When men do not see something, there are two possible explanations of the fact: one is that there is nothing there to see and the other is that the men who do not see are blind. It is this latter explanation which the Bible gives of the failure of men to know God through the things that he has made.

The following is an excerpt from J. Gresham Machen’s Things Unseen: A Systematic Introduction to the Christian Faith and Reformed Theology (Westminster Seminary Press, 2020). Read what Credo Magazine’s executive editor, Matthew Barrett, thinks of the book:

It is not hyperbole to say that J. Gresham Machen is one of the most— some would say the most—significant Christian thinkers of the 20th century. His sobering apologetic against Protestant liberalism was a timely alarm, exposing liberalism’s illegitimate claim to the Christian religion. But now, thanks to Westminster Seminary Press, Machen’s voice is heard once again— yet this time Machen puts forward a positive presentation of the Christian faith. Things Unseen is saturated throughout with doctrinal truth as Machen, with urgency in his voice, calls sinners back to the Bible to hear the voice of God afresh and to receive the eternal life only God himself can give through Christ.

To some men the testimony of nature to nature’s God comes by such precise knowledge of nature as was possessed by that scientist. To others it comes by a reasoned consideration of the implications of nature’s existence. But to still others it comes by what Browning calls “a sunset-touch.” To one man in one way, to another in another.

Nature Speaks

To me nature speaks clearest in the majesty and beauty of the hills. One day in the summer of 1932, I stood on the summit of the Matterhorn in the Alps. Some people can stand there and see very little. Depreciating the Matterhorn is a recognized part of modern books on mountain-climbing. The great mountain, it is said, has been sadly spoiled. Why, you can even see sardine cans on those rocks that so tempted the ambition of climbers in Whymper’s day. Well, I can only say that when I stood on the Matterhorn I do not remember seeing a single can. Perhaps that was partly because of the unusual masses of fresh snow which were then on the mountain, but I think it was also due to the fact that, unlike some people, I had eyes for something else. I saw the vastness of the Italian plain, which was like a symbol of infinity. I saw the snows of distant mountains. I saw the sweet green valleys far, far below, at my feet. I saw the whole glorious round of glittering peaks, bathed in an unearthly light. And as I see that glorious vision again before me now, I am thankful from the bottom of my heart that from my mother’s knee I have known to whom all that glory is due.

Then I love the softer beauties of nature also. I wonder whether you love them with me. Some years ago, in the White Mountains, I walked beside a brook. I have seen, I suppose, hundreds of brooks. But somehow I remembered particularly that one. I am not going to tell you where it is, because if I did you might write to the C.C.C. or the National Park Service about it and get them to put a scenic highway along it, and then it would be forever ruined. But when I walked along it, it was untouched. I cherish the memory of it. It was gentle, sweet, and lovely beyond all words. I think a man might travel through all the world and never see anything lovelier than a White Mountain brook. Very wonderful is the variety of nature in her changing moods.

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