“Surely, his infinity ought to make us afraid to try to measure him by our own senses. Indeed, his spiritual nature forbids our imagining anything earthly or carnal of him…. For who even of slight intelligence does not understand that, as nurses commonly do with infants, God is wont in a measure to “lisp” in speaking to us? Thus such forms of speaking do not so much express clearly what God is like as accommodate the knowledge of him to our slight capacity. To do this he must descend far beneath his loftiness.”

Can you really describe a sunset, or the way parents cherish their newborn baby? Some things are just beyond explanation and understanding. We stand in awe and never fully comprehend the beautiful or the sacred. We can’t comprehend God or describe God accurately. We stand amazed before the presence of the holy God. Our words and worship are deeply deficient for the spectacle before us.  Language, in its finitude, fails to fully explain the nature of God. Still, God has chosen that his lasting revelation to his people to be delivered in words. As Bavinck said:

But the moment we dare to speak about God the question arises: How can we? We are human and he is the Lord our God. Between him and us there seems to be no such kinship or communion as would enable us to name him truthfully. The distance between God and us is the gulf between the Infinite and the finite, between eternity and time, between being and becoming, between the All and the nothing.” 

How can we understand what God reveals about himself with the limited languages available to humanity?

Psalm 18:2 helpfully exhibits the way language tries to communicate truth about God. The text reads, “The Lord is my rock and my fortress and my deliverer, my God, my rock, in whom I take refuge, my shield, and the horn of my salvation, my stronghold.” God is not literally a rock, but God is the Rock of his people. In the same way, Psalm 29 describes the awesomeness of God, but the God’s awesomeness is not described in literal ways. Because of the communicative difficulty, the Bible also makes seemingly contradictory statements about God. For example, God is described as having winged feathers (Ps. 17:8) and that God doesn’t have a body (Jn. 4:23). The Bible says God changed his mind (Gen. 6:6) and that God cannot change his mind (Num. 23:19). 

God’s awesomeness is beyond our description. One of the great problems of religion is that God cannot be fully described. God is noncorporeal, infinite, timeless, and immutable. Creatures are corporeal, finite, and constantly changing in time. These contrasts—opposites—make accurate communication about God incredibly difficult. 

Basil said, “the knowledge of God consists in the perception of his incomprehensibility.” How can infinity accurately be described? To describe something infinite, we would need to be able to comprehend the infinite. So, unless we are infinite, we can’t describe the infinite.  As Bavinck wrote, “There is a big difference, certainly, between having an absolute knowledge and having a relative knowledge of such an absolute Being. Given the finiteness of human beings, the former is never an option.” When we read or talk about God, we aren’t describing him with scientific accuracy of a lab. All we can do is describe God to the best of our ability. Creatures cannot describe God as he is. Creaturely minds simply cannot comprehend God or describe the incomprehensible God. We can only describe God as best we can. This is called accommodative language. 

It is difficult to speak of God as “infinite,” for even this term is framed by the limits it seeks to deny. A better way is to say that God’s nature is the opposite of all limitation or diminution. Augustine pressed this point further, arguing that God transcends even the category of the infinite. In Confessions he describes God as “most hidden and most present, most beautiful and most strong, stable and incomprehensible, unchangeable and yet changing all things” (Conf. 1.4.4). Here, Augustine does not stop at negating finitude; he shows that God’s being cannot be contained within human oppositions at all. Similarly, in De Trinitate he insists that God is “wholly everywhere, and not confined in space; wholly eternal, yet not extended in time” (Trin. 5.1.2). The term “infinite” still suggests a contrast with finitude, but Augustine pushes beyond that framework, portraying God as the one whose fullness of being exceeds every conceivable measure.

For Augustine, then, divine perfection is not a matter of God possessing an “infinite” quantity of attributes, as though God were simply the greatest among beings. Rather, God is the one in whom there is no diminution or potentiality at all, the one who is wholly actual and blessed in himself. In this sense, Augustine anticipates later scholastic distinctions, where infinity in God is not merely a negation of limits but the positive fullness of life and perfection.

Pannenberg began his discussion of divine infinity by framing the thought within the framework of divine holiness. He said, “The confession of God’s holiness is also closely related to the thought of his infinity, so closely, indeed, that the thought of infinity as God’s infinity needs the statement of his holiness for its elucidation, while eternity, omnipotence, and omnipresence may be viewed as concrete manifestations of his infinity from the standpoints of time, power, and space.” So God is superior to and qualitatively distinct from all creation. Pannenberg said, “In the concept of infinity, freedom from limitation is not the primary point. Strictly, the infinite is not that which is without end but that which stands opposed to the finite, to what is defined by something else.” So, “the basic point in the concept of the Infinite is the antithesis to the finite as such. Hence, the concept of the Infinite could become a description of the divine reality in distinction from everything finite, i.e., from everything limited and transitory.” Pannenberg concludes this discussion saying “The Infinite is truly infinite only when it transcends its own antithesis to the finite. In this sense the holiness of God is truly infinite, for it is opposed to the profane, yet it also enters the profane world, penetrates it, and makes it holy.”

Accommodative Language

Accommodative language doesn’t leave us completely without information. God’s nature cannot be comprehended, but God’s nature can be apprehended. Just as God revealed only a portion of his glory to Moses on Mount Sinai, so too he discloses his glory to his people in ways suited to their capacity. When Moses pleaded, “Please show me your glory,” the Lord replied, “I will make all my goodness pass before you… but you cannot see my face, for man shall not see me and live” (Exod 33:18–20). The glory Moses beheld was real, yet partial. In the same way, when Scripture calls God “great,” it tells the truth, but in words that cannot begin to exhaust the majesty of the infinite God. Such accommodative language is both revelatory and limited. It reveals truly, but never comprehensively, for God’s being surpasses every human category (Isa 55:8–9).

This dynamic appears with divine knowledge as well. Scripture declares that “his understanding is beyond measure” (Ps 147:5) and that “no creature is hidden from his sight” (Heb 4:13). God’s knowledge is not derived or acquired, but perfect, eternal, and original. Theologians have called this archetypal knowledge—the fountain of all truth. All created knowledge flows from this source. Human knowledge, by contrast, is ectypal: a finite, creaturely copy of the divine original. Paul captures this contrast when he says, “now we know in part… but then face to face” (1 Cor 13:12). Our knowledge participates in the truth but is always bounded and fragmentary.

An analogy may help. Consider a documentary on black holes. Even the best scientific explanations cannot penetrate to the depths of what a black hole is in itself. Yet we can still gain genuine, if partial, understanding through the presentation. So too, God grants us true knowledge of himself through his revelation—through the Law, the Prophets, and supremely in Christ. But this knowledge, though saving and sufficient, is never exhaustive. As John writes, “No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father’s side, he has made him known” (John 1:18). Our knowledge of God is thus real, yet always dependent, derivative, and incomplete.

Analogical Language

But though God is thus beyond our full comprehension and description, we do confess to having the knowledge of God. This knowledge is analogical and the gift of revelation.” Our languages and cognitive ability allows us to speak analogically or relatively of God. We could never speak of God univocally. Univocal language “refers to something having the same meaning as something else.” We understand metaphors, simile, and hyperbole as we use these figures of speech every day. Similarly, we can only speak about God comparatively or metaphorically. C. S. Lewis said “all language about things other than physical objects is necessarily metaphorical.” Bavinck said, “If we cannot speak of God analogically, then we cannot speak of him at all.” 

This analogical language is seen in the way we describe God and created things with the same words. We can say dogs, marriage, ice cream, coffee, Michael Jordan, honor students, and movies are good. Good doesn’t accurately describe any of those things and something slightly different is communicated in each of those things being described as good. When God is described as good, this communicates that God is goodness. Something is literally communicated to us by God, but this knowledge of God can’t be a full description of God’s nature. “We can never understand how God is good, and so although we do have an understanding of goodness, there is inevitably a vagueness and inadequacy when we use the term of the perfect being.”

Typically, our descriptions of God are given in what God is not. We call this apophatic theology. Apophatic theology is “a way of approaching God by denying that any of our concepts can properly be affirmed of Him.” We can describe God as timeless, but that is telling us that God is not in time. It doesn’t really describe what God’s being is like in a positive sense. Instead, timelessness tells us what God is not. 

Another way the Bible describes God is through anthropomorphic language. Anthropomorphic speech occurs when we describe animals or objects as though they were human. God is not physical. God is spirit (Deut. 4:12, 15-16; Lk. 24:39-40; Jn. 4:23-24). God is described as having eyes, a long nose, feet, and knees. He is described in human ways and even with feathers. God is described as sitting and standing. He is described as coming, going, leaving, arriving, and dwelling. None of these are literally true of God in a physical way. Rather each of these terms reveal literal metaphysical truths. 

In order to speak about God rightly, we need to keep in mind that God is chronologically, ontologically, and logically prior to all other reality and thus to all other knowledge. Since God is the ontological source of knowledge, all things are to be understood to reflect the divine nature in some way. To understand what it means to be a father, for example, we should try to understand what it means for God to be Father. There will be aspects of the Fatherhood of God which we can then see in human fatherhood. At the same time, there will be some characteristics of God’s Fatherhood which are not reflected in human fathers. 

The Necessity of Anthropomorphic Language in Scripture

The Bible speaks of God in human words. From the opening chapter of Genesis, where God “saw that it was good,” to the vision of Revelation where God “will wipe away every tear,” Scripture uses human terms to describe the eternal and invisible God. These forms of speech are often called anthropomorphisms, drawn from the Greek words anthropos (man) and morphē (form). They are not mistakes or mere figures of speech that obscure the truth. They are the very means by which God communicates himself to finite creatures. Without them, we would be left in contradictions or in total silence.

The Problem of Language about God

The central problem is clear: God is spirit (John 4:24). He is invisible, eternal, infinite, and without body. Yet Scripture constantly speaks of his “arm” (Exod 15:16), his “eyes” (2 Chr 16:9), or his “face” (Num 6:25). The temptation is to either press these terms into literalism, which makes God a creature with body parts, or to strip them away into pure negation, which leaves us with a God who is a philosophical abstraction. Neither path is faithful to revelation.

Anthropomorphic language functions as a middle way. It is God’s chosen accommodation to our weakness, his way of stooping down to speak so that his people may understand. Augustine compared it to a father lisping to his child so that the child might learn (see De Catechizandis Rudibus 12). Calvin takes up this same image in his Institutes, writing that God, “in so speaking, lisps with us as nurses are wont to do with little children” (Institutes 1.13.1). These metaphors are not diminishment of God’s glory but demonstrations of his kindness.

1 Samuel 15: God’s “Repentance”

A striking example of this necessity is found in 1 Samuel 15. Twice in the chapter, we are told that God “repented” or “regretted” making Saul king (vv. 11, 35). Yet in the very same chapter, the prophet Samuel insists: “The Glory of Israel will not lie or have regret, for he is not a man, that he should have regret” (v. 29). On the surface, these statements seem contradictory. Does God repent or does he not?

Anthropomorphic language provides the resolution. When the text says that God “repented,” it is not claiming that God undergoes a change in his eternal being or that he discovers new information he previously lacked. Scripture itself denies this in Numbers 23:19: “God is not man, that he should lie, or a son of man, that he should change his mind.” Instead, the language of repentance is used from the standpoint of human experience. From our vantage point, when God shifts the course of his dealings with creatures—such as removing Saul from kingship—it appears as though he has changed. Yet Samuel clarifies that in God himself there is no change, no shadow of turning (cf. Jas 1:17).

Without anthropomorphic speech, the text of 1 Samuel 15 would be left either in stark contradiction or in opaque abstraction. But with it, we see that God reveals himself truly, yet in accommodated forms. He acts in time in ways that resemble human patterns of action, though his eternal purpose remains fixed. The anthropomorphic language is thus not false, but fitted: it is precisely the kind of language necessary for us to grasp the ways of God.

Anthropomorphism and Anthropopathism Together

The Bible not only attributes bodily forms to God but also human emotions. These anthropopathisms are equally necessary for revelation. God is said to be “jealous” (Exod 34:14), “angry” (Deut 9:8), and “compassionate” (Ps 103:13). Yet we know from the doctrine of divine impassibility that God is not swept up by passions or carried away by fluctuating feelings as humans are. How then can these words be true?

They are true by analogy. When the prophets declare that God’s anger is kindled, they are describing the settled opposition of his holy will against sin. The psalmist says, “The Lord is gracious and merciful, slow to anger and abounding in steadfast love” (Ps 145:8). God does not fly into rage or cool off with time, but he reveals his constant justice in terms of wrath and his unwavering love in terms of compassion. Likewise, when Hosea says that God’s “compassion grows warm and tender” (Hos 11:8), he does not mean that God’s emotional state fluctuates, but that God’s covenant mercy comes to expression in ways that mirror human tenderness. These anthropopathisms are essential. Without them, God’s holiness and mercy would remain abstract concepts. By them, we learn that God opposes sin as fiercely as an outraged judge and that he cares for his people as tenderly as a father for his child (Ps 103:13).

Anthropomorphic Language as a Window into Divine Truth

This pattern of body and passion imagery fills the Psalms and Prophets. When God is described as having an “arm,” it conveys his power to save: “You have a mighty arm; strong is your hand, high your right hand” (Ps 89:13). His “eyes” assure us that nothing escapes his sight: “The eyes of the Lord are in every place, keeping watch on the evil and the good” (Prov 15:3). His “ears” guarantee that he hears prayer: “Incline your ear to me; rescue me speedily” (Ps 31:2). His “nostrils” signal his wrath: “Smoke went up from his nostrils, and devouring fire from his mouth” (Ps 18:8).

The anthropopathisms match this intensity. God’s jealousy reveals his covenant faithfulness (Exod 20:5). His compassion reveals his covenant love (Isa 49:15). His anger reveals his justice (Nah 1:2). Each term reveals not God’s inner passions but his active stance toward his creation. The alternative would be silence or contradiction. If God were to describe his knowledge or justice in purely metaphysical terms—eternal, simple, without succession—it would surpass our comprehension. But when he speaks of his “anger,” his “compassion,” his “arm,” and his “eyes,” we are given genuine, accommodated entry points into divine truth.

The Fulfillment in Christ

The necessity of anthropomorphic language also prepares the way for the incarnation. John 1:18 declares, “No one has ever seen God; the only God, who is at the Father’s side, he has made him known.” The eternal Son reveals the Father not only in words but in his very person. In Christ, the God who spoke of his arm, his face, and his eyes now takes on human arms, a human face, and human eyes. The God whose wrath and compassion were spoken of in human terms now truly enters into human suffering, weeping at Lazarus’s tomb (John 11:35) and showing mercy to sinners. The anthropomorphic and anthropopathic language of the Old Testament was never deception but anticipation. It pointed toward the Word made flesh, in whom God’s glory is seen without contradiction (John 1:14).

Anthropomorphic and anthropopathic language in Scripture is not a weakness of revelation but its strength. It is necessary because without it we would be left in contradiction, as in 1 Samuel 15, or in silence, unable to know God at all. These forms of speech disclose real truths in accommodated form. They reveal without exhausting, they speak truly without speaking fully. In them, the eternal God stoops to our level, so that we may know him, love him, and worship him. As Calvin said, God “speaks in a human way so that we may understand, but he does not thereby cease to be above all comprehension” (Institutes 1.17.13).

The anthropomorphic and anthropopathic language of Scripture is therefore not a hindrance but a gift. It keeps us from contradiction, preserves the transcendence of God, and leads us toward the face of Christ, where the God who cannot be seen is finally revealed.

Conclusion

The journey from silence to speech about God reveals both the poverty and the privilege of human language. We began with the fundamental problem that has haunted theology since its earliest days: how can finite creatures speak truthfully of the infinite God? The answer lies not in abandoning the attempt but in recognizing the gracious accommodation by which God enables such speech.

Augustine’s insight remains foundational. God transcends even the category of infinity, existing as pure actuality without diminution or potentiality. Yet this transcendent God chooses to reveal himself through the very limitations he exceeds. Like a loving parent who speaks in simple words to a child, God condescends to our frailty without compromising his majesty. Calvin’s image of divine “lisping” captures this beautiful paradox: God’s speech is both perfectly adequate and infinitely accommodated.

The necessity of anthropomorphic language demonstrates God’s commitment to genuine revelation. When Scripture speaks of God’s eyes, arms, and heart, it does not deceive us with crude literalism nor abandon us to empty abstraction. Instead, it provides the only pathway by which creatures can apprehend their Creator. The apparent contradiction in 1 Samuel 15—where God both repents and cannot repent—dissolves when we recognize that God reveals himself truly within the bounds of human understanding while remaining unchanged in his eternal being.

This pattern of accommodated revelation finds its climax in the incarnation. The God who spoke anthropomorphically in the Old Testament speaks anthropically in the New. In Christ, the eternal Word takes on human flesh, revealing the Father through genuinely human eyes, hands, and heart. The anthropomorphisms of Scripture were never mere figures of speech but anticipations of the Word made flesh. In Jesus, we see that God’s accommodation to human language was preparing us for his ultimate accommodation to human nature.

The practical implications are profound for both worship and theology. Our praise can never exhaust God’s glory, yet it truly participates in that glory through divine accommodation. Our theological formulations can never capture the divine essence, yet they can speak truthfully of God through analogical participation in divine truth. We worship not in the despair of agnosticism but in the humility of accommodated knowledge.

This understanding also guards against two persistent errors. Against those who would reduce God to manageable categories, we confess his incomprehensible majesty. Against those who would retreat into total agnosticism, we affirm the reality of accommodated revelation. God is both utterly beyond us and graciously with us, transcendent in his being yet immanent in his self-disclosure.

The mystery remains, and properly so. We will never in this life move beyond the necessity of accommodated speech about God. Even in the eschaton, when we see face to face, our knowledge will be enlarged but never exhaustive. The creature remains creature, even in glory. Yet this is no cause for despair but for deeper worship. The God who accommodates himself to our weakness is the same God who promises to bring us into his presence, where what we now know in part we shall know more fully.

Until that day, we continue to speak of God in the halting words he has provided, knowing that our speech is both deeply inadequate and divinely authorized. We describe the indescribable through the gift of accommodation, not because we have solved the mystery but because the mystery has, in his mercy, made himself known. In this tension between silence and speech, between transcendence and accommodation, we find not the failure of language but the triumph of grace.