May Reflections on Spring
Listening to the Silent Theology of Blossoms, Branches, and Birds
The trees stand in radiant green, thick with leaves. Gardens are no longer just waking, they are alive: rejoicing, flourishing. The air itself seems to carry a kind of praise: in the scent of lilac, the rhythm of rain, the play of light on grass. The stillness of winter is long behind us. Life has returned not as a whisper, but as a song. And all of it, every leaf and blade, points us toward something greater.
Creation’s Silent Sermon
May is a sermon. Just not one that is kept in words as usual. Creation speaks, but it does it in its own way: in light, in colors, in movements. We humans need words to explain what we mean, but the earth through what it is. Every blossoming branch, every shining sky, every gentle blowing of the wind is part of a message. Nature proclaims the praise of her Creator with a voice that no man can invent, but that every man could hear if he were only silent enough. "The heavens tell the glory of God," it says in Psalm 19, "and the firmament proclaims the work of his hands." What King David sang in song, the apostle Paul confirms in sober theology: In Romans 1 he writes that God's invisible nature (his eternal power and divine majesty) is recognizable from the beginning of the world when you look at his works. Creation is more than a fascinating ecosystem. It didn't just come about by chance. It is a revelation. After the fall of man, not completely, but clearly enough that no man can justify having known nothing about God. In spring, especially now, in the full splendor of May, this sermon cannot be overlooked. Nature is not silent. She rejoices. The lush green of the trees, the lively concert of the birds, the glittering light that falls through fresh leaves... They all tell of the goodness and greatness of a God who never tires of giving life. In each of these signs there is not only aesthetics, but theology. I have noticed this very personally, especially in the last few weeks.