April 12, 1961: Soviet cosmonaut Yuri Gagarin becomes the first person to orbit the earth and the first person in outer space. Gagarin is heralded across the world as an international hero.

It is rumored that Gagarin remarked upon reaching space that he didn’t “see any God up here.” This is probably not the actual case, but, tensions being what they were at the time, embedded in a cold war between a highly generalized Christian west and godless Soviet Union, the story sticks. The legend grows that Gagarin appears in western cities trumpeting boldly that he had entered outer space, looked for God, and found none. As the story goes, at one such press conference a reporter shouted out that had Gagarin opened the capsule door in space, he would have seen God rather quickly and clearly.

Given the American astronauts’ frequent reference to the wonder of God and His creation, taking communion in space, and the like, the space race is postured within the general tenor of the cold war: for right or wrong, true or false, among other things, the godless communists versus the Christian Americans. Things are seldom this simple.

The New Atheists have labored diligently to categorize this phenomenon as a result of the 1950’s red scare in America, and as a deliverance of McCarthyism, often citing 1950’s legislation of the National Motto In God We Trust and the inclusion of the motto on American currency as proof. In this view, America is thought of as largely a deist/enlightenment culture overrun in the 50’s by Christian fundamentalists, leading ultimately to the religious right neo-conservatism we see today. This is a deeply problematic view historically, however, but as I eschew politics, I mention it for the context only.

This is what interests me instead. Keeping in mind that things are ever near infinitely more complex than we imagine, the context of a godless materialism versus Christianity has implications when set within real world consequences. On October 24, 1960, a horrid explosion occurred which has come to be known as the Nedelin disaster. Due to Russian secrecy at the time, no one is certain of the death toll, but estimates put it in excess of one hundred. Perhaps this is footage of the disaster:

At any rate, reading the account of the disaster is difficult. But so is reading the account of the Apollo 1 fire.

What then are we to make of these tragedies within our context? There are two lines I’d like to consider briefly: one from each side of the context.

The response from the materialist/naturalist camp in light of these disasters is that God does not exist, founded on the problem of evil. How could God allow such a thing? Where was he when the fires started? Why didn’t he stop them?  It is a response founded on despair and meaninglessness. No greater force or power exists outside of this natural realm to make sense of the tragedy. What you see is what you get, and these tragedies quickly pass out of history into nothingness, as do their victims. The tragedy is final in its horridness as in its oblivion.

From the other side, a much different picture emerges. In it, there is a force working through the affairs of men. There is hope in the face of despair and tragedy. In this view, all is not lost, nor is a brief moment in history, or its victims, abandoned to the receding and fading tendrils of nothingness.

One is a foundation of sand; the other is a foundation of rock.

Sunday, for the first time in many years, I found myself in a pulpit again. My mother, whom I love as much as a man can love a mother, called me the night before and asked what I was preaching on. I told her the fruits of the Spirit. She said, “Oh, so you’re playing it safe!”

At first I agreed. I mean, how can you mess up love, right? But as I thought more about it, the less safe it started to seem to me. And I finally arrived at the conclusion that it was not safe in the least, actually, to preach on love.

For starters, everyone already thinks they are loving. The danger, and the first unsafe part of preaching on love, is that you can lull people to sleep talking about love. It’s not a safe play in the least. You can look out at a congregation about twenty minutes in if you’re not careful and see the blank stares and the drooping eyelids. If you have any affection for Christ, then, I urge you not to take love lightly: hear the word of the Lord on love. You’re not as loving as you think you are, and certainly I’m not (you’ll notice, of course, I didn’t call you Shirley). 

Secondly, love is a radical concept. It’s not safe at all. When Christ came into the world, a star hovered over his birthplace. Among other things, this happened this way because light was invading a world of darkness, and invading forces are certainly not safe. 

Lastly, loving, taken by itself, is not safe, and, if you love, you will not be safe. If you love, you’ll set yourself up for heartache. If you love, you’ll set yourself up to require sacrifice. If you love, you’ll have to give away some of your time, money, and talent. If you love, at times you’ll be ridiculed, stepped on, taken advantage of, used, and called a fool. It’s really not that safe when you think about it.

But love all the same. It’s worth it, and love is a primary mark of the Christian. As Paul said, it’s the most excellent way:

If I speak in the tongues of men and of angels, but have not love, I am only a resounding gong or a clanging cymbal. If I have the gift of prophecy and can fathom all mysteries and all knowledge, and if I have a faith that can move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing. If I give all I possess to the poor and surrender my body to the flames, but have not love, I gain nothing.

Love is patient, love is kind. It does not envy, it does not boast, it is not proud. It is not rude, it is not self-seeking, it is not easily angered, it keeps no record of wrongs. Love does not delight in evil but rejoices with the truth. It always protects, always trusts, always hopes, always perseveres.

Love never fails. But where there are prophecies, they will cease; where there are tongues, they will be stilled; where there is knowledge, it will pass away. For we know in part and we prophesy in part, but when perfection comes, the imperfect disappears. When I was a child, I talked like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child. When I became a man, I put childish ways behind me. Now we see but a poor reflection as in a mirror; then we shall see face to face. Now I know in part; then I shall know fully, even as I am fully known.

And now these three remain: faith, hope and love. But the greatest of these is love.