As I stood on a Midtown Manhattan street corner one evening, I noticed an unusual gathering. Hundreds of people had assembled, staring intently toward the horizon. They stood shoulder to shoulder, phones held high, faces illuminated by a golden glow. Some appeared reverent. Others seemed excited. A few looked as if they were witnessing a religious miracle.
In a sense, they were.
The event was Manhattanhenge, the twice-yearly phenomenon when the setting sun aligns perfectly with Manhattan’s street grid. As the sun descended between the skyscrapers, the crowd collectively gasped, photographed, videotaped, and otherwise documented the event from every conceivable angle.
Watching them, I couldn’t help wondering: Have we really evolved all that much from our ancestors?
For thousands of years, human beings have worshipped the sun. Ancient Egyptians revered Ra, the sun god who sailed across the heavens each day. The Incas worshipped Inti and built elaborate ceremonies around the solar cycle. The Maya designed temples and pyramids that aligned with celestial events. Across Europe, Stonehenge was constructed with astonishing precision to mark the solstices.
The sun was not merely a source of light. It was life itself. It determined harvests, seasons, migrations, and survival. Entire civilizations oriented themselves around its movements.
Fast forward to twenty-first-century Manhattan.
The sun no longer determines whether our crops survive. Most New Yorkers couldn’t identify a wheat field if it appeared in Times Square. Yet twice each year, thousands leave their offices, interrupt phone calls, postpone dinner reservations, and gather in the middle of traffic to witness the setting sun.
The difference is that ancient priests carried staffs while modern pilgrims carry iPhones.
The Maya climbed temple stairs to observe the heavens. New Yorkers climb out of the subway at 42nd Street.
Stonehenge required decades of labor. Manhattanhenge required an 1811 city planning commission and a lot of real estate developers.
Ancient observers carefully recorded celestial events on stone tablets. Modern observers upload them to Instagram, TikTok, and Facebook before the sun has even disappeared below the horizon.
One suspects that if a Mayan astronomer suddenly appeared in Midtown during Manhattanhenge, he would immediately recognize what was happening. He might be confused by the yoga pants, food-delivery bicycles, and Starbucks cups, but he would understand the crowd.
“Ah,” he would say. “These people have gathered to honor the sun.”
“Not exactly,” we would reply. “We’re creating content.”
The more I thought about it, the more Manhattanhenge seemed less like an astronomical event and more like a reminder of something deeply human. We are drawn to moments that make us feel connected to something larger than ourselves. The sun setting between Manhattan’s towers transforms ordinary streets into cathedrals. Glass office buildings become modern standing stones. Traffic lanes become ceremonial pathways.
For a few brief minutes, nobody is looking at stock prices, political polls, text messages, or emails. Everyone is looking in the same direction.
That may be the most remarkable part.
In a city famous for individual ambition, millions of people pursuing millions of different goals suddenly stop and share a common experience. They are united by a celestial event that their ancestors would have instantly understood.
Of course, there are differences.
The ancient Maya occasionally practiced human sacrifice.
Modern Manhattanites merely sacrifice battery life.
The priests of Stonehenge probably didn’t spend fifteen minutes trying to find the perfect filter.
And while Incan worshippers undoubtedly hoped for a successful harvest, today’s participants mostly hope their photographs will get more likes than their friends’ photographs.
Yet beneath the humor lies a serious truth.
Human beings have always sought meaning in the sky. We have always paused when nature offers us a moment of beauty. We have always gathered together to witness extraordinary alignments between heaven and earth.
The temples have changed.
The rituals have changed.
The technology has certainly changed.
But the impulse remains remarkably familiar.
Five thousand years after our ancestors stood before stone circles, pyramids, and sun temples, we still gather at sunset.
Only now we do it in Midtown Manhattan, wearing sneakers, holding smartphones, and hoping for good Wi-Fi.
Perhaps that is what Manhattanhenge really teaches us: beneath all our technology, sophistication, and urban complexity, there is still a small part of every human being that wants to stop, look toward the horizon, and worship the sun.
Or at least get a really good picture of it.
