Dearest Rachel –
Yesterday, I wrote to you about places that we used to frequent that have since been shuttered for whatever reason; we will never be able to go to this or that place again. No longer will being there remind me of the times we spent there, because ‘being there’ is no longer an option. It’s the way of the world; businesses, while they may have longer lifespans than us puny humans, are no more guaranteed survival than we are – and in fact, many of them may come and go in the course of an average human lifespan, depending on the location and the business model (remember all the video stores that sprang up between our college years and our early marriage? They’re all gone now. And that’s just one example, albeit of an entire industry, if you can call it that, that’s gone by the boards).
But then, there are other things that seem to be coming to a close that are beyond even what we might otherwise refer to as ‘once-in-a-lifetime’ events; things that are quite literally bigger than everything we might know and experience, while at the same time being so much more distant and removed from that same experience. These are things that humanity has seen for all of its recorded history; things that have, for all practical purposes, have always been there, and yet, there is the increasing likelihood that they will not very soon.
I’m talking about the death of a star.
And no, not the ones you might see commemorated on Hollywood Boulevard (not that we ever went there, even during our brief sojourn in southern California back in the summer of 2005); those folks die faster than the average human. To be fair, it could be argued that they tend to live much faster than the average human too, so it probably stands to reason. But no, I’m talking about an actual star that we have been seeing in the sky since time immemorial – although whether it’s actually still there might very well be subject to debate (and a question I might pose to you a little later on).
It would seem as if the red giant Betelgeuse – you know, the one in the upper right corner of Orion’s right shoulder – is in the midst of its own death throes right now, and it’s only a matter of time before it detonates. Given its mass – nearly a thousand times larger than our own sun, with a border that would extend to the orbit of Jupiter, were it to be put in our sun’s place – it will go supernova when it does finally give up the ghost. Fortunately, it’s far enough away that this won’t pose any significant danger to us here on earth, although we’ll be bombarded with neutrinos for a few days before the event, allowing astronomers to notify the general public about the light show we’ll have a chance to witness.
To be sure, we haven’t gotten that telltale signal yet, and this isn’t the first time this star has threatened collapse. A little over a century and a half ago, in October 1866, it brightened to the point where was even visible in the daytime. So the changes it’s going through (albeit much the opposite as then – a significant dimming of its light, beginning back in 2019) aren’t exactly a novel occurrence. However, at this point, we’re able to ascertain what’s happening to the star in a way we couldn’t back then. It so happens that it’s spat out an enormous volume of its own mass – an event they call a coronal mass ejection – and the ejecta coalesced into a dust cloud that blocked the star for a period of time.
Again, it doesn’t necessarily mean that the end is imminent, as far as humanity counts imminence. Betelgeuse has been at death’s door essentially throughout the entirety of recorded history, and the signs of its demise thus far seen could mean it could explode within the month, or within the next ten thousand years. We talk about certain long-anticipated events moving at a glacial pace, but those are rapid-fire in comparison to stellar time. Still, the magnitude of this eruption suggests that this, one of the brightest stars in the night sky, may very well soon be on the verge of a spectacular end, for one value of ‘soon’ or another.
It leaves me wondering if you are able to see any of this, and what it all looks like to you from your vantage point. We tend to think of heaven as being far out into the sky and space – because there’s so much of it; God (and by extension, His home) could hardly be confined to the bounds of this tiny dust mote (or, given how much water is on it, this tiny glob of mud), and therefore would be far out in space. But if that were so, it could be in a place where the stars and constellations would be completely different; He may be able to speak of Orion to the likes of Job or the psalmist, but is that what He (and by extension, you and everyone else waiting for us to join Him in His home)?
For that matter, it’s possible you don’t see the star any more at all. If its destruction is truly imminent, and least from where we stand, that means that it really went supernova some six or seven hundred years ago; the light from that distant cataclysm simply had yet to reach our eyes. But you are no longer confined to waiting for the event to take place; for all I know, you could be seeing the nebulaic remnants of its devastation already (assuming that it has exploded already, and we’re only waiting for the visual confirmation to reach our vantage point).
Or, it’s entirely possible that, given everything that’s going on in heaven, these sorts of things aren’t even on your radar. It’s not like we would go outside at night to see the occasional conjunction of planets, or a comet crossing the skies. As rare and significant as these cosmic events might be – and what large masses are involved in creating them – they escape our notice all too often. It wouldn’t surprise me that, despite their creation for God’s pleasure and amusement, they might still pass unnoticed by most of humanity on either side of the veil.
Still, keep an eye on it, honey, and if you could give me a heads-up, that would really be special. Take care until next time.
Letters to Rachel 