God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees

"God writes the Gospel not in the Bible alone, but also on trees, and in the flowers and clouds and stars." — these words of Martin Luther, the great reformer, are not merely a saying of faith, but a revelation of the soul’s kinship with creation. In them, he reminds us that the divine voice does not echo only within the pages of holy books, but resounds also through the living scripture of the world around us. The rustle of leaves, the bloom of a flower, the path of the stars — these too are sacred verses, inscribed by the hand of God upon the fabric of the earth. The wise see that all things are symbols, that nature itself is a sacred manuscript written in light and silence, for those who have eyes to read.

When Martin Luther spoke these words, Europe trembled in the age of reform. He sought to remind men that faith was not confined to the stone walls of cathedrals, nor bound by the ink of doctrine. The living God could not be imprisoned by human creeds. In every stream that glitters beneath the morning sun, in every bird that lifts its song to the dawn, there is testimony to divine order — a reflection of grace, a whisper of eternity. Thus, the Bible may be the lamp, but the world is the sky that holds its light.

Consider the story of St. Francis of Assisi, who, centuries before Luther, walked among the woods and fields, calling the sun his brother and the moon his sister. He spoke to the birds, and they listened; he preached to the beasts, and they followed him. In his eyes, every creature bore the seal of the Creator. He needed no ornate altar, for the earth itself was holy ground. His gospel was not written in parchment, but in wind and rain, in the soft footfalls of deer, in the laughter of rivers. He read God’s truth not with the intellect alone, but with the eyes of the heart — and so became a living sermon of simplicity and love.

In this way, the quote teaches that revelation is everywhere, if only the soul is awake. The divine is not distant, locked away in the heavens or in the cloisters of scholars. It breathes through every atom, every heartbeat, every sigh of wind that bends the grass. To walk in nature with reverence is to walk within God’s cathedral, where every tree stands as a pillar of faith and every star burns as a candle of wonder. He who sees only wood and stone misses the miracle; he who listens deeply hears the Gospel sung by creation itself.

There was once a farmer, humble and weary, who found solace each evening beneath a single oak. There, as twilight fell, he watched the sky burn to gold, and the first star flicker above his fields. Though he could not read the Bible, his heart learned the language of stillness and gratitude. In the rhythm of seasons and the birth of new shoots after winter’s death, he found proof of resurrection and grace. Without ever uttering a verse, he lived the Gospel that nature proclaimed — that death gives way to life, that darkness births the dawn.

So too must we learn this ancient art of seeing. Let us lift our eyes from our labors and behold the living Word that surrounds us. Let the whisper of rain be our psalm, the rising sun our benediction. Let us learn from the patience of trees, from the courage of flowers that bloom against the frost, from the stars that burn faithfully in the void. In such moments, the soul rediscovers its forgotten language — the speech of wonder, gratitude, and belonging.

The lesson is clear: to live rightly is to live attuned to creation, to hear the divine in all things, to seek holiness not only in scripture, but in the soil beneath one’s feet. When the heart grows silent, it begins to hear. When the eyes grow humble, they begin to see. The sacred is not afar — it is here, now, alive in every breath you take. Go, then, and read the Gospel written in the world: touch the bark of a tree as though it were the page of an ancient book, listen to the song of the wind as though it were a hymn, and walk beneath the stars as though entering the house of God.

For in truth, He has never ceased writing. The Bible of creation is still being written — in the clouds that drift, the rivers that flow, and the hearts that awaken to see them.