Christ, Cosmos, and the Poetry of Paul
Wrestling With Paul
Paul is one of those figures in the Christian tradition who defies easy comprehension. His letters—rich, layered, and sometimes confounding—can feel distant or opaque to modern readers. That’s often because we lack the specific context: the history, the personalities, the local tensions he was addressing. And yet, within that complexity, there are anchors—centering truths that help orient us to Paul’s theological imagination.
For me, two particular passages—poems, actually—help unlock that center.
Poetry as Theology
Whether Paul authored these poems himself or quoted them from early Christian liturgy, Colossians 1 and Philippians 2 stand out as touchstones. These are not abstract creeds or systematic theologies. They are poetic. Rhythmic. Lyrical renderings of Paul's deepest convictions.
The first, found in Colossians 1:15-20, paints a cosmic picture of Christ:
Christ is the image of the invisible God.
Christ existed before all things, and in Christ all things hold together.
The fullness of God was present, incarnate, in Jesus.
These lines offer more than doctrine; they form a kind of prologue, a foundation on which Paul constructs the rest of the Colossian letter. It is as if Paul begins with the stars, orienting us to the grand scope of divine presence in Christ.
Seeing God in Jesus
What emerges from Colossians is this bold claim: everything we need to know about God is revealed in the life of Jesus. Not necessarily everything we want to know—not every question is answered, not every mystery resolved. But enough. Enough to see the divine with clarity. Enough to live well.
This is Paul at his most cosmic, his most expansive. But even as he moves into the thick of church disputes and human messiness, this Christ-centered vision doesn’t waver. It remains the backdrop for all the particularities.
The Shape of Supremacy
The second poem, in Philippians 2:6-11, offers a surprising twist on the Colossian vision. While Colossians lifts up Christ’s supremacy, Philippians reveals the shape that supremacy takes: not domination, but self-giving. Not coercion, but love.
In these few verses, we see Christ:
Not grasping at equality with God,
But emptying himself,
Taking the form of a servant,
And becoming obedient, even to the point of death.
This is power redefined. Not the power to control, but the power to give. And Paul doesn’t merely admire this; he invites us into it.
Learning to Hum
I’m not a poet. But I’ve grown to love that Paul’s deepest theology comes in poetic form. Because poetry resists precision. It invites wonder. It hums more than it explains.
Maybe that’s our invitation, too. Not just to memorize Paul’s words, but to let them shape our imagination. Not just to study theology like a textbook, but to let it sing.
So, whether you’re deep in the weeds of Pauline thought or just beginning to find your way, remember this: at the heart of Paul’s writing is a Christ who is both center and servant. A God revealed not in might, but in love.
And maybe that’s all we need to know.
