Psalm 29 is described as a theophany. A court of ‘heavenly beings’ (v.1) provides a chorus of worship at the psalm’s opening. The introduction of the human beings dependent on God must await the final verse. In between, we encounter a manifestation of the divine in violent action in the natural world.

Its form resembles Ugaritic hymns to the god Ba’al, found in texts from the fourteenth to the twelfth centuries BCE. Some biblical scholars suggest, however, that these superficial similarities are actually techniques for asserting the supremacy of the God of Israel—adopting the conventions for praising false gods precisely in order to subvert them (Brueggeman & Bellinger 2014: 147–48).

The contrast between the magnitude and drama of the forces of nature and the comparative insignificance of human beings finds telling visual counterparts in this exhibition. A tiny shepherd and his sheep flee a storm in Jean François Millet’s A Gust of Wind. The vastness of the sky and cathedral illuminated by a rainbow loom over a very small carter and boatman (and an even smaller marginal figure) in John Constable’s Salisbury Cathedral. Visitors or pilgrims on their way to a Shinto shrine in Katsushika Hokusai’s depiction of Kirifuri Waterfall are almost comically small in relation to the waterfall itself. These figures live precariously alongside the might of storms, wind, and water. They have been captured in time, in flight from falling-tree debris, gazing in awe at the waterfall, or resuming the daily round after the weather has cleared. All three scenes remind us that we are all vulnerable to sudden extreme expressions of nature’s power.

This message of precarious contingency is a reminder that the balance of nature is infinitely delicate. Climate change is a phenomenon that brings more and fiercer storms, more destructive winds, more floods. How do we read this psalm against a backdrop of accelerating and in some places already devastating climatic effects and their associated natural disasters with long-term consequences for human beings and other species?

The psalmist captures a tension between our fear of these forces and our fascination with their majestic beauty—and the fearsomeness and fascination of the God behind them. There is something exhilarating about the psalm’s almost playful portrayals of a divine voice capable of altering and destroying the landscape. At the same time, we cannot forget that our own relationship with nature is no game. It is areas of the world which have not contributed to climate change that now endure its most savage and enduring effects. Climate conferences have pointed the finger of blame for this at rich economies which have treated the planet’s resources as playthings.

Nevertheless, the psalm’s final verse confidently seeks blessing.

Of the three works, it is Constable’s almost improbable canvas that allows most room for an exploration of blessing alongside the themes of fear and fascination. Although the storm clouds have not fully cleared, the spire of a monumental and enduring place of worship pierces them to reveal a small area of blue sky. The rainbow, while a natural phenomenon, seems to invite associations with the covenant with Noah, made after the Flood. Playfully, the sheepdog brings to mind the hidden presence of Christ the Good Shepherd. In this landscape of watery meadows, flooding is always a danger; the threat of drowning is always there. The viewer senses that the carter has waited for a relatively safe time to cross the stream after the rain has ceased, but the horses’ legs are still half-immersed in water. The painting offers more than an easy proposition of ‘natural order’ restored after the chaos and violence of the storm. In fact, the opposite seems true. Order is always temporary. Human life tentatively goes on, but it is perennially fragile in relation to the enormous forces and energies of the natural world. Hope may persist, but often in spite of the physical evidence.

Yet it does persist, as it does in this psalm’s petitions. The ‘strength’ of the Lord is also looked for in the strengthening of ‘people’ and of ‘peace’ (v.11).

The artist Lucien Freud described an argument with Neil MacGregor about Constable’s painting, while the latter was Director of the National Gallery:

[MacGregor] said it’s so overdone, over-egged, over the top: it’s got everything at once, including a rainbow. But, I said, I want him to put everything in there. More water, more skies. In the end you have to really love Constable to like that. It’s sometimes exciting to put in everything you like. (Freud 2003: 44)

Constable’s work both acknowledges the dangerous tumultuousness of the world, and celebrates it as a place that merits our exuberant love. Despite its placid foreground, it is an exuberant response to an exuberant creation. Hope demands (and depends on) nothing less.

References

Brueggemann, Walter and William H. Bellinger, Jr. 2014. Psalms (Cambridge: Cambridge University Press)

Freud, Lucien with William Feaver. 2003. On John Constable (London: The British Council)

Handy, Lowell K. Handy (ed.). 2009. Psalm 29 through Time and Tradition (Cambridge: James Clarke)