Imago Dei

What did my young eyes see?

They say the human face is complicated, many lines and creases for a child to trace the course of life.
Sometimes, I put my fingers on these lines. I ran them down my mother’s cheeks. My father’s brows.

I saw these lines drawn out as well. Pencil, lead, color. Brush, paint, splash. Sometimes, life was present there too. What joy was expressed in wonderful images of heroes and heroines chasing their dreams and unlocking their desires!

These lines take time. The images that make stories take time. A rush of images becomes time.

Time that became lost to symbols. Icons that did not convey meaning; rather, they were signposts for quick exchanges, often involving our wallets. A proclamation of purchase, not of story.

This good here! That good there! But what is good anymore?

Images increased their coercion by selling something not fully understood.

Mystery left these lines.

You need this. You need that. This is what that means. No questions.

No people. No humanity. Just orders. The lines draw us into corners.

False choices. Our imaginations cannot open themselves to the fullness of a blossom or the resurrection of the Springtime.

We have even attempted to draw God.

How has God become always on our side, always forgiving us only for the sins we choose to acknowledge, and speaking personally to us, but somehow not about the needs around the corner?

Twisted truth, but isn’t the real thing supposed to be good news for everyone?

What happens when we let God be big?

The world is righted. The dead become alive. We are never comfortable, but always joyous.

Our image of God is a blank page, and we are expectant of God’s miracles to dazzle us, to dizzy us, to tire us and then fill us with energy – and then for us to realize God has let us hold the pencil. Not by our strength, but God’s. Shall we draw together?