Troubler of Israel
I remember years ago thinking of “This Is My Father’s World” as a somewhat shallow and schmaltzy hymn that minimized the reality of our sin-cursed world. It was heavy on sentiment, light on theology, and beloved by white-haired, 80-year-old Baptist ladies. I guess I never listened beyond the first verse. Hearing Fernando Ortega’s rendition, it struck me for the first time how rich and manly, even martial, the words are:
“This is my Father’s world. O let me ne’er forget.
That though the wrong seems oft so strong, God is the ruler yet.
This is my Father’s world: the battle is not done:
Jesus Who died shall be satisfied,
And earth and Heav’n be one.”
Nothing sappy or sentimental about that! This hymn suckers you in with birds and flowers, but ends up blasting the final trumpet of Christian eschatology. It’s a steely-eyed rejoinder to evil and suffering, and a demand for unconditional surrender from a King Who plants His flag on this tear-and-blood-soaked creation and cries “mine!”
In so many ways, “This Is My Father’s World” is the opposite of all the emotion-centric escapism and crypto-gnosticism I’ve come to expect in Christian music. It’s about this world, these sparrows, those lillies, yes. But it’s also about this toddler lying dead on a beach, these innocents blown to pieces, and those Christians gunned down in the act of worshiping their Lord. It takes gall to sing this song. But that gall is well-founded.
In one of Maltbie Davenport Babcock’s infrequently sung later verses, it declares that Christ’s incarnation forever sanctified creation, and vouchsafed its redemption in the end:
“This is my Father’s world, should my heart be ever sad?
The Lord is King—let the heavens ring. God reigns—let the earth be glad.
This is my Father’s world. Now closer to Heaven bound,
For dear to God is the earth Christ trod.
No place but is holy ground.”
And so this grandmotherly paean has become one of my favorites. This world is a complicated, beautiful, and grievous mess that echoes its Creator’s intent but groans beneath the weight of man’s sin and its cosmic consequences. It longs to be redeemed, and Jesus who assumed its atoms as the Last Adam and wrapped our frail nature around Himself like a robe will draw the rest of creation into resurrection on his train. And from that fact, we draw our hope.
As one friend of mine observed, this hymn is the message of C. S. Lewis’ “Space Trilogy” set to music: Through becoming one of us, Christ has broken the silence of our planet. Deep Heaven has intruded into our world, in anticipation of the day when Earth and Heaven will once again be one. This is my Father’s world. He’s not done with it yet.
Those wispy, octogenarian Baptist grandmothers know a thing or two.
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