Benediction: Go in Awe

Go in awe

Not awe at a distance, or awe in that of a spectacle, but real awe that comes
when the everlasting God draws near to share our dustiness.

Go in awe

of the real Jesus Christ
not an idea to be managed
or a symbol to be admired,
but God in flesh,
breathing our air,
walking our ground,
carrying our humanity.

The God through whom all things were made
did not stand outside the world and call it back.
He stepped into it.
Into time.
Into history.
Into skin and bone, hunger and rest.

This is how God chose to love.
Not from above,
but from within.

God did not heal humanity
by replacing it.
He healed it
by joining Himself to it.
By binding divine life
to human life so closely
that nothing human is left untouched,
and nothing broken is left outside His care.

Go in awe

remembering
that the first word of this good news
was spoken in the dark,
to the watchful and the waiting.
Glory opened the night
not in halls of power
but in open fields.
Peace was announced
not as control,
but as presence.

This is the peace that mends what power cannot.
The peace that gathers what has been scattered.
The peace that restores the world
by healing it from the inside.

In Jesus,
God has said yes
to the earth,
yes to flesh,
yes to humanity,
and yes to the long work
of making all things new.

Nothing is abandoned.
No place is empty of God.
No human life exists
outside the reach of His nearness.

Go in awe


as people shaped by this good news.
Let it steady your fear,
soften your judgement,
and widen your mercy.

Go bearing witness
not by force,
but by faithfulness.
Not by escape,
but by presence.
Not by standing above the world,
but by standing within it.

And may the God
who came to be with us
remain with you,
among you, in you
and ahead of you,
until heaven and earth are gathered as one,
and all things are restored
in Him.

Amen.

The Image of God Revisited: From Eden to New Creation

Abstract contemplative artwork of two glowing human silhouettes standing hand in hand under a vast starry night sky. Golden crowns rest on their heads, symbolising humanity’s royal vocation as the image of God. They are bathed in soft golden light, walking toward a distant radiant city on the horizon, with deep blues and purples blending into warm tones of dawn.”

The Bible begins with one of its most subversive claims: humanity is made in the “image of God” (Genesis 1:26–27). This phrase has sparked centuries of reflection. What does it mean to bear God’s image? Is it about dignity, rationality, creativity, or something even greater?

Humanity in the Image of God: Creation as a Cosmic Temple

Genesis 1 is not only a story of beginnings but a story of ordering. The repeated refrain “And God said… and it was so… and God saw that it was good” has the rhythm of a liturgy. Each day God separates, names, and fills, establishing order out of chaos (Genesis 1:2–10).

In the ancient Near Eastern world, temples were microcosms of the universe. They represented the ordered dwelling place of a deity within the chaotic world outside. At the heart of every temple stood an image of the god, placed there after the temple was “ordered” through ritual. This image signified the presence and rule of the god within that sacred space.

Genesis takes this familiar idea but reimagines it in a radically different way. The cosmos itself is God’s temple. The heavens are his canopy (Isaiah 40:22), the earth his footstool (Isaiah 66:1). The seven days of creation culminate in God’s “rest” (Genesis 2:2–3), which in temple language means not inactivity but taking up residence and beginning to reign. God has ordered his cosmic sanctuary, and now he rules from it.

The twist is the image placed within this temple. Unlike the lifeless idols of stone or wood, God’s image is living humanity (Genesis 1:26–28). Men and women are appointed as his representatives, reflecting his character and carrying out his rule in creation. In John Walton’s words, the world is God’s cosmic temple, and humanity is his living idol.

This means the vocation of the image-bearer is inseparable from worship. To be made in God’s image is to participate in the ordering of creation, to extend the boundaries of sacred space until all the earth becomes filled with the knowledge of the Lord (Habakkuk 2:14). Humanity’s task is temple work: to tend, to guard, and to expand the harmony of God’s presence.

Eden as the First Temple and Humanity’s Priestly Role

Genesis does not describe Eden in architectural terms, but later Scripture makes clear that the garden and the temple are deeply connected. The garden is the archetype of sacred space, and the temple is patterned after it.

In Eden, Adam and Eve are given the commission “to work it and keep it” (Genesis 2:15). These two Hebrew verbs abad (to serve) and shamar (to guard), reappear later in the Torah, not for farmers but for priests. The Levites are said “to serve and to guard” the tabernacle (Numbers 3:7–8; 8:25–26). Their task is not just maintenance but worship, guarding the holiness of God’s dwelling from intrusion and defilement. Adam and Eve, then, can be mapped onto the priesthood as its first representatives, called to minister in God’s sanctuary.

The parallels between Eden and Israel’s sanctuary reinforce this. Both are entered from the east (Genesis 3:24; Ezekiel 40:6). Both are filled with imagery of trees, cherubim, and rivers of life (Genesis 2:10–14; 1 Kings 6:29–35; Ezekiel 47:1–12). Gold and precious stones adorn Eden (Genesis 2:11–12), just as they decorate the temple (1 Kings 7:48–50). Even the menorah, with its branches and blossoms, recalls the tree of life at the garden’s centre.

Scholars have argued that the temple is a deliberate echo of Eden, a place where heaven and earth meet, where God’s presence dwells, and where humanity is invited to serve as a kind of priesthood. What Adam and Eve were in the garden, Israel’s priests became in the temple. And what Israel’s priests foreshadowed, the church is called to embody in Christ: a royal priesthood serving in the cosmic temple of the new creation (1 Peter 2:9; Revelation 21:22).

The Distortion of the Image of God Through Idolatry

When humanity abandoned its calling, the image of God became distorted. Instead of reflecting the living God into the world, human beings turned their gaze downward and outward to created things. Scripture calls this idolatry.

The psalmist captures the tragedy with cutting irony: “Their idols are silver and gold, made by human hands. They have mouths, but cannot speak, eyes, but cannot see. They have ears, but cannot hear, noses, but cannot smell… Those who make them will be like them, and so will all who trust in them” (Psalm 115:4–8).

We become what we worship. When we worship idols, we are shaped by their lifelessness. They cannot speak, and so their worshippers lose the voice of true praise. They cannot see, and so their worshippers lose spiritual sight. They cannot act, and so their worshippers lose vitality, becoming passive shadows of what God created them to be. The tragedy of idolatry is not only that we fail to worship God but that we are dehumanised in the process.

Paul makes this point in Romans 1. Refusing to glorify God, humanity “exchanged the glory of the immortal God for images made to look like a mortal human being and birds and animals and reptiles” (Romans 1:23). In turning from the Creator to creation, humans traded their vocation as living images of God for dead imitations of what they desired. Instead of becoming radiant icons of God’s glory, we turn into caricatures, mirrors of idols that can never give life.

This is why idolatry is not just a matter of bowing to statues or pagan gods. It is about misplaced devotion. Career, nation, wealth, pleasure, or even family can become idols when they take the place of God. And when they do, they shape us. A culture that worships money becomes consumed by greed. A society that worships power tends to become violent. A person who worships self becomes hollow. As the prophets warn, idolatry always diminishes. It silences, blinds, and hardens.

Idolatry is the anti-image. It reverses humanity’s vocation. Instead of being mirrors angled toward God and creation, as N. T. Wright puts it, we become mirrors angled in on ourselves. We reflect nothing beyond our own emptiness. This is why the Bible treats idolatry not as a minor sin but as the root distortion of what it means to be human.

Israel as a Kingdom of Priests and a Corporate Image of God

Israel was chosen to carry forward the vocation of Adam and Eve. At Sinai, God declared: “You shall be to me a kingdom of priests and a holy nation” (Exodus 19:6). Scholars stress that Israel was called corporately to bear God’s image by reflecting his character to the nations (Deuteronomy 4:6–8; Isaiah 42:6).

The tabernacle and temple were microcosms of Eden, places where God’s presence dwelt (Exodus 25:8–9; 1 Kings 8:10–11). Israel’s priests mirrored Adam’s task, serving and guarding holy space. Yet, like Adam, Israel fell into idolatry (2 Kings 17:7–18; Jeremiah 2:11–13).

Jesus Christ as the True Image of God

The New Testament announces that Jesus Christ is “the image of the invisible God” (Colossians 1:15). What Adam distorted and Israel failed to embody, Christ fulfils. He is the perfect image, “the radiance of God’s glory and the exact representation of his being” (Hebrews 1:3).

Where Adam reached for autonomy, Jesus humbled himself in obedience (Philippians 2:6–8). Where Israel was faithless, Jesus remained faithful. In Jesus, we see true humanity at last: the angled mirror restored. He reflects God into the world and lifts creation’s praises back to the Father.

At the cross, the curse of Adam was undone (Romans 5:17–19). The cross itself becomes a new “tree of life” (Revelation 2:7; 22:2), and from Christ flows the river of living water (John 7:37–39). In the resurrection, humanity’s vocation is renewed (1 Corinthians 15:20–22).

The Church as a New Creation and Royal Priesthood

Through union with Christ, the church is restored as the image-bearing community. Paul calls believers “a new creation” (2 Corinthians 5:17). Peter calls them “a chosen people, a royal priesthood, a holy nation” (1 Peter 2:9). This echoes both the Edenic and Sinai experiences.

Empowered by the Spirit (Acts 2:1–4), the church is called to extend God’s reign, to embody his presence in the world, and to reflect his character to the nations (Matthew 5:14–16). The church is not saved to escape the world but to anticipate the renewal of creation, partnering with God, bearing His image in Spirit-filled lives of holiness, justice, and worship.

Revelation and the Fulfilment of the Image of God

The final pages of Scripture reveal where the entire story has been leading. John’s vision in Revelation is not about escaping earth but about heaven and earth becoming one, creation renewed, restored, and filled with God’s presence.

He sees a new heaven and a new earth (Revelation 21:1). The holy city comes down, radiant and alive, like a bride prepared for her husband (Revelation 21:2). A voice from the throne declares what was always God’s intention: “Look, God’s dwelling place is now among the people, and he will dwell with them” (Revelation 21:3). What was glimpsed in Eden, God walking with humanity in the cool of the day, is now fulfilled on a cosmic scale.

John says there is no temple. “I did not see a temple in the city, because the Lord God Almighty and the Lamb are its temple” (Revelation 21:22). The temple has served its purpose as a signpost. Now the whole creation has become the sanctuary. God’s presence is not contained in any building but fills every space, and his people live fully as priests within it.

The imagery takes us straight back to Eden. A river of life flows from the throne, and on each side stands the tree of life, bearing fruit each month and bringing healing to the nations (Revelation 22:1–2). The garden sanctuary, lost through sin, is restored, expanded, and secured forever. The exile east of Eden is undone, and humanity is brought home.

And what of the image of God? It reaches its fulfilment here. “They will see his face, and his name will be on their foreheads” (Revelation 22:4). To bear God’s name is to bear his image perfectly, no longer fractured by sin, no longer bent toward idols, no longer half-lit by shadows. Humanity’s destiny is communion, not autonomy, participation in glory rather than deformation into lifelessness. “They will reign for ever and ever” (Revelation 22:5).

Here everything comes together. The cosmic temple finds its goal. The priesthood of Eden, the vocation of Israel, the faithfulness of Christ, and the Spirit-filled life of the church are all gathered up and perfected in the New Jerusalem. What was distorted by idolatry and restored in Christ is now complete.

To speak of the image of God is to speak of our future. We are not creatures fumbling for meaning in the dark. We are God’s living images, created to reflect his glory into creation and creation’s praise back to him. Revelation shows us that future fulfilled: humanity radiant with God’s presence, reigning with the Lamb, mirrors angled perfectly at last.

The Ache of Beginnings: Reading Genesis 1–11 with Open Hands

Two abstract silhouettes, male and female, stand together at twilight between a flourishing garden glowing with golden light and a barren wilderness of dry soil and thorns. The scene symbolises humanity east of Eden, caught between exile and communion with God.

Where did it all go wrong?

Genesis does not begin with a courtroom but with a garden. It does not give us a manual of origins but a story of longing, freedom, and fracture. These early chapters are less about when and more about why. They are not fossils of a world long gone but mirrors of our own. They speak of desire that bends, of Exile that begins, of God who keeps walking into the story anyway.

“In the beginning, God…” (Genesis 1:1). Before the ache, before the questions, there was only God. All that exists flows out of this life. Gregory of Nyssa said that only God truly has being in Himself, while all else exists only by participation. Creation is not necessary, but a gift. The beginning is not a moment in time but the eternal One whose presence holds everything in existence.

Wisdom desired, wisdom distorted

The tree was not poisonous. It was a possibility. Wisdom was always meant to be humanity’s inheritance, but in God’s time, not ours. In Genesis 3, the grasping of fruit is less about appetite and more about autonomy. To seize before its time is to make wisdom collapse into folly.

Paul would later write, “The wisdom of this world is foolishness with God” (1 Corinthians 3:19). The mystics often spoke of a wisdom that comes not by grasping but by surrender. True wisdom is received, not snatched. It ripens only in the soil of trust. To forget that all wisdom is participation in God is to fall back into Exile.

The question in the garden

When Adam and Eve hide, God does not thunder judgment first. He asks a question: “Where are you?” (Genesis 3:9). It is the first question God asks in Scripture, and it has never stopped echoing. It is less a demand for location than a call to self-awareness. Where are you? Not just in the garden, but in your soul, in your wandering, in your ache.

The desert fathers and mothers taught that prayer begins not with words but with awareness. To stand before God is to hear that question again and again. Where are you? The psalmist answers, “Where can I go from your Spirit? Where can I flee from your presence?” (Psalm 139:7). Even in hiding, God is near. Even in Exile, our being still participates in Him.

Shame, blame, and the covering of God

We cover ourselves with fig leaves, then point fingers to deflect the weight of our shame. The first man blames the first woman. The first woman blames the serpent. This is the rhythm of fallen humanity: hiding, deflecting, excusing. But even here, grace intrudes. God does not leave them naked. “The Lord God made garments of skin for Adam and his wife and clothed them” (Genesis 3:21).

The covering is both tender and terrible. Tender, because it restores dignity. Terrible, because it hints at the cost of covering. Life surrendered for life preserved. The cross is already flickering in the shadows of Eden. To be clothed by God is to be reminded that even when we try to cover ourselves in fear, our true being remains grounded in Him.

The curse and the serpent

The serpent is not annihilated but transformed. Dust becomes its food, enmity its destiny. The curse is not a spell but a new pattern of existence. Relationships fracture. Creation distorts. Struggle is woven into soil and womb alike.

Yet even here, hope is stitched in. “He will crush your head, and you will strike his heel” (Genesis 3:15). A wound will remain, but victory will come. The first gospel is spoken over the dust. The Eastern fathers often called this the “protoevangelium”, the first glimmer of redemption. Even in curse, God remains the source of being, and from Him redemption begins to unfold.

Exile and the ache of humanity

To be human is to be east of Eden. To till soil that resists. To live under a curse and yet still carry promise. Adam names Eve “mother of all living,” even as death has entered the story (Genesis 3:20). Exile is unavoidable, but so is God’s relentless pursuit.

And yet, to be truly human is more than east of Eden. It is to walk in the cool of the day with God. It is to flourish in the garden, unashamed, at peace with creation, with self, and with one another. Exile names our condition. Communion names our calling.

Julian of Norwich once wrote, “Our soul is made of God and in God it is grounded.” To be human is to ache for that grounding. We evolve, not merely biologically but spiritually, socially, and theologically. From garden to city, from scattering to gathering, from Babel’s confusion to Pentecost’s tongues of fire. Humanity is still in process, but its being remains anchored in the One who was there in the beginning.

The ache of new creation

Genesis 1 to 11 is not just about what went wrong but about what God will set right. These are the seed-stories, and they lean forward. From the waters of the flood to the scattering at Babel, creation keeps unravelling. And yet the Spirit hovers still, waiting to call forth a new beginning.

Paul names Jesus the “last Adam” (1 Corinthians 15:45), and John sees a new heaven and a new earth (Revelation 21:1). The garden at the beginning becomes the city at the end, the Tree of Life reappearing, its leaves “for the healing of the nations” (Revelation 22:2).

Gregory of Nyssa’s words echo here, too. Only God has being in Himself, and at the end, all creation will be drawn into that fullness. “In the beginning, God” will one day be heard again as “God all in all” (1 Corinthians 15:28). The end is a return to the beginning, to the One who called us into life.

We read these stories not as distant myths but as mirrors. They are the patterns we still live in: hiding, blaming, longing, wandering. But they are also the patterns of God: seeking, covering, promising, recreating.

Perhaps the most profound truth of Genesis 1 to 11 is not simply how the world began, but that God refuses to let the story end in Exile. The God who walks in the twilight of Eden still walks among us, still asks the old question, still whispers us toward new creation.