He represents our likeness, fulfills it, and so has the prerogative to reproduce his likeness in us.
People are fascinated by likenesses. It was the arrival of my first daughter that prompted this discovery for me. Everyone was interested in who she looked like. “The image of her father,” said one. “I see her mother in her, when she was a baby,” noted another. One slanderous individual even suggested a similarity to her maternal grandfather. And, for all I know they might all have been correct.
Others set out to create a likeness. Portrait artists, particularly in pre-photographic times, would endeavor to capture a likeness. And so it is that we think we know what Henry VIII, William Shakespeare, and Martin Luther looked like, thanks to their efforts.
It seems that both of these ideas are present in the important biblical idea of likeness which includes the inherited similarity passed down from father to son, mother to daughter and so on, as when Saint Paul says we have all borne the image of “the man of dust” (1 Cor. 15:47). And it also includes the attempt to fashion something in the image of another — for example, in the graven image, also described as the likeness of some living thing.
But there is another curious phenomenon. Sometimes, when people set out to fashion the image of another, they instead create the likeness of themselves. I noticed this when studying Christian art and artists. Take “the Master” Rembrandt as a classic example. In his masterpiece, The Stoning of St. Stephen, we find Rembrandt himself, poised to hurl a stone at the first Christian martyr. And in his only seascape, The Storm on the Sea of Galilee, one of the disciples, close to Jesus and yet with a tight grip on his trademark beret, is Rembrandt once again. Likewise in his unforgettable and haunting The Raising of the Cross, Rembrandt is active in the likeness of a Jew or Roman in the erection of the cross of crucifixion. Whether it be the likeness of fearful disciple or calculating sinner, Rembrandt imposes his likeness onto biblical types and prototypes.
To be in the likeness of God would be to mirror the goodness of God.
And so it was with God. In creating us, we read, “Then God said, ‘Let us make man in our image, after our likeness; and let them have dominion over the fish of the sea, and over the birds of the air, and over the cattle, and over all the earth, and over every creeping thing that creeps upon the earth’” (Gen. 1:26-31). So God, the Creator, put something of himself uniquely into humanity, the crowning achievement of his handiwork, made in his image and after his likeness.
But what has become of the likeness of God in us? The likeness of God could not survive in creatures who lived contrary to what God is like — people who lived without love, without fairness, without responsibility, without the divine qualities. And so the most precious attribute of humanity was lost, as the species spiraled into sin. Actually, this matter greatly exercised the early fathers of our holy faith. Irenaeus, for example, said that God had spoken of two different things when he said, “Let us make man in our image, after our likeness.” To be in the image of God, he said, was to be human, to be set aside from the rest of creation. It was to be rational, to be morally accountable, to have a soul, and, while other creatures would be bound by their instincts, for us to be in the image of God meant that we were free. And that, some say, is why the very best of worlds, this one, crowned by beings of free will, could nonetheless plunge into disobedience and sin, simply because we share with God his image, and like God, we are free to choose. That image, he argued, is still there, so, even in our fallen state we remain rational, morally culpable and we retain a will. But the likeness, Irenaeus said, is not the moral capacity, but what you do with it. To be in the likeness of God would be to mirror the goodness of God; it would mean freely to choose the right; it would mean to love — like God. And that likeness, he said, perished in the fall. No longer is the likeness of God to be seen among us, but all have sinned and fall short of the glory of God. And so the image of God needs to be restored.
Whether Irenaeus was right to distinguish between the image and the likeness of God in that way has been debated over the centuries. But this much is undeniable to any who look to the apostolic word of God: the likeness of God needs to be restored in the likes of you and me, indeed, in all people. Furthermore, the Scriptures tell us that God himself put this matter in hand, because only God could do it. We had no will, no ability to do it. The same Scriptures tell how God accomplished this great purpose. In the midst of Philippians 2:1-11, Saint Paul disclosed how Christ Jesus, the Son of Holy Mary who was truly God, “though he was in the form of God, emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.” And here we have it: “Being born in the likeness of men.”
This is not to say that he was a bit like a man. It means he very really took on himself all that was lost to us with sin. This is why he was conceived of the Holy Spirit and born of the pure virgin, Mary. He took on human frailty and mortality. He exposed himself to temptation and to the agonies of our existence. In only one respect was he different, and that is that his free will never strayed to choose what is wrong. Yet he shared our sin, because he carried our sin. He never sinned but became sin. And he carried it to death, “even death on a cross.” And there he dealt with it. So the likeness of God can be ours in him. He took on our likeness, and in so doing he restored to us God’s likeness. As Saint Irenaeus himself would put it, “He became what we are, so that we might become what he is.” Or, as Saint Paul had it “we all, with unveiled face, beholding the glory of the Lord, are being changed into his likeness from one degree of glory to another” (2 Cor. 3:18).
As we live from day to day, we may be very much more aware of the likeness lost, than of the likeness restored.
Jesus emptied himself, took on the incarnation of our nature, perfectly obeyed in our place, and died in our place — achieving perfect obedience under the most arduous conditions and making a blood atonement to reconcile us to God. Now God has lifted him from the depths in which we have languished to the highest place of honor, with the name above every name, the name of “Lord.” This Jesus is our King, and it is the King’s responsibility to represent his people. He represents our likeness, fulfills it, and so has the prerogative to reproduce his likeness in us. And we follow him even there, to his throne, and from there to his altar knowing that as he enters us, we are “being changed into his likeness from one degree of glory to another.”
Except it doesn’t always feel that way, does it? In principle, on paper, we are restored to the likeness of God. And since the particular paper it is on is the pages of the New Testament, we had better believe it. But the reality in practice can seem very different. Yes, baptism is a birth, but it can seem like the regenerative aspect was a stillbirth. Indeed, as we live from day to day, we may be very much more aware of the likeness lost, than of the likeness restored. Sometimes, it’s even a hard and dispiriting struggle against the tide of the world around and the flesh within, which are anything but like the Son of God. But take heart: If it does feel that way, then it is a good sign. It is realistic, for we do all fall short of the glory of God. But that is not the point. Christ does not. Christ is the glory of God. And, when it really matters, we will be judged by his standards, and by his obedience, and by our being found in him who is our righteousness.
Still, in the meantime, it would be nice to feel a little of the likeness of God in our lives, wouldn’t it? And there is a way. Saint Paul said, “Put on the new nature, created after the likeness of God in true righteousness and holiness” (Eph. 4:24). It is clear that putting on the nature created after the likeness of God entails living in the likeness of God. In other words, it is a question of being what you are. And when it comes to the Eucharist, you are what you eat.
So how can we do it? Philippians 2:1-11 gives a simple answer. We are restored to God because Christ took on our nature and was found in the likeness of men. Now we are called to take on his likeness. And how would you be like God? By being highly exalted, as Jesus is? No, that is exactly what it doesn’t say. Rather, “Have this mind among yourselves, which is yours in Christ Jesus, who, though he was in the form of God, did not count equality with God a thing to be grasped, but emptied himself, taking the form of a servant.”
Throughout the Gospels, there is no quality more closely identified by Jesus with the life of his people than the humility that echoes his own. “You know that those who are supposed to rule over the Gentiles lord it over them, and their great men exercise authority over them” (Matt. 20:25), he told his followers. “But it shall not be so among you; but whoever would be great among you must be your servant, and whoever would be first among you must be slave of all. For the Son of man also came not to be served but to serve, and to give his life as a ransom for many” (Matt. 20:26-28).
And when the world sees God’s people behaving so, they are, in fact, seeing the likeness of God, as it has been shown to us in his Son, whom humbled himself and “became obedient unto death, even death on a cross. “ We carry our cross joyfully, because we know that it shall give way to a crown.
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