The vast cosmic process challenges and transcends human power; the mind falters before its very magnitude. Modern cosmologists speak of an enormous explosion some 15,000 million years ago that was the beginning of the universe. This is an expanse containing innumerable galaxies in which our own solar system is a ludicrously tiny part. And yet God chose to establish the means by which the human could evolve, with his amazing mental capacity and creative potentiality, in a single planet within that solar system.
The human may be frail in his bodily power, but his mind can range at will over such enormous domains that the universe itself is within the bounds of his imagination. Indeed, the human spirit can transcend even the limits of the inexpressibly vast universe and enter into the heart of the mystery through mystical union with the Creator whom we call God. And so we are shown that the material world is not the end, but rather an outer form of a reality so infinite that to enter into it is the meaning of eternal life. What the scientist is obliged to quit in sheer ignorance is the realm of divine knowledge; its standard of assessment is spiritual awareness and growth in rather the same way that the various finite systems of quantity, such as time, size or heat, have within them their own units of measurement.
The Psalmist, like the writer of the Genesis narrative, knew intuitively of a creative power far beyond human delineation, let alone calculation. The mystic, by contrast, knows of the indwelling nature of that power both in the human soul and in the cosmic process, of which the climactic events of our own earth are a very small sample. Direct mystical experience is not stressed, or even advocated, in the orthodox stream of any of the three great monotheistic religions (Judaism, Christianity and Islam), where God's triumphant transcendence is celebrated. Nevertheless the human soul moves according to the work of God's Spirit into deeper realms of inner knowledge, where the divine presence is even clearer than in any outer realm of space and time. Our intelligence may point to an infinite Creator of the finite universe, but our true-self, or soul, knows of a direct relationship of pure love whereby both that universe and our own being are filled with energy and animated with life.
It is the God of immediate spiritual experience that the Bible expounds, and the psalms are immortal testimonies of the experience of the divine/human relationship that is the foundation of all meaningful existence. This relationship flows out of the hearts of the poets of Israel as psalms that celebrate the seasons of triumph and bewail the frequent periods of personal pain and national distress.
The glorious Psalm 19 celebrates the creative power of God, maker of the cosmos (the universe and the encompassing intermediate dimension in which the souls of the deceased work in fellowship with the vast angelic hosts) and author of the Law that was given to Moses on Mount Sinai at the time of the exodus of the Israelites from Egypt:
The heavens tell out the glory of God,
heaven's vault makes known his handiwork.
The entire celestial company praise God silently by their very presence day by day and night by night, while the glory of the sun shines forth:
In the heavens an abode is fixed for the sun,
which comes out like a bridegroom from the bridal chamber,
rejoicing like a strong man to run his course.
Then the writer moves from the constructive excellence of the universe to an exultation in the Law:
The law of the Lord is perfect and revives the soul.
The Lord's instruction never fails;
it makes the simple wise,
The precepts of the Lord are right
and give joy to the heart.
The commandment of the Lord is pure
and gives light to the eyes.
The Lord's judgements are true and greatly to be desired, for they act as a moral warning, while obedience brings a great reward. Then follows a request that the Lord may cleanse the Psalmist from any hidden fault or unwitting sins, that he may also protect him from wilful sins lest they prevail. Only thus can a person remain blameless and innocent of any grave offence. In all this we see the two faces of God's creative act: the cosmos in its terrifying glory and the Law whereby that cosmos is governed and the human creature groomed for his work of dominion over the natural order, thus acting as an assistant to the Creator. In the ancient East the sun was a symbol of justice, and so it holds together the creative power of God and the law whereby every action is governed.
St Paul attacked the Law quite severely in his letters to the Galatians and the Romans. This was not because he disagreed with its moral precepts, which are, after all, the foundation of civilized living. But the Law simply lays down rules without giving the individual the power to obey them. In fact, if he has an especially well-developed power of will and actually succeeds in following the Law's demands, he is liable to self-inflation like the Pharisee in the famous parable of Luke 18:9-14. The end is a loveless perfection of detail with a heart of stone. It is only when the creative power of God enters the life of the spiritual aspirant that love informs his actions. Then only can the Law be obeyed as a natural inclination of the palpitating heart, and the person rises in stature as an essential worker with God in the raising up of the universe from death to immortality. The whole scheme of human life is one of entering more fully into the life of God, so that the highly gifted creature may approximate ever more fully the divine stature as revealed in Jesus, who had the power and authority to raise the very dead back to earthly life.
The psalm ends with the famous supplication:
May the words of my mouth and the thoughts of my mind
be acceptable to you,
Lord, my rock and my redeemer!
These words and thoughts are our own contribution to God's ceaseless creation. If they are ill chosen they can have a destructive power at variance with the divine will. In other words, if we are fellow workers with Jesus in the healing of the world, our attitudes must approach his: there must be no selfishness or personal ambition. This high spiritual state is unattainable by the unaided human will, therefore we have to learn the secret of stillness so as to allow the divine alchemy time to transmute our baser emotions and selfish attitudes into a radiant awareness. Then only can we hear the inner voice of God and do the works that are required.
It is evident that the naked will has a perverse trend no matter how fine our motives may be; St Paul laments our divided consciousness only too well in Romans 7:13-21. Nevertheless our frail human will is capable of one essential action without which God himself cannot help us, the stilling of the mind in full awareness of the present moment. This was what Mary chose in the story of Jesus' visit to her and her sister Martha's home (Luke 10:38-42), while Martha was concerned about so many things and becoming more and more emotionally fraught as a result. Once we, like Mary, are consciously open to God, he will cease to knock at the door of the soul because he is bade welcome. He will enter the inner room with pleasure and sit down to dine with us at our frugal repast. At once it will become a heavenly banquet. Our thoughts and words are always acceptable to God once they are confided in calm awareness. Then at last he is able to redeem us from the prison of earthly preoccupations, so that we may grow to adult stature, less concerned with worldly things as ends in themselves and more devoted to spreading love in whatever company we may find ourselves, rather like Jesus at the parties of the less acceptable members of his own society. Thus do we also play our part in God's continuous creative activity.
Psalm 29 celebrates God's mighty power even more realistically. The angels themselves are told to ascribe glory and might to the Lord and to worship him in holy attire. The Lord's voice thunders in glory over the natural scene in the terror of a severe storm:
The voice of the Lord echoes over the waters;
the glory of God thunders . . .
The voice of the Lord breaks the cedar trees,
the Lord shatters the cedars of Lebanon.
He makes Lebanon skip like a calf,
Sirion like a young wild ox.
In this context Sirion is merely the Sidonian name for Lebanon. God's voice causes fire to flame forth, it makes the wilderness writhe in travail; it makes the hinds calve while the forest is stripped bare. Meanwhile everyone glorifies him in the Temple. Finally the psalm ends on a national note with universal overtones:
The Lord is king above the flood,
the Lord has taken his royal seat as king forever.
The Lord will give strength to his people;
the Lord will bless his people with peace.
Mention of the flood recalls God's triumphant justice at the time of Noah, a justice that will always be exercised on behalf of his people, initially Israel but eventually the whole world.
This vigorous psalm, like Psalm 19, can be seen on two levels: the creative force of God in nature and his work for the spiritual growth of mankind. In this respect the turbulent elements of nature are analogous to the enemies of Israel, who will be checked once the people are properly directed to the divine service. Once the immeasurable power of God in the natural order is acknowledged, his Law will be written indelibly on our hearts. Strength and peace are the blessings when we work alongside God. This peace is not merely an absence of turmoil. It is, much more, a state of intimate communion with our Creator, from whom nothing needs to be hidden (as in the story of the awakened Adam and Eve who were shamed by their nakedness), and consequently with our fellow creatures also. The end of God's triumph is the reconciliation of his people with him and with one another. The storm, both cosmic and personal, has been stilled by the healing power of the Almighty. But God's work is embodied in the storm also; only in its thunder are our faults revealed, a necessary stage in their slow correction as our personality is made whole. Though God may not be identified with any created entity, his influence permeates all processes especially when we play our part as responsible agents for what is good in the world. Suffering is an inevitable precursor of healing.
A much more intimate understanding of God's glory is to be found in the magnificent Psalm 139, one of the very greatest of the collection. Here the writer meditates on the divine omniscience in relation to his own life, and therefore by extension to all his fellow creatures.
Lord, you have examined me and you know me.
You know me at rest and in action;
you discern my thoughts from afar.
Nothing is hidden from our Creator: he knows the paths we take, not merely physical journeys but also the speculations of our mind, and all our words are already known to him. In another context Jesus tells his disciples that God knows their needs before they can ask him for help (Matt: 6:8). The Psalmist marvels at God's close guardianship; there is clearly a prior knowledge that astounds him. Nor is there any means of escape from the divine presence, for God is everywhere, whether on earth or in the land of the afterlife, and his protection and guidance never fail.
If I say, "Surely darkness will steal over me,
and the day around me turn to night,"
darkness is not too dark for you
and night is as light as day;
to you both dark and light are one.
The writer then proceeds to meditate on the mystery of his creation in his mother's womb: his body was no secret to God during the intricate process of foetal development. And then comes the challenging thought:
Your eyes foresaw my deeds,
and they are all recorded in your book;
my life was fashioned
before it had come into being.
Are our lives indeed predestined? Does God know exactly the means of their termination right at the beginning of conception? Was there indeed a substance of our soul that pre-existed before our present conception and incarnation? Why, we may ask, are some people's lives such a blessing to the world, while the majority fade away into grey anonymity and a few leave a reputation of disgrace behind them? St Paul, in Romans 9:10-21, explores this theme as best he can - on the text "Jacob I loved and Esau I hated", from Malachi 1:2-3 - but can come to no other conclusion than the inscrutability of the Creator's purposes and the inadmissibility of the creature's holding him to account for his works. I suppose we might thank God for the primary gift of life to which is added the secondary one of participating in human nature. The end, as suggested in 2 Peter 1:4, is to come to share in the very being of God, as revealed in the incarnation of his Son Jesus Christ. But a hard road has to be traversed before that final goal is achieved. Perhaps this is the way in which St Paul's problem will be solved; if so, it will require much working-out of our personal and universal difficulties in a larger milieu far beyond the portals of physical death.
As one grows older, the clearer does it become that a certain way has been fixed, that the apparently chance events were not, after all, fortuitous, that a greater pattern embraced the random occurrences of daily life. One can, of course, like Jonah, reject the call and go one's own headstrong way, but soon a disaster checks the path, and if one has a special service to give, the humiliation will stand one in good stead as part of one's training. But, at least theoretically, one can remain recalcitrant indefinitely, raging in the hell of one's own making both in this life and the next. We can only hope that eventually the person will, like the Prodigal Son, come to himself (the modern translations read "come to his senses" which is more explicit but lacks the concept of the soul's deeper integrity), throw himself at God's mercy, receive absolution, and start the proper life that was for so long evaded. One remembers Shakespeare's lines in Julius Caesar:
There is a tide in the affairs of men,
Which, taken at the flood, leads on to fortune;
Omitted, all the voyage of their life
Is bound in shallows and in miseries.
This seems to be the point of reconciliation between free will and predestination, both of which are true in their own compass. It seems quite possible that the Creator does not know the outcome of any person's life in advance; the universe evolves according to its own inherent life that has been given by God, and natural catastrophes are part of the working-out of its destiny. Nevertheless the Creator is in overall charge, and we may hope that there are contingency plans for an unforeseen emergency. "All things work together for good for those who love God", as St Paul says in Romans 8:28, and we must hope that their good fortune will bring succour to the remainder of creation also. This seems to be the greater meaning of Christ's incarnation.
The Psalmist marvels at God's creativity; his thoughts are infinite and beyond all human reckoning. After a passage of hatred against all God's adversaries, there is a final plea for the divine assistance in the course of the writer's life:
Examine me, God, and know my mind,
test me, and understand my anxious thoughts.
Watch lest I follow any path that grieves you;
lead me in the everlasting way.
This thought brings us close to the end of Psalm 19. It stresses the primacy of prayer in our approach to the Creator; instead of constant shallow thought there is an aware, receptive silence in which we can hear and respond. Let us end on a more extrovert celebration of God's glory. The thoroughly delightful Psalm 104 describes the wonder of creation itself. It brings us to the perennial freshness of the countryside and the joy in being able to share in the life of our fellow creatures in the vegetable and animal kingdoms. Since the sequence follows the creation narrative of Genesis 1, there is first a description of the heavens with God himself above them:
Bless the Lord, my soul.
Lord my God, you are very great,
clothed in majesty and splendour,
and enfolded in a robe of light.
The heavens are spread out like a tent, while God takes the clouds as a chariot, and rides on the wings of the wind. The earth is fixed on its foundation in close relation with its seas and rivers, which, since the great flood of Noah's time, are strictly bounded lest they cover the earth again. Then follows a more intimate picture of the country:
You make springs break out in the wadis,
so that water from them flows between the hills.
The wild beasts all drink from them,
the wild donkeys quench their thirst;
the birds of the air nest on their banks
and sing among the foliage.
God's providence ensures that the earth is enriched, while the vegetation grows for human needs and animal survival:
You make grass grow for the cattle
and plants for the use of mortals,
producing grain from the earth,
food to sustain their strength,
wine to gladden the hearts of the people,
and oil to make their faces shine.
In the riches of trees live the various birds, while the high hills are a haunt of the mountain goat, and crags a cover for the rock-badger. An especially magical passage describes the transitions of the sun and moon and the times of the day:
You bring darkness, and it is night,
when all the beasts of the forest go prowling;
the young lions roar for prey,
seeking their food from God;
when the sun rises, they slink away
and seek rest in their lairs.
Man goes out to his work
and his labours until evening.
The Psalmist marvels at God's prodigality: by his wisdom he had made them all, and the earth is full of his creatures. The sea is vast, and is inhabited by a numerous progeny, living creatures of all sizes and also ships sailing to and fro. Mention is made too of Leviathan, traditionally a monster of primeval chaos, but in this context, as in Job 41, a description of the whale:
All of them look to you in hope
to give them their food when it is due.
What you give them they gather up;
when you open your hand, they eat their fill of good things.
When you hide your face, they are dismayed.
When you take away their spirit, they die
and return to the dust from which they came.
When you send forth your spirit, they are created;
and you give new life to the earth.
May the glory of the Lord stand forever,
and may the Lord rejoice in his works!
With this delicious thought we may take leave of this psalm, finding as much happiness in the creation as did the writer himself, who vowed to sing to the Lord as long as he lived, to sing psalms all his life long, praying that his meditation might be acceptable to God.
Praise the Lord, my soul.
Praise the Lord.
The child-like delight of this psalm puts its range far beyond earthly considerations without in the least impugning their immediate importance. If only we could take a fresh delight in the scene around us, we would live consciously in the present moment, which is also the heaven of eternity. The glory of God would never leave our view even when we were suffering grievously as part of our growth into proficiency from childishness to adult responsibility.