Who We Are

"The psalmist would say that the riddle of [man] is hidden in the mystery of God. Only faith can envision the point of convergence. Humankind recognizes itself fully only in the recognition of the Being from whom all reality arises. The claim of the psalm is that we can say "human being" only after we have learn to say 'God.'" -James L. May on Psalm 8

   For my final hermeneutics paper, I'm writing on the imago dei, or the image of God. This means that about three weeks ago I started spending an inordinate amount of time reading about, learning about, and thinking about what it means to be human and in what way we might reflect God. Specifically, I'm confronting a verse in Genesis that states "Adam begat a son in his own likeness, in his own image," causing me to believe that I, in fact, was not born in the image of God humanity was originally created to bear, but instead was born in the image of Adam. 

   But wasn't Adam made in the image of God and thus the image he passed would be likened to passing on that very image? 

   What if it wasn't a "fall" that made evil occur on the earth, a serpent's tempting that opened pandora's box, or a woman's weakness who unleashed the first sin that doomed us all? What if, instead, the simple act of taking from the tree of knowledge of good and evil thrust a knowledge we were never meant to bear inside a vessel that simply was not made for such a purpose? And because of that ill-fit, the vessel was cracked, misshaped, melted, warped. And then two of these vessels came together and made a new one, in their own image. Would it be the image from before, or the only image they could see now? 

   I digress, though.

   I believe the Psalmist has the key to the "what is it to be man?" question. In order to establish myself, to discover what these sinews and neurons and water molecules all add up to besides a big hulking mess, to look inside of brain jumbled with bright flashes of joy and deep pits of despair and see vocation, calling, and glory, I must first look to my father. I must find this one who created me, originally if nothing else, to be made in his image. I am made of stuff that once, at least, was a mirror to him. And I believe I am being remade into that mirror. But to know my materials, to know what they even have a chance to add up to, ought I not look instead of within my own clay, to the foundry from which I was drawn? I want to learn to say "human being." 

   Lord, help me learn to say God.