunpowder; and during the Islamic Golden Age, Arabs advanced algebra, medicine, and astronomy. History is cram-packed with advanced civilizations asking the great questions about life and building technological wonders. Yet none of these brilliant societies invented modern science. Why?

The answer lies in their philosophical worldviews. The Greeks viewed the material world as crude and they disdained manual labor. This precluded experimentation, a cornerstone of modern science. They also separated mathematics from physical reality, and held a cyclical view of time, hindering science as a predictive endeavor. Aristotle’s untested claim that heavier objects fall faster than lighter objects persisted for centuries because to the Greeks, reason trumped experiment. Pantheistic or animistic cultures saw nature as an illusion or sacred, filled with capricious gods, all of which discouraged systematic study. Science requires a specific set of ideals and assumptions about nature, which these cultures lacked in totality. To paraphrase Pearcey and Thaxton in The Soul of Science, you have to believe in the possibility of science before you can have science.

Christianity provided the missing pieces. From the Middle Ages to the 17th century, Christian Europe laid the groundwork for the Scientific Revolution. Some of you might be wondering, “What about the Dark Ages?” The concept of a dark, repressive era in the Middle Ages of European history is mostly a fiction. It was invented by a 14th-century Italian scholar named Petrarch who, bitter about the fall of Rome, blamed Christianity. The myth was amplified by Enlightenment figures like Voltaire and Rousseau, who claimed that the defeat of Church oppression led to the Renaissance and Enlightenment. But in reality, the Middle Ages were far from a period of backwardness— they were a time of vibrant intellectual growth.

Atheist historian Tim O’Neill credits much of this revised understanding of the Middle Ages to French physicist Pierre Duhem, who uncovered references to medieval scholars in the works of giants like Newton, Bernoulli, and Galileo. Reading these texts, Duhem realized the “Dark Ages” as a scientific wasteland was pure fiction. These scholars were busy laying the groundwork for future discoveries.

The Middle Ages produced some remarkable advancements. Universities in Paris, Bologna, and Oxford emerged as hubs of learning, often under Church patronage. Proto-scientific ideas took shape, with scholars like Albertus Magnus exploring natural phenomena. The rule of law gained traction, Church reforms addressed corruption, and cultural life thrived with Gothic cathedrals, Chaucer’s tales, and the birth of polyphonic music. Monastic scribes preserved Greek texts, ensuring Aristotle and Euclid survived for future generations. This time period also saw the birth of tourism, as pilgrimages to holy sites, such as Jerusalem, Rome, and Santiago de Compostela, drew thousands of Christians seeking spiritual fulfillment

The printing press, invented in the 15th century, was pivotal for the rise of modern science. The first book it mass-produced was the Bible, which, when coupled with the Protestant Reformation, led to a seismic shift with widespread literacy. Luther’s emphasis on a direct relationship with God required individuals to read the Bible themselves, necessitating translations into vernacular languages. This transformed literacy from a privilege of the wealthy and priestly to a norm for ordinary people. By the mid-17th century, coffeehouses in London sprang up as “penny universities,” where everyday people, who now had access to the accumulated wisdom of mankind, could debate and even publish scientific works.

Why didn’t other advanced societies—Greeks, Babylonians, Romans, Chinese, Arabs—invent modern science? It certainly wasn’t for lack of intelligence or technology. But their worldviews lacked the complete set of ideals that Christianity provided:

• Nature is real: Unlike pantheistic illusions, God created a distinct, studyable world.

• Nature is good: Unlike Greek disdain for the material, Christians see creation as good, with dignity in labor, exemplified by Jesus the carpenter.

• Nature is a creation: Not divine, open to investigation, unlike pagan sacredness.

• Nature is ordered: God’s trustworthy laws ensure dependability, unlike capricious pagan gods.

• Nature is precise: God’s exact craftsmanship encourages precise measurements.

• Nature is knowable: Human minds, made in God’s image, can understand creation, as physicist Werner Heisenberg noted: “[The world] can be understood by Man, because Man was created as the spiritual image of God.”

• Nature must be tested: Voluntarism, emphasizing God’s freedom, spurred experimentation, unlike Aristotle’s reliance on reason alone.

• Nature glorifies God: Studying nature is worship, as Newton biographer Mitch Stokes observed, for the 17th-century scientist, “To be constantly engaged in studying and probing into God’s actions was true worship.”

• Time is linear: Augustine’s biblical insight that time is linear and finite—marked by non-repeating events like God’s creation of the universe, Jesus’ life, and the end times—supports predictive science, unlike cyclical pagan views.

These ideals, unique in their totality to Christianity, combined with Greek logic and mathematics to ignite the Scientific Revolution. Plato’s mysticism, emphasizing ideal Forms and mathematics, and Aristotle’s realism, promoting empiricism and logic, were incorporated into Christianity through Neoplatonism (via Augustine) and Scholasticism (via Thomas Aquinas). Tensions, like Galileo’s conflict with the Church over Aristotle’s geocentric model, far from hindering science, actually drove progress, as crises often do. The interplay of Greek philosophy and Christian theology was the catalyst for modern science, emerging in 17th-century Europe and nowhere else.

Part 2: Faith in Science, Science in Faith

Some critics concede at this point that Christianity gave rise to modern science but insist that faith should remain separate. They envision science as a cold, passionless pursuit embodied by the stoic scientist in a lab coat, devoid of emotion or metaphysical belief.

Christopher Hitchens articulated this view, stating, “Our belief is not a belief. Our principles are not a faith. We do not rely solely upon science and reason, because these are necessary rather than sufficient factors, but we distrust anything that contradicts science or outrages reason.” Evolutionary biologist, Stephen Jay Gould, who seemed less outright hostile to religion than Hitchens, came up with the concessionary concept of NOMA—non-overlapping magisteria—to keep science and religion in their respective lanes.

But the domains of science and Christianity do overlap. Science assumes the world is real, our senses are reliable, our capacity to reason is reliable, and that the natural laws are constant. We can’t prove any of this is true, and there are different religions that reject or preclude some of these assumptions. They’re a form of faith that was originally rooted in Christian ideals and assumptions about a rational, law-giving God who created a real world fit to be studied by its inhabitants. But there’s more to science than that. As physicist Isidor Isaac Rabi noted, science relies on “hard, crude methods”—but it also needs metaphysical leaps, and these have sometimes been provided by Christian ideas about God.

Let’s take a look at three outstanding scientists whose specific Christian beliefs about God directly informed their revolutionary discoveries in physics. These men were motivated by faith to work diligently, honestly, and humbly, virtues that should inspire everyone, especially those in the sciences. But their significance goes beyond their work ethic. Their specific beliefs about God shaped their scientific breakthroughs. What follows is physics-o-centric, because that’s my field of interest, but it holds universal relevance for understanding the faith-science nexus.

These examples reflect my ministry’s motto: faith in science; science in faith. “Faith in science” means trusting that science is a way to honor and know God, but it also means faith informing science, at times driving its discoveries. These stories reveal how, contrary to New Atheist assertions, Christian theology has propelled scientific progress. Ironically, we can rely on Sam Harris’s own words to gauge whether these scientists held valid beliefs: “…either a person has good reasons for what he believes, or he does not. When a person has good reasons, his beliefs contribute to our growing understanding of the world.” These scientists had good reasons, rooted in their faith, and their work transformed our world.

Johannes Kepler (1571–1630) – God’s precision and planetary motion

The first scientist is Johannes Kepler, a pious Christian whose faith in God’s precision revolutionized our understanding of the cosmos. Born on December 27, 1571, in Weil der Stadt, Germany, Kepler grew up in a turbulent world marked by religious and political strife. His dysfunctional family—his mercenary father abandoned them, and his mother was later accused of witchcraft—compounded his difficulties. Frail from childhood, with smallpox scars and poor eyesight, Kepler’s physical limitations contrasted with his intellectual power. A scholarship to the University of Tübingen introduced him to mathematics and astronomy, where he embraced Copernicus’s heliocentric model, a radical departure from the long-held Aristotelian Earth-centered view.

Kepler dreamed of becoming a Lutheran theologian, seeing theology as the ultimate path to know God. However, a theological disagreement over the Eucharist—specifically, his reluctance to fully endorse the Lutheran doctrine of ubiquity—barred him from the clergy. His fallback was astronomy, which he pursued as a divine calling to uncover God’s rational order in the heavens. His life was marked by hardship: his first wife, Barbara, and several of their children died, and he faced religious persecution during the Thirty Years’ War, forcing him to flee multiple times. Yet his faith remained unshaken, sustaining him through grief and exile.

Kepler’s Christian beliefs were central to his work. A devout Lutheran, he believed in God’s infinite wisdom and precision in creation. He wrote, “The wisdom of the Lord is infinite as are also His glory and His power. Ye heavens, sing His praises; sun, moon, and planets, glorify Him in your ineffable language! Praise Him, celestial harmonies, and all ye who can comprehend them! And thou, my soul, praise thy Creator! It is by Him and in Him that all exist.” He saw astronomy as a way to discover God’s mathematical harmony, declaring, “The chief aim of all investigations of the external world should be to discover the rational order and harmony which has been imposed on it by God and which He revealed to us in the language of mathematics.” His conviction that God’s creation was exact is what drove his scientific rigor.

In 1600, Kepler created an unlikely alliance with Tycho Brahe, a Danish astronomer renowned for precise observations of the positions of planets in the sky. These two men could not possibly have been more opposite. Where Kepler was reserved and introspective, Tycho was flamboyant and gregarious. The relationship was forged by mutual need—Kepler needed Tycho’s ultra-precise planetary data and Tycho needed Kepler’s mathematical prowess. Tycho’s data, accurate to within a tiny fraction of a degree, revealed minute discrepancies between the predicted and observed positions of Mars in Copernicus’s heliocentric model. The problem? Copernicus’ model assumed circular orbits, a relic from Greek idealism about circles as divine shapes. Most scientists would have dismissed these small discrepancies as negligible, but Kepler’s faith in God’s precision wouldn’t allow him to ignore them. He believed the heavens reflected God’s exact craftsmanship, not an approximation.

For nearly a decade, Kepler labored, testing thousands of calculations by hand. His faith-driven persistence led to a radical epiphany: planetary orbits were not circular, elliptical, with the Sun at one focus. God’s perfection was not reflected in the use of perfect circles for orbits, but the mathematical precision with which he crafted the universe. This insight produced Kepler’s three laws of planetary motion, published between 1609 and 1619:

• First Law: Planets move in elliptical orbits with the Sun at one focus, challenging the Greek obsession with circles.

• Second Law: A line from a planet to the Sun sweeps out equal areas in equal times, meaning planets speed up when closer to the Sun.

• Third Law: The square of a planet’s orbital period is proportional to the cube of its average distance from the Sun (P² = a³).

These laws turbo-boosted the overturning of Aristotelian cosmology and Greek dogma that was already underway. By grounding his theories in precise data and mathematical rigor, Kepler helped dismantle centuries-old assumptions about the cosmos. He saw this work as both a consolation and a form of worship: “If there is anything that can bind the heavenly mind of man to this dreary exile of our earthly home and can reconcile us with our fate so that one can enjoy living, then it is verily the enjoyment of the mathematical sciences and astronomy.”

Kepler’s laws directly inspired Isaac Newton, another devout Christian, to formulate the law of universal gravitation in 1687, closing out the Scientific Revolution. Without Kepler’s belief in God’s precision, this leap very likely would have been delayed.

Michael Faraday (1791–1867) – God’s unity and electromagnetism

The second scientist is Michael Faraday, a humble genius whose faith-driven discoveries electrified the world. Born in 1791 to a poor London family, Faraday had minimal formal education, attending only basic schooling before being apprenticed as a bookbinder at age 14. Self-educated, he devoured scientific texts, particularly on chemistry and electricity. His tenacity landed him a job as a lab assistant to chemist Humphry Davy at the Royal Institution, where his intuitive genius for visualizing phenomena made him an exceptional experimentalist. Despite lacking advanced mathematics, Faraday’s insights were so profound that Albert Einstein kept his picture on his study wall.

Faraday faced class prejudice in Britain’s elitist scientific circles, where his working-class roots and lack of credentials were mocked. He and his wife, Sarah Barnard, endured personal losses: they had no children, a source of sorrow in a family-oriented era, and Sarah suffered chronic health issues, requiring Faraday’s care. His faith, rooted in the Sandemanian Church—a small Protestant sect emphasizing simplicity, humility, community, and direct faith—sustained him. When asked, toward the end of his life, what he thought his occupation in heaven might be, Faraday replied, “I shall be with Christ, and that is enough.”

The Sandemanian Church shaped Faraday’s worldview. Unlike mainstream denominations, it rejected hierarchical clergy and worldly honors, seeing the universe as God’s unified, orderly creation. Faraday believed electricity, magnetism, and other forces were interconnected expressions of a single divine force, reflecting God’s harmonious design.

In 1820, Hans Christian Ørsted showed that an electric current could deflect a magnetic needle, hinting at a link between electricity and magnetism. Faraday’s Sandemanian belief in the unity of God’s creation led him to hypothesize that electricity and magnetism were two aspects of a divine system. His faith fueled relentless experimentation. In 1821, he discovered electromagnetic rotation, where a current-carrying wire rotated around a magnet, laying the groundwork for electric motors. In 1831, after months of trial and error, he induced an electric current by moving a magnet through a coil of wire, proving magnetism could generate electricity. This discovery of electromagnetic induction became the basis for electric generators and transformers.

Faraday’s vision extended further. In the 1830s, he proposed “lines of force”—electromagnetic fields—that transmitted effects through space, unifying electricity, magnetism, and later light, through James Clerk Maxwell’s equations in the 1860s. Maxwell’s laws, second only to Einstein’s general relativity field equations in their elegance and beauty, owe their origin to Faraday’s theological insight.

Faraday’s discoveries gave rise to the field of electromagnetism, enabling technologies like motors, generators, and telecommunications, and eventually influencing Einstein’s relativity. His Sandemanian humility led him to decline a knighthood, quite remarkable considering the class prejudice he once faced. Faraday was later honored by having the unit of capacitance, the farad, named after him.

James Prescott Joule (1818–1889) – God’s sovereignty and thermodynamics

The final scientist is James Prescott Joule, whose faith in God’s sovereignty transformed our understanding of energy. Born in 1818 in Salford, England, into a wealthy brewing family, Joule was frail, limiting his formal education. Homeschooled and tutored by chemist John Dalton, he developed a passion for precise measurements, conducting experiments in a home laboratory. When his father, Benjamin, because ill, Joule postponed a full-time scientific career to manage the family brewery, taking on significant responsibilities from 1833 until the brewery was sold in 1854. Shy but brilliant, Joule married Amelia Grimes in 1847, and they had three children. Tragically, Amelia died in 1854, leaving Joule a single parent. Financial struggles followed as the brewery declined, yet his faith sustained him.

A devout Anglican, Joule believed God alone had the power to create or destroy, implying that energy, as God’s creation, must be conserved and transformed, not annihilated. He wrote, “It is evident that an acquaintance with natural laws means no less an acquaintance with the mind of God therein expressed. To engage in science, far from being contrary, is compatible with our seeking after God.” This conviction drove his study of heat, work, and energy as interconnected manifestations of God’s immutable laws.

In the 1830s, scientists debated whether heat was a substance (caloric theory) or a form of motion. Joule’s belief that only God could destroy led him to hypothesize that energy—whether heat, work, or motion—could neither be created nor destroyed, only transformed. This challenged the caloric theory, which treated heat as a destructible fluid.

Joule’s experiments were meticulous. In the 1840s, he designed a paddle-wheel apparatus, where falling weights turned a paddle in water, generating heat. By measuring the temperature rise, he calculated the mechanical equivalent of heat by 1845, showing that a specific amount of work (1 joule = 4.184 calories) produced one calorie of heat. This proved energy conservation, articulated as the first law of thermodynamics: the total energy of an isolated system is constant (ΔU = Q - W).

His faith in God’s unchanging laws fueled years of refining experiments, despite initial rejection. As a brewer’s son without a university degree, Joule faced skepticism from scientific elites. The Royal Society dismissed his early papers, but his Anglican diligence, seeing science as revealing divine truth, kept him going. Collaboration with William Thomson (Lord Kelvin) in the 1850s secured recognition, cementing the first law’s place in physics.

The first law unified mechanics, heat, and other energy forms, revolutionizing physics. It underpinned thermodynamics, improved steam engines, and inspired concepts like entropy. Joule’s work enabled modern energy systems—power plants, engines—and advanced our understanding of the universe’s energy balance. The unit of energy, the joule, honors his legacy.

A call to action

The lives and legacies of Kepler, Faraday, and Joule illustrate how faith-driven discoveries reshaped our understanding of the universe. Kepler, guided by his Lutheran belief in God’s perfection, formulated the laws of planetary motion, inspiring Newton’s law of universal gravitation. Faraday, rooted in his Sandemanian faith in God’s unified order, inspired electromagnetism, enabling technologies that power our world. Joule, driven by his Anglican conviction that only God has the power to destroy, established the first law of thermodynamics, revolutionizing physics and engineering.

These were not minor contributions but major breakthroughs that stand in stark contrast to Hitchens’ claim that “religion poisons everything.” Far from poisoning science, these faith-driven discoveries enriched it, providing foundational principles that underpin our modern world. Kepler’s contemporaries ignored small discrepancies; Faraday’s peers accepted fragmented force models; Joule’s rivals clung to outdated caloric theories. Without their specific Christian beliefs, these breakthroughs would likely have been significantly delayed, given the historical trajectory of scientific thought.

Sam Harris’s assertion that “the maintenance of religious dogma always comes at the expense of science” is not only wrong, but breathtakingly stupid. Was he unaware that 96% of the Scientific Revolution’s architects were Christian, most of them devoutly so? Was he oblivious to how Kepler, Faraday, and Joule’s convictions led to paradigm-shifting advances? Modern science is clearly rooted in Christian ideals and assumptions—nature’s reality, goodness, order, precision, and knowability. These assumptions, combined with Greek logic, made science possible in 17th-century Christian Europe and nowhere else.

Hitchens was equally mistaken when he claimed, “Our belief is not a belief. Our principles are not a faith.” The principles of science rest on trust in natural laws, a form of faith rooted in Christian theology. To paraphrase Heisenberg, we can understand the natural world because its Creator intended it. This trust enabled Kepler to seek God’s precision, Faraday to uncover God’s unity, and Joule to reveal God’s indestructible energy.

This history is a call to reject the false dichotomy between faith and science. Christians should embrace science as a way to know God’s mind. Non-Christians should reconsider the narrative that religion stifles progress. The history of science, from the Bible’s role in promoting literacy to the Scientific Revolution’s devout pioneers, shows Christianity as a scientific catalyst, not a barrier.

So, here’s your call to action: the next time someone claims that Christianity opposes science or poisons everything, share the stories of Kepler, Faraday, and Joule. Explain how their beliefs—in God’s precision, unity, and sovereignty—led to breakthroughs that shaped our world. Challenge them with this question: “How can that be possible if Christianity is at odds with science?” Invite them to explore the history of science, where faith and reason traverse nature hand in hand, revealing God’s glory in His creation. For Christians, embrace science as a blessing of your faith, a way to worship and know God.

Related:

• There is no modern science without Christianity

• Top 10 believing scientists, part 1

• Top 10 believing scientists, part 2

Note to would-be critics in the comments: If you don’t agree with my points and you want to talk about it, let’s chat. If you have questions, ask away. But there’s a good chance I’ve already addressed your questions and criticisms here—please read it before you engage.

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