In spring 1979, as spectacular color photographs of Jupiter were flooding the papers and television, a parishioner approached Reverend Carver after a service.

“Reverend,” he said, “What is role of the Lord in a world where Voyager is taking pictures of the heavens? What meaning do our little prayers and sermons have when we see everything that we’ve ever done, and everything we’ve ever known the Lord to have done, as a little blue dot against the dark?”

Reverend Carver paused to consider that. “It sounds to me,” he said,” like you’re asking why we’re searching for answers in here when it seems like they’re out there.”

“That’s the very thing,” the parishioner said.

The reverend thought long and hard on the question as he wrote the next week’s sermon, wrestling with the question as he balanced a copy of Time Magazine and the KJV on either knee.

“Someone asked me last week what role the Lord could have in a world with Voyager space probes,” Carver said to his flock one week later. “I’m not a scientist, and for all my preaching I don’t know everything about the Lord. But I can say this: Voyager represents mankind’s search for meaning in the inconceivable, as does the thing that brings us together today to let the inconceivable find meaning for us.”

Carver left the confort of his rostrum, which was not normal at all for the Reverend, he continued: We find answers, out there as in here, but we will never find them all. We will never understand everything; it is ultimately unknowable, and deep down perhaps we all know that. But in striving to know our universe, as in striving to know our God, we express the same yearning.”

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