“There is enough light for those who desire only to see,
and enough darkness for those of a contrary disposition.”
The philosopher Blaise Pascal
image by Copilot
Cosmic Epiphany
I stepped out my front door and was immediately transported into a hydrogen balloon. Elizabeth—or Lithy, as we called her—was navigating. Beryl had brought our packed lunches, but we found them too salty. The salt gave me acid reflux, so we had to stop for a bottle of Milk of Magnesia. Since we were on level ground We went for lunch. I had a jacket potato; the rich potassium content soothed my tummy.
No, it’s not a work of fiction.
I had just returned from a memory class in Glasgow and decided to evaluate the “memory palace” technique. I chose something ambitious: the Periodic Table of Elements. I gave myself two evenings—an hour each—and began turning unfamiliar names and atomic numbers into mental pictures. Hydrogen, Lithium, Beryllium and Sodium. Hence the strange story at the start.
But something unexpected happened later, during a quiet evening walk. I noticed the structure—not just the rows and columns, but the astonishing logic behind them. Elements grouped by their properties. Reactions that follow predictable patterns. A steady increase in atomic number that moves with a kind of rhythm. It wasn’t just a list—it was a system. Ordered. Balanced. Purposeful.
Why on earth…?
It made me pause.
I began to think theologically. What I experienced was more than fascination—it was the birth of a question: Why is matter so well-behaved? Why do the fundamental components of the universe follow rules? Why is there order at all?
Materialists often say, “That’s just the way nature turned out.” Evolution and chemistry followed the path of least resistance, and this is the result. But that answer, while descriptive, falls short of being explanatory. It tells me how things are, but not why they are so. What gives rise to the coherence, the consistency, the elegant logic embedded in matter itself?
The more I thought, the less I could shrug it off. The periodic table began to feel less like a human construct and more like a discovery of something already written—a grammar of creation. The philosopher Blaise Pascal once wrote, “The eternal silence of these infinite spaces terrifies me.” But in those spaces, he also discerned echoes of something divine: “There is enough light for those who desire only to see, and enough darkness for those of a contrary disposition.”
What I experienced was more than curiosity—it was the birth of a longing, a kind of metaphysical homesickness. That longing has always been there, hasn’t it? The sense that behind the veil of the visible world, there is a hidden syntax—a mind behind the molecules, a poet behind the particles.
As a Christian, I see this longing answered not in accident but in authorship. The Bible speaks of a Creator who brings cosmos out of chaos: “By wisdom the Lord laid the earth’s foundations, by understanding he set the heavens in place” (Proverbs 3:19). The periodic table, with its mathematical symmetry and chemical poetry, feels like part of that wisdom—an embedded signature in the structure of things.
Einstein once said, “The most incomprehensible thing about the world is that it is comprehensible.” Pascal would agree and go further: he would say the human capacity for reason, as well as our ache for meaning, points toward something outside ourselves. “Man is but a reed, the feeblest thing in nature; but he is a thinking reed.”
In recent decades, cosmologists have spoken of the “fine-tuning” of the universe—the idea that the constants of physics are so precisely calibrated that the odds of life occurring by chance are vanishingly small. The periodic table belongs within that same awe. Why do atoms exist at all? Why do electrons orbit nuclei with such steadfast choreography? Why is there, as the philosopher Thomas Nagel put it, “something rather than nothing”?
These are not merely scientific questions. They are existential ones.
Looking back on that memory exercise, I see it now as more than a cognitive technique. It was a kind of doorway—an invitation into wonder. And that wonder didn’t lead me away from faith; it led me to ask richer questions. Questions that science can describe, but only philosophy and theology can begin to answer.
The apostle Paul wrote in Romans 1:20, “Since the creation of the world God’s invisible qualities—his eternal power and divine nature—have been clearly seen, being understood from what has been made.”
That evening, I wasn’t just looking at a chart of elements. I was glimpsing coherence. Order. Design. I was hearing, faintly, a cosmic resonance that whispered: This is not random. This is not meaningless. This points home.
Some patterns are not illusions.
Some are real.