How does one rightly comprehend the imago Dei? That Latin phrase, imago Dei, or image of God, is a summation of Genesis 1:27, “So God created man in his own image, in the image of God he created him; male and female he created them.”
From a physical standpoint, humans clearly look and behave differently from other created things: animals, plants, oceans, and land. However, it is difficult to look at the diversity among our fellow human beings and imagine what this passage means from a strictly physical standpoint. While recent artificial intelligence renderings have attempted to visualize what the first humans looked like, these don’t offer much substance as the images tend to have a striking resemblance to someone between Pedro Pascal and Paul “Hulk” Hogan. But I digress.
Yet, the question remains, “What does it mean to be created in the image of God?” And moreover, do we still bear the image of God? Or was it lost when sin entered the world? Is this image but a dim reflection of what was meant to be or what it will be? What should the Christian’s response to the imago Dei be in a world full of hurting people caused by sin and by the hands of other image bearers? How do we hold the tension of flourishing, suffering, lament, and being created in the imago Dei?
It is a scandalous concept, that man and woman would be made in the image of God, the creator and sustainer of life. It is an outrageous though that the God of the universe would stoop so low as to waste time thinking about humans, much less making them in his own image. How then, are we to understand being made in God’s image?
Toward a Theology of the Imago Dei
Beyond physical traits, Augustine believed the image of God included a trinitarian aspect of human beings’ mind, knowledge, and love. Even more difficult is this concept of imago Dei when we look at other attributes of God, such as kindness, beauty, goodness, and the fruit of the Spirit. Clouded by sin and selfishness, these aspects of the imago Dei are just as difficult to comprehend as a physical understanding, and one is left to question the meaning behind the Genesis passage and the Christian response to this passage. If we are made in God’s image, surely, we are but a dim reflection of His truth, goodness, and beauty.
When God placed Adam and Eve in the Garden of Eden, there was beauty and unity with God unlike anything we’ve experienced since. However, sin ruined this perfect unity. We’re so far from the Garden of Eden that now unity and beauty have been replaced by sickness and angst. It’s difficult to imagine a world where people live in harmony with God without the effects of sin. Nevertheless, the brokenness and hatred in this world are primarily caused by humans and our sinfulness.
N. T. Wright writes, “The idea of the ‘image’ has to do with reflection: humans have the vocation of reflecting the power and glory of the creator into the world.” Since exiting the garden, this reflection has grown dimmer with every passing breath. Since sin has distorted every aspect of our lives and the original beauty God intended, how do we begin to have an image of God that we are to reflect? One thing is for certain: God is not reflected in our anger and selfishness.
God has Revealed Himself
To better understand the imago Dei that we are to reflect, we must first explore the imaginatio Dei, the imagination of God. How do we imagine God? Who is this God in whose image humans were created? We cannot say that “God is everything,” as some religions and new age movements might believe. God is not the trees, yet he created the trees. There is a creator to creation relationship that exists. There is a structure to our understanding of God, but there are also limitations to our understanding. We cannot know God beyond how he has revealed himself. What image do we have of God? Thus, we must ask the question, “Who is God?”
For this, we turn to a burning bush and a shepherd named Moses in the book of Exodus. After being instructed to deliver the Israelites from Pharaoh’s grip in Egypt, Moses had a similar question, “Who should I say sent me?” Who are you, God? While most popular translations present God’s response in Exodus 3:14 as “I am who I am,” Terence E. Fretheim, Old Testament scholar and the Elva B. Lovell Professor of Old Testament at Luther Seminary, suggests that the best translation of the phrase ehyeh aser ehyeh is, “I am who I will be.”
We know who God is by understanding who he has been, who he currently is being, and who he will be. Now, thousands of years removed from this conversation between God and Moses, we see that who God “will be” is how he has revealed himself to be. The image of God we see and experience in our limited understanding is the way in which he has revealed himself to be throughout history. God has revealed himself through his created world, his actions, his revealed Word, and the person of Jesus. Understanding these aspects of the revealed God gets us closer to understanding the image which we were created to reflect.
Throughout the history of the Israelites, God revealed himself in different ways. For instance, God is seen as Elohim, Mighty Creator (Genesis 1:1); El Shaddai, Lord God Almighty (Genesis 17:1); El Elyon, Most High God (Deuteronomy 26:19); El Olam, Everlasting God (Genesis 21:33); Jehovah Jireh, The Lord will Provide (Genesis 22:14); Jehovah Shalom, The Lord is Peace (Judges 6:24); Johovah Raah, The Lord my Shepherd (Psalm 23); Jehovah Mekoddishkem, The Lord who Sanctifies you (Exodus 31:13); and Jehovah Rapha, The Lord who heals (Exodus 15:26). For the purposes of a theme issue focusing on the imago Dei through the lens of the College of Health Sciences at Samford University, the image of God as healer is where we will pause for now.
Jehovah Rapha, the Lord Who Heals
Douglas K. Stuart, senior professor of Old Testament at Gordon-Conwell Theological Seminary, explains that the understanding of the phrase “Jehovah Rapha” in Exodus 15:26 must be understood in relation to the plagues of Egypt that the Israelites witnessed firsthand. God is saying, “‘Any illness I brought on the Egyptians, I will not bring on you. For I am Yahweh, your doctor.’ The promise here was not that Yahweh would never allow those who place their faith in him to get sick. It was that the Israelites would be free from having to worry about the plagues.” Stuart continues his explanation here:
His promise to serve as their doctor/healer also was not a promise that if anyone among them ever got sick he would immediately heal that person. It was instead an assertion that it was to him they must turn for healing if they found themselves afflicted as a result of sin. The story of the healing from snakebites in Numbers 21:1–9 is exactly the sort of situation envisioned in these words.
Throughout the scriptures, God revealed himself as the Lord who heals physical ailments and diseases. However, in Luke 5, Jesus introduces a new type of healing, one that heals the soul. He sees the lame man whose friends had just lowered him into the room and tells him his sins are forgiven. This, in some way, was more scandalous to the keepers of the Law surrounding Jesus in the room. Then Luke reports in verses 23–25, that Jesus says,
Which is easier, to say, ‘Your sins are forgiven you,’ or to say, ‘Rise and walk’? But that you may know that the Son of Man has authority on earth to forgive sins”—he said to the man who was paralyzed—“I say to you, rise, pick up your bed and go home.” And immediately he rose up before them and picked up what he had been lying on and went home, glorifying God.
As the “great physician of souls,” Jesus embodied Jehova Rapha who not only tends to the physical needs of those who seek him but extends his grace to the more pressing issue (and the most deadly disease) of sin. When we participate in the vocation of restoration of the physical body as well as the spiritual soul, we are reflecting the image of God, the physician.
The Tension of Flourishing and Suffering
Much has been made about human flourishing in recent years. Research articles, journals, and books about human flourishing could fill a small library. And yet it feels somewhat tone-deaf to talk about individual human flourishing when there is so much suffering in this world. Starvation, genocide, and hatred cloud the waters of human flourishing for so many. Flourishing seems out of reach when there are people who don’t know where their next meal will come from, don’t have access to clean water, don’t know if they will be deported in the middle of the night, or shot sitting in their elementary school classroom. How can human flourishing be the goal when image bearers are suffering at the hands of fellow image bearers?
Human flourishing cannot be reduced to individual ambitions where I am the only one who flourishes and therefore have achieved human flourishing. Self-flourishing does not equate to human flourishing, and there is no biblical foundation for such a thought. If I am healthy and have enough money to feed myself and put a roof over my head, I have not suddenly begun to flourish when my neighbor is sick, hungry, and homeless. There must be a better way. There is a better way found in scriptures in the example of Jesus. A truly flourishing life is not found in what we can attain for ourselves, but how we serve and care for others. We are not invited to a flourishing life at any cost, regardless of our suffering image-bearing neighbor. As Christians, we are invited to participate in the vocation of restoration of this broken world by serving others and attending to their needs over ours. We are invited to help our neighbors find a flourishing life and help them experience the truth, goodness and beauty of God.
Glimpses of the Imago Dei
Because the imago Dei exists in us, we can recognize the beauty and value of our neighbor, our enemies, and those who are hurting in this world. Recently, in a Christian Teacher Scholar Program workshop at Samford, I was leading a conversation with about a dozen faculty members exploring the intersection of various academic disciplines with the biblical theme of “beauty.” To a table full of faculty members ranging from physical therapy and education to computer science and art, I asked the question, “What does beauty look like in your discipline?” Each faculty member from varying disciplines around the table gave thoughtful responses to ways in which they see beauty in their respective field. At the end of the conversation, I made the comment, “God didn’t have to make things beautiful. He could’ve made this world bland and colorless, but he chose to give us beauty.”
A faculty member in math and computer science, responded, “I think he did have to make things beautiful. That is part of who he is and to do anything less would be against his nature.” This profound statement helped me reframe my thoughts about beauty and the ability to recognize beauty around me. He was right. God makes beauty because that is his nature. That was his intent all along. A beautiful and flourishing life for all was his intention from the beginning, and since exiting the garden, we have collectively been striving to reclaim some semblance of that original glory.
God gives us glimpses of his beauty even though we will never know the vibrance of original flowers or how sweetly they smelled. Nor will we know how high the original trees soared above the rivers in the garden or the beauty of watching a lion and lamb frolic together in a meadow without fear of death. Those original echoes are long gone.
While we will never know the original beauty of the garden, God gives us the gift to see glimpses of his original beauty in one another through the imago Dei. When kindness replaces anger, the imago Dei is present. When compassion replaces indifference, and patience replaces neglect, and giving is exchanged for greed, the echoes of flourishing become louder and louder, and the imago Dei shines through.
To be able to recognize the beauty in God’s created world, and in his created people, is evidence of God’s divine image within us. Francis Su, the Benediktsson-Karwa Professor of Mathematics at Harvey Mudd College, writes, “Who among us does not enjoy beautiful things? A striking sunset. A sublime sonata. A profound poem. An illuminating idea. We are drawn to beauty. We are enamored of it. We dwell on it. We seek to create it. Beauty is a basic human desire, and expressions of beauty are marks of human flourishing.” We are drawn to beauty because there is a piece of the imago Dei within us that recognizes its existences as a reflection of God. As a result, the imago Dei also gives us the ability to recognize the beauty in others.
A Fractured Image
The bitter truth remains that this world has fallen and is falling because of sin. Evidence of the imago Dei is difficult to see in and through the actions and behaviors of humans. Martin Luther would argue that while we were created in the image of God, we lost that demarcation once sin entered the world. Wayne Grudem writes that while the image of God was not fully lost, it was disfigured because of the fall. He states:
Since man has sinned, he is certainly not as fully like God as he was before. His moral purity has been lost and his sinful character certainly does not reflect God’s holiness. His intellect is corrupted by falsehood and misunderstanding; his speech no longer continually glorifies God; his relationships are often governed by selfishness rather than love, and so forth. Though man is still in the image of God, in every aspect of life some parts of that image have been distorted or lost.
We are a fractured image of God, but created in his image, nonetheless, to remain hopeful and reflect his beauty and hope that all things in this dark world are being made new. Forgiveness, loving our enemies, praying for those who persecute us, and caring for the sick and poor are evidence of the imago Dei and point to the hope of restoration. Looking at a sick world and offering a cup of cold water or a warm embrace is evidence that God has created us in his likeness and goodness. N. T. Wright explains, “God dares to whisper to us, even in the midst of our fractured world, that we are created in his own image and that this God-reflecting vocation can be and is being restored.” By trusting in Jesus and caring for one another, the fractured image of God that we portray, yet still imprinted on our soul, is revealed in the here and now and points to a future restoration in the new heavens and new earth.
Responding to a Broken World
To hold the tension between suffering and the imago Dei, there must be a recognition of the brokenness in the world and a commitment to reflect the vocation of restoration of the brokenness. If the image of God is to be reflected in the humans he created, where is His reflection when nations rise up against nations? How is the imago Dei evident when systemic issues oppress one group of people and elevate another? Where does the imago Dei reveal itself when families are torn apart by drugs, crime, and governments? The badness in this world could send someone toward despair and sorrow. It is easy to see how one might lose hope in the very humanity that was created in God’s image.
However, there is hope. And to recognize the badness and brokenness in the world is an echo of the imago Dei within us. In Mere Christianity, C. S. Lewis wrote, “A man does not call a line crooked unless he has some idea of a straight line.” If it weren’t for the imago Dei imprinted on our souls, we would have no idea of right or wrong, good and bad, or that there is a better world beyond the current brokenness. The imago Dei within us points us to an ancient straight line that allows us to see badness, or as Lewis would say, “spoiled goodness,” around us and think, “This isn’t the way it should be.”
Therefore, the Christian’s response to the badness in the world should not be the hopelessness of sorrow and despair, but lament. Lament is the act of expressing sorrow but knowing that things are not the way they should be. As evidenced in Psalm 6:3, the psalmist pleads, “My soul is in deep anguish. How long, Lord, how long?” And again, in Psalm 13, where the chapter begins with, “How long, O Lord? Will you forget me forever?” and ends with the hopeful proclamation, “But I have trusted in your steadfast love; my heart shall rejoice in your salvation. I will sing to the Lord, because he has dealt bountifully with me.” In both passages, the psalmist cries out in anguish but hopefully and expectantly waits on the Lord’s deliverance—a reminder that recognizing pain and expressing hope are interconnected within the Christian practice of lament. There is a better version of this world, and the current version is broken. Lament has the capacity to hold both grief and hope at the same time. Lament is an acknowledgement of a broken world and an expectation that things can be better.
Lament sees beauty, even in a polluted world, and longs for its full restoration. Sehnsucht, the German word carried as a theme through many of the works of C. S. Lewis, describes a deep inconsolable longing perhaps for something that both was and is to come. In The Weight of Glory, Lewis echoes this idea of sehnsucht as a “desire for our own far-off country.” The Christian practice of lament makes room for the deep sehnsucht to return to the garden where humans once flourished as image bearers of God as well as the deep longing for the new heavens and new earth where we will be restored to unity with God. In that day, our reflection of the imago Dei will no longer be as if we were looking through a glass dimly but be fully known as image bearers.
Lament recognizes the current state of dismay, but not “as one without hope.” Lament is an act of hope, but not blind hope that is oblivious to the brokenness of the world. Walter Brueggemann, American Christian scholar and theologian, once wrote, “Where there is no voiced suffering there will not be hope.” As Christians, we can acknowledge the badness in the world and still have hope in the midst of crises.
Lament illuminates the way things are, and with that same light, provides a path to restoration toward the way things should be. It allows Christians to recognize unjust policies and moves them toward advocacy. Lament sees people who are hungry and finds a way to feed them. It weeps at the sight of sickness and offers a helping hand or a compassionate touch.
Christians do not turn their face away from the problems of this world and pretend that everything is as it should be. Instead, the Christian response of lament enables one to see brokenness and reply, “This is not the way it should be, but I can help restore it.” The invitation for believers in this darkened world is not to be dismayed at the sight of brokenness, but to lament and participate in the vocation of restoration by reflecting God’s truth, beauty, and goodness to the broken world.
When we cry out to God and pound on his chest in frustration and lamentation for the brokenness we see in the world, he moves us from despair to hope, and from hope to action. Amanda Benckhuysen, Bible teacher at Calvin University, writes, “Lament moves us from a position of victimhood, powerlessness, and despair to renewed action, empowerment, and hope.”
We see Jesus’s example of this in the gospels. In Matthew 9:36, Jesus is seen teaching the good news and healing the sick as he traveled from town to town. He shows lament by his response to a restless crowd saying, “he had compassion on them, because they were harassed and helpless, like sheep without a shepherd.” These were the same crowds that Jesus healed those among them who were sick. Then, Jesus invited his disciples to participate in his vocation of restoration by telling them in verse 38 to, “Ask the Lord of the harvest, therefore, to send out workers into his harvest field.” Further evidence of Jesus’ lament is found in John 11:35 when he was at the tomb of Lazarus. Jesus laments at the death of his friend and weeps in his sorrow.
But then his sadness turned to hope, and hope turned to action by raising him from the grave. And again, in Matthew, when Jesus was praying in the Garden of Gethsemane, we see his soul aching and he is in anguish as he prayed, “My Father, if this cannot pass unless I drink it, your will be done.” Jesus recognized his own pain, wrestled in the tension of hope and despair, and yet was obedient by fulfilling His Father’s will. Then, through hope and action, he gave himself up to be crucified. Jesus’s lament was never without hope and action. It was his lament that caused him to look upon a dark world and give himself up to restore it. For faculty in the College of Health Sciences at Samford, the invitation to students is to participate in the vocation of restoration in their future occupation.
How to Wait in the Now and Not Yet
We are to care for the things God calls good. As image bearers, we have the opportunity and burden to see others as image bearers and treat them as God would treat them. To view others as worthy of compassion and love and care is to treat them with compassion, love, and care. Christ gives us the example of what it means to serve others. “Being an image-bearer of God means imitating Christ—the Christ who shares in our suffering, washes our feet, and voluntarily takes up a cross for our sake.” To show love to our neighbor is to show love to God. In Matthew 22:37–40, “Jesus replied, ‘“You must love the Lord your God with all your heart, all your soul, and all your mind.” This is the first and greatest commandment. A second is equally important: “Love your neighbor as yourself.” The entire law and all the demands of the prophets are based on these two commandments.’” Jesus’ words to the expert in the law were not only an affirmation of the Shema found in Deuteronomy 6:4–6, but an explanation of it as well.
Jesus explained that we are to show God love with all our heart, soul, and strength by directing the actions of our love and service to our neighbor. Jesus again reminds us through a parable on the final judgement, that caring for others is in fact, an act of caring directed toward God:
Then the King will say to those on his right, ‘Come, you who are blessed by my Father, inherit the Kingdom prepared for you from the creation of the world. For I was hungry, and you fed me. I was thirsty, and you gave me a drink. I was a stranger, and you invited me into your home. I was naked, and you gave me clothing. I was sick, and you cared for me. I was in prison, and you visited me.’ Then these righteous ones will reply, ‘Lord, when did we ever see you hungry and feed you? Or thirsty and give you something to drink? Or a stranger and show you hospitality? Or naked and give you clothing? When did we ever see you sick or in prison and visit you?’ “And the King will say, ‘I tell you the truth, when you did it to one of the least of these my brothers and sisters, you were doing it to me!’
To care for our neighbor is to respond to the imago Dei within us and to recognize the imago Dei in others. When we use what we’ve been given, whether you choose to call it privilege, access, agency, or position, to serve others, we are serving the Lord. John Chrysostom summarized this and encapsulated the hope of the entire College of Health Sciences at Samford in his homily on 2 Timothy by pleading for Christians to “stretch forth thy hands, not to heaven, but to the poor. If thou stretch forth thy hand to the hands of the poor, thou hast reached the very summit of heaven.” For those in healing professions, their vocation is more than just a profession; it is a call to embody the image of the Great Physician by engaging in God’s restorative work in a wounded world.
