Unthought

For my thoughts are not your thoughts, neither are your ways my ways, declares the Lord.

For as the heavens are higher than the earth, so are my ways higher than your ways and my thoughts than your thoughts. For as the rain and the snow come down from heaven and do not return there but water the earth, making it bring forth and sprout, giving seed to the sower and bread to the eater, so shall my word be that goes out from my mouth; it shall not return to me empty, but it shall accomplish that which I purpose, and shall succeed in the thing for which I sent it. – Isaiah 55:8-11

Rain was always something we welcomed. It was life to us. Our old farm was mostly rocks and clay with a little topsoil sprinkled on. Rain water runs off, mostly, and that thin, rocky dirt dries out quickly. We had a prolonged dry spell during a summer of my childhood. Our hay wasn’t doing well. The pastures were burnt, and milk production was suffering. I asked Dad if we were doing something wrong that kept God from sending the rain we needed. Maybe, I thought, we needed to pray. Dad replied, “No, it rains on the just and the unjust.” Though he trusted God to get him through, he never begged Him to do so.

I suppose that incidental lesson on theology and prayer has colored my approach to God ever since. I certainly don’t believe it is wrong to pray for rain or for protection from a storm or any other blessing, need, or even a ‘mere’ desire. Our Father asks only that we recognize the nature of His life-giving rain.

We might think that Isaiah was wrong in saying that rain and snow do not return to the atmosphere, but that isn’t the case. I’ve seen it rain and snow sideways but never up. Scripture acknowledges the cycle but emphasizes the change in state as moisture rises from transpiration and evaporation. Vapor that passes back to the heavens via the exhalations of life-forms has accomplished its purpose of nourishing and sustaining life.

The thoughts of God fall upon our souls as rain falls upon the earth. The soul is like a deer lapping from a brook or a tree drawing water through its roots. (How often I wish I were a poet instead of an engineer.) The word that is beyond our comprehending is nonetheless taken in and does its work in transforming us. Our exhalation of thanksgiving, of laughter, of singing, of pure, joyous utterance returns that word to God. That is the cycle of a living and healthy soul.

Rain makes sense when it nourishes an apple tree or refreshes a spotted fawn, but it also prospers the thistle and the slacks the thirst of the fanged pursuer. His ways, it is said, are past finding out, for there is only One who thinks all these thoughts and knows the bramble that troubles the plowman shelters the hare. It is too much for us, and, at our best, we can play an adequate game only on a flat board. We stagger and step back as from a precipice at the many dimensions and the billions of billions of pieces constantly in motion in space and time and God alone knows where else.

We see again why Christ had to come that we might know Him and be reconciled to God in Him. Apart from the Son of Man, God is more than a little frighteningly alien and genuinely incomprehensible. So the Word does His work, and we live.

He is the radiance of the glory of God and the exact imprint of His nature, and He upholds the universe by the word of His power.