Many Things

Thunder Made No Sound

How can we possibly wrap our minds around the incarnation? The darling of heaven, the very glory of the Father, the second person of the trinity taking to himself a nature precisely like our own. The world’s maker set his feet on its earth. As Bernard of Clairvaux asked in “O Sacred Head Now Wounded,” “What language shall I borrow?”

Though he tends to be overlooked by Christians in the West, the 4^th century theologian Ephrem the Syrian expressed the wonder and mystery of the incarnation like few others. Resorting to poetic paradox, Ephrem sought to communicate something of the transcendent majesty of the Son uniting himself unconfusedly, unchangeably, indivisibly, and inseparably with utter human nature in Christ’s coming. Speaking of the virgin birth, he wrote, “The Lord entered her, and became a servant/ the Word entered her, and became silent within her/ thunder entered her, and made no sound/ the Shepherd of all entered her, he became a lamb in her and came forth bleating.”

Why Johnny Must Sing  

We’ve all felt the inadequacy of our language to express awe, wonder, and gratitude for God and his works. And yet God’s people have written hymns since our first moments. In a whole host of ways, it’s fitting that our response to the revealed goodness and truth of the Lord is to respond in beauty.

It’s worth considering that all recorded human speech in the Bible begins with a song. In Genesis two, the Lord comes down to man and, taking a rib from the sleeping man’s side, fashions woman and brings her to the first man. Adam looks upon his wife and sings in response to this incredible gift:

“This at last is bone of my bones and flesh of my flesh; she shall be called Woman, because she was taken out of Man.”

Likewise, Moses and the people of Israel—together with all the households of god-fearing Egyptians—stood together on the shoreline of the Exodus as their defeated enemies sunk to the depths of the sea. And the response of Moses and the people was to sing:  

“You have led in your steadfast love the people whom you have redeemed; you have guided them by your strength to your holy abode. The peoples have heard—they tremble; pangs have seized the inhabitants of Philistia. Now the chiefs of Edom are dismayed; trembling grips the leaders of Moab; all the inhabitants of Canaan have melted away. Terror and dread fall upon them—because of the greatness of your arm, they are still as stone, until your people, O Lord, pass by, until the people you have purchased pass by. You will bring them in and plant them on your own mountain, the place, O Lord, that you have made for your dwelling, the sanctuary, O Lord, that your hands have established. The Lord will reign forever and ever.”

In many respects, music can express what mere prose cannot. Poetry and music, rhythm and exultation, the very heart of God’s people expressed in confession and adoration: theology set to verse.

The Song of the Theologian

It’s striking that this is Mary’s response in the Magnificat. In Luke chapter one, Mary receives the blessed news that the Lord has at last come to his people—to her. Since Genesis 3 the world had long laid in sin and error pining. And Mary’s response, as any theologian ought, is to acclaim the attributes and works of the Lord in song:

“My soul magnifies the Lord, and my spirit rejoices in God my Savior, for he has looked on the humble estate of his servant. Behold, from now on all generations will call me blessed, for he who is mighty has done great things for me, and holy is his name. His mercy is for those who fear him, from generation to generation. He has shown strength with his arm; he has scattered the proud in the thoughts of their hearts. He has brought down the mighty from their thrones and exalted those of humble estate. He has filled the hungry with good things, and the rich he has sent away empty. He has helped his servant Israel, in remembrance of his mercy, as he spoke to our fathers, to Abraham and to his offspring forever.”

What Language We May Borrow

God, who is holy—high and lifted up—and whose train fills the temple of his presence, has drawn near in perfect humanity as an infant. He who brought down the mighty from their thrones has come down and taken a helpless human nature. The one who formed Mary from the dust, dependent upon her for life and nurture, that he might be made like his brothers in every respect, has become a perfect high priest, “thunder entered her, and made no sound.”

Paradox like this cannot merely be described. It must be sung. The only language we may borrow is the language of worship. Our response to the great mystery of God’s love can only be exclaimed. All true theology ends as it must—in doxology.