At Mass, we hear extracts from psalm 138 arranged into four parts. The first two parts deal with how God is always watching us and how we (consequently) cannot escape his gaze. You'd be forgiven for thinking that God was spying on us. A turning-point comes, however, in the third part which consists of verses nine and 10. To paraphrase: "even if I could fly across the whole sky, I would still be in God's hands". Suddenly, God changes from cosmic voyeur to the one who always sustains us (even if we go flying). In the final extract, the psalmist praises God for making him and all creation. In the lectionary, this psalm follows part of Job 38, in which God proclaims his omnipotence, after which Job promises silence.
Speech is a human characteristic and we must each speak hundreds of words every day. Religious people will think, speak and write about God, and the clergy make it their job to do so. In the beginning was the Word, and Christ told the church to teach all nations. The trouble with God, though, is that, while much has been revealed about him, he remains inscrutable to mere human intelligence. It is, of course, our duty to absorb as much as we can of divine teaching (centred as it sweetly is on love of God and of neighbour), and modern Catholics are urged to read scripture as well as encyclicals. However, the so-to-speak subject-matter of our enquiries will, of his nature, remain beyond our total grasp. God is too big for us ever to understand him; the finite can never comprehend the infinite.
In awestruck silence, then, do we contemplate the maker of the universe. Happily, though, it does not end there. God tells us that, while he is immense beyond our imagination, he is also a more loving father to us than we could ever believe. To the creator of the galaxies, we can confide our most sensitive thoughts, fears and hopes.