Magnifica verba

Magnificent words

“Humanity, created by God in all its grandeur, is today facing a pivotal choice: either to construct a new Tower of Babel or to build the city in which God and humanity dwell together.”

— Pope Leo XIV, Magnifica Humanitas

A Timely Piece

Two weeks ago, Pope Leo XIV released his first papal encyclical titled Magnifica humanitas (Magnificent Humanity).¹ It is the Pope’s official response to the rise of technology, specifically AI, and its relation to human dignity. The Pope reminds us that man’s dignity is immutable because it comes from God. It cannot be measured by a machine, but eternally transcends technology. I am not going to offer a reflection on the Pope’s encyclical (others have already done that far better than I could; you can also just go read the encyclical), but his message is pertinent because it was released just as I was reflecting on a slightly different, but related, topic. There is a connection between man’s dignity and his creative power, so beautifully highlighted in the Pope’s encyclical. This dignity is displayed most strongly, perhaps, in our ability to create language. Recovering the forgotten dignity of man begins with recovering our attention to language.

The Loss of Language

It is becomingly increasingly evident to me (on a purely practical level) that our world is in need of a recovery of language. As a teacher I see it every day. The alarming literacy decline among college students attests to this crisis, but the problem runs even deeper. Mastery of language is not only a sign of a person’s education. It conveys the innermost heartbeat of their lifestyle, culture, and place. Words arise out of relationships: relationships with other people, with God, with ourselves, and with the land we live in. Words connect us to meaning.

I am currently reading Landmarks by Robert MacFarlane, in which he emphasizes the urgent need to recover “place language.”² Place language refers to the names we give to the landscapes around us. Place language also reveals how intimately we know the land. Every mound of earth cannot merely be a “hill.” Every tall growing thing cannot merely be a “tree.” The more we attend to the world around us, the more precise our language will be. Then, MacFarlane argues, words become “mini poems” through which we are transported into precise experiences.

Did you know, for example, that there is a Scottish word for icy, wavering, cold light, such as you might see when the sunlight sparkles off ice particles in the air on a cold winter day? The word is blinter, a lovely word. But the less time we spend outdoors observing such phenomena, the more likely it is that the word blinter will fade into the forgotten past. Its not so much the word we will mourn, but the loss of experience it reflects. It’s not that the air ceases to blinter in the winter; but we have ceased to notice it. MacFarlane argues for a recovery of place language not for its own sake, but in order that we might attend to the world around us again. In doing so, we become quiet receivers of the gift of creation again and contemplators of the mysteries of God.

In his encyclical, Pope Leo XIV recalls the Tower of Babel and associates the breakdown in human relationships that happened there with a breakdown in language. When man lost touch with God and himself, language became confused. What used to be a means of creation, contemplation, and unity, became a source of tension and confusion. The quality of language has always been a sign of how well humanity is functioning.

The Power of Words

Why is this loss of words so important? Why should we care? Will not new words replace old ones? Should we really be that worried when the words “otter” and “acorn” are taken out of the Oxford Junior Dictionary and replaced with words like “copy-and-paste”? The problem is not that we are losing certain words and gaining others. The problem is that we are losing our connection to the world around us, not the world manufactured by man, but the world given to man as a gift.

Now it is not only our awareness of the natural world that is fading, but our ability to name things altogether. With digital definitions and text-talk at our fingertips, we no longer have to slow down and contemplate a thing before giving it a name. Words no longer call to mind personal experiences. Names no longer carry the weight of relationship. Definitions are becoming cold and clinical, rather than the mini poems MacFarlane speaks about.

Yet language is connected to our dignity as “subcreators.” It speaks to our original communion with the world and our participation in its enrichment. In the Genesis account of creation, the very first thing God invited Adam to do in the garden was to name the animals. Why was this act of naming so sacred? It marked God’s intention for man to be an active agent in the creation, care, and enrichment of the world. By telling man to name things, God was pointing out the essential role of words in man’s call to create. Words are a sign that we are meant to add to reality.

Language has power. We can use it to speak life or death. In Genesis, God told man that he was going to be a causal part of the creation story, not only as a passive receiver but as an agent, an artist himself. When we name things, we “actually assist”, as J.R.R. Tolkien said, “in the effoliation and multiple enrichment of creation.”³ Language is fundamental to who we are as humans. It has the power to go beyond mere description and actually add to reality. It is no coincidence that man was created in the image of a God who is called “The Word.”

Magnifica verba

When I reflect on the rapid decline in literacy and eloquence of speech, I see that the vocation of writing has arguably never been more important. Writers carry a profound calling to help the word recover the power of language. In doing so we may hope to recall mankind’s attention to the beauty of existence.

But how do we do this? We must learn words, as many as possible. We must write about beauty, truth, and goodness. We must name things. Flowers, trees, children. I once heard an author recommend that when you see something beautiful, you should pause and come up with 15 new names for it before moving on. I’m not sure if I have quite reached this level of creative variety. On a good day, I can perhaps think of five names for the flowers that greet me on my morning walks. But I have taken to keeping a little notebook of “place language,” where I record any new or beautiful words I encounter. I hope that in time, I can grow in my naming ability.

While Pope Leo is currently reminding the world of magnifica humanitas, I would like to shine a light on magnifica verba, magnificent words. The noun magnificentia in Latin translates to “generosity” or “greatness of soul.” It is a combination of the Latin words magnus (great) and facere (to do or make). The etymology seems to confirm that magnificence is something we do. It is an act of giving, reflecting a greatness of soul.

If we want to recover our sense of the inherent dignity of the human person, if we want to recover man’s relationship with the world around him, a good place to start would be recovering our attention to the dignity of language. For in doing so, we call ourselves back to a fundamental truth about human nature. Man is, essentially, a creator. And his creative power is seen nowhere as evidently as in the words he uses. So let’s be builders of beautiful language. For language both builds and is born from culture. It feeds and is fed. It is fashioned and it fashions. It reflects man’s unique role in the beauty of the world, a beauty towards which we are both receivers and agents, artists and contemplators.

1. You can read the entire encyclical here. It’s well worth it, and yes, the rumors are true. He does in fact quote Gandalf in it.

2. MacFarlane, Robert. 2013. Landmarks. Penguin Books.

3. Tolkien, J.R.R. On Fairy Stories.