image bearers: a tribute
We were made in the image of God.
When I saw Topher create the cosmos with his fly line, that infinite unfurling of baited possibility, my soul sang How Great Thou Art. Before his first cast, before the line was unspooled and zipped across the surface of the slightly gurgling waters there was only hope. Hope that his act of creation, small as it was, would produce peace and joy. Hope that the tiniest of sparks, that imperceptible tinsel and hackled hook would dance, luring life from the depths, luring beauty from nothing. Hope that creation, the brother of art, would become the precursor to foreordination, and foreordination the forerunner to mercy. When the act of creation was complete, when the line finally fell to rest on surface tension, Topher’s face exploded with the image of God.
And it was good.
Scott’s rod arched and quivered, a mono-chromed rainbow of the promise of life. The promise broke the surface in a split second, harnessing the power to shoot its full length into broad daylight, flashing brilliant specks of red as it saw the splendor and awe of the heavens. It was no coincidence, the strain of fin and gill against that arc. In fact, that fight is natural. We are not so different. Promises can be so painful, even the spiritual ones, like the time I read that in this world I will have trouble. But Scott was patient, not straining too hard at the rod for fear of losing his catch to the open water. Played into his hands, Scott knelt to release his prize–the Trout resting in awe of something bigger than itself–and he promised that he’d never flood the fish’s world with air again.
And it was good.
We were made in the image of God, an endless unfurling of baited possibilities, participants in an eternally physical metaphor. He is in our work if we are still enough to know. He is in the work of those around us if we will stop, watch, and listen. He has chosen us to bear the marks of his creation, the possibility of his reconciliation. And as we stagger in the malted goodness of the ultimate realization that he has buried his image inescapably in the very works of our hands, we find that
He is so good.