Creation Ex Nihilo
Something from Nothing?
The doctrine of creatio ex nihilo—creation “out of nothing”—has long stood as a cornerstone of classical theology. It affirms that God did not shape the world from pre-existing materials like a craftsman, but rather spoke it into being from no prior substance. In this, God alone is the uncaused cause, the source of all being.
But Genesis 1 presents an intriguing ambiguity. The Hebrew text opens not with a definitive claim of absolute nothingness, but with the mysterious phrase tohu va-bohu—commonly rendered as “formless and void” or “without form and empty.” Such translations nudge the modern reader toward imagining a sterile vacuum, a state of utter absence—a “no-thing.” But the Hebrew suggests something far more alive.
Tim Mackie translates tohu va-bohu as “wild and waste,” a rendering that captures the poetic rhythm of the original while invoking a landscape, not a void. It bends the imagination toward chaos, not emptiness—toward untamed potential, not inert absence. This is not non-being, but non-articulation. Not a blank canvas, but a swirling field awaiting the artist’s first word.
Darkness is said to cover the “deep” (tehom)—an abyss often associated with primordial waters, chaos, and uncertainty. The word evokes ancient Near Eastern cosmologies, where creation was often depicted as the outcome of divine conflict, a subduing of the monstrous sea.
Yet Genesis breaks from those mythic paradigms. In the very next verse, the Spirit of God hovers over the waters—not in battle, but in brooding presence. And now the waters are named: ham-māyim. What was once ambiguous and wild becomes recognizable and receptive. The abyss is no longer an adversary; it is a medium. In the presence of the Spirit, chaos becomes calm. The void becomes volume. Stillness emerges, not from domination, but from divine attention.
A Silence Before the Sound
In light of this creation ex nihilo may not mean the absence of all “stuff” so much as the absence of meaningful differentiation. The early biblical imagination sees God not combating other gods or elements, but bringing structure where there is none, breathing presence where there is emptiness. This is not a creation of “thingness” alone, but of order, identity, and purpose. The real miracle of ex nihilo may not be materialization, but meaningfulness. God’s word is not simply a sound—it is a call into being. To speak “light” is not to make photons; it is to call forth distinction, rhythm, and goodness.
The Spoken Word as Power
The repeated phrase, “And God said…” reinforces the Logos-nature of creation. Speech is the first creative tool—intangible, but utterly effective. And it becomes clear that this Word is not merely sound, but someone. The Logos of John 1 echoes this profound idea:
“In the beginning was the Word, and the Word was with God, and the Word was God… Through him all things were made; without him nothing was made that has been made.”
In this light, ex nihilo is not merely ontological—it is relational. Nothing becomes something when it is spoken to, called upon, desired. The void is not filled with matter, but with meaning. The creative act is fundamentally an act of invitation, and Christ is the creative principle through which order arises from raw, chaotic potential—giving meaning to the madness.
Implications for Being and Becoming
If everything that exists was once called forth by divine voice, then being itself is a gift—not earned, not inevitable, not self-originated. This challenges the modern myth of autonomous existence. It also undergirds a profoundly hopeful worldview: the God who brings form out of chaos, light out of darkness, and life out of barrenness continues to speak over the chaos we perceive today.
Creation ex nihilo means your story is not trapped by your history, nor is it doomed to return to the wild and waste. It means new beginnings are possible. It means that even when all visible resources are gone, the divine breath can still generate a new world.
Creativity as an Echo of Ex Nihilo
In our own small way, we mirror this divine power when we create. The artist faces a blank canvas, the writer a blank page, the wounded soul a blank future. From nothing visible, we dare to step out in faith—to speak, to shape, to risk. This is not mere productivity; it is participation in the divine image.
In this sense, true creation never starts with order—or with enough. It begins with absence, tension, uncertainty. The miracle is not what we build, but that we begin.