Some
postulate an aloof God who creates but does not
empathize or engage with his creation. Albert Einstein, for example,
seemed to subscribe to an impersonal divine architect. Naturalists
such as Richard Dawkins scoff at the notion that a being who could
construct such a vast and sophisticated universe would bother
interacting with primitive little creatures such as ourselves. Even
science fiction frequently imagines god-like beings that, in direct
proportion to their increasing knowledge and abilities, eventually
transcend emotion. It is assumed then that with infinite knowledge
and power inevitably comes a detached, dispassionate, and merely
logical perspective of things. The implication is clear: Emotion is
thought to be the stuff of lower beings. It seems to me that the
opposite is true. The relationship between knowledge/power and personhood/emotion should actually slide in the other direction. Dogs
have personality and emotions—humans, even more so. Why should an
infinitely superior being not have these same capacities, and even in
greater abundance? Indeed, the God described in the Bible is more
of a person than you or I. He is said to have an unfathomably nuanced
emotional spectrum that is capable of noting, processing,
appreciating—feeling—everything from a single fallen sparrow to a
world ending supernova. Given this, there is no other way to know
this extremely emotive and hyper-personal being apart from
discovering his revealed heart.
The
God of the Bible is incredibly passionate, creative, and relational.
He is not always expedient or practical. He regularly indulges in the
extravagance of poetry and beauty. His behavior is far from
capricious, yet it may seem so in terms of mere efficiency. He is
probably better understood as an artistic genius than a utilitarian
engineer.
Human
emotions are notoriously fickle. They are largely bound to numerous
shifting internal and external factors. Consequently, it is not a
flattering assessment to be characterized as an “emotional”
person. God, however, is undeniably a highly emotional being. He
feels things deeply, but he is always consistent. Contrary to the
human experience, his emotional response to various things can be
somewhat reliably predicted (insofar as he shares his heart with us).
His emotions spring from who he is and they inform what he
does.
Through
page after page of Holy Scripture, God pours out his heart to whoever
will listen. He utilizes numerous earthly analogies to convey the
lavish affection he feels for his people and the heart-rending grief
he experiences when they reject him. He explicitly likens his
emotional devastation to a publicly humiliated spouse whose beloved
has sexually betrayed them again and again. Though he is “slow to
anger,” he describes his intense jealousy in light of the
reasonable exclusivity expected by any husband or wife who is
unwilling to share their spouse with another. He also compares
himself to a father who humbly seeks to restore his wayward and
ungrateful children. He readily and recklessly expresses himself in
ways that leave him vulnerable to immense pain. He often references
the most intimate human relationships to describe how he feels. He is
not too proud to wear his heart on his sleeve.
Remove
the emotional element of God, and one would have to agree with
Dawkins' observation that an infinitely powerful being would have
no interest in communing with finite beings such as us. Putting
Dawkins' objection to bed, however, is as simple as watching a new
parent with their infant child. A mother or father can stare for
hours at their baby, captivated by every gurgle and slightest
gesture. The infant is, of course, not a compelling
conversationalist. They have nothing of any intellectual or practical
value to contribute to the relationship. Essentially, they are more
of a deficit than anything. And yet the parent is undaunted by the
infant’s technical inferiority and is always eager to engage their
child at whatever level they are capable. What transpires between the
two cannot be expressed as a mathematical equation or understood in
terms of mere reason. And yet it is intuitively understood by
emotional creatures without explanation. It is a matter of the heart.
Dawkins'
initial conclusion that a being capable of creating our universe
would be completely beyond us—transcendent—is totally correct.
We, as the infant, cannot very well go looking for him. He must peek
his head over the edge of the crib, so to speak, if we are to see his
face. It is the Christian claim that he has done just that and more.
After
centuries of poetic correspondence (all of which must be seen as a
father speaking “baby talk,” as there simply is no other way for
an infinite being to converse with finite creatures), the unrequited
author finally came in person. The creator became one of his
creatures. Jesus, the 1st Century man that Christians claim is
supernaturally the “exact imprint” of the transcendent God, spent
his days on earth declaring and demonstrating the heart of God—a
heart that is ultimately best seen in the great lengths he is willing
to go to reclaim his rebel creation. After all, matters of the heart
are not weighed in gold or silver but in spilled blood, sweat, and
tears. It is in the elegance and horror of the cross that the
pulsating heart of God, laid raw, is on display for all to see. He is
not a God far off, and it is his heart that draws him near.
“The
LORD is compassionate and merciful, slow to get angry and filled with
unfailing love.” -Psalm 103:8
