The Face of God

It is not uncommon to have third or fourth grade Hebrew School students press me about characteristics describing God. At an age where children define things according to concrete facts, metaphor or spiritual concepts do not satisfy their curiosity.

One student recently asked me what the Torah said about the nature of God. She wanted me to complete the sentence, “God is….” She was very frustrated when I told her that the Torah simply says, “God is.” Period. When Moses asks God, “Who shall I say sent me?” God replies, “Tell them ‘I am’ sent you.” In fact, the four-ltter name of God uses the same letters as the verb “to be.”

From this, we know only that God is — that God exists. God presents us with stories and rules that guide us to live righteous lives. But we are not given information that helps us conceptualize God in a way that often feels satisfying
in our physical world. To help us relate to God, the Torah uses phrases like “the arm of God,” “if I find favor in Your sight,” or “God became angry.” But God does not have a body, does not have eyes to see, and does not have emotions in the same way human beings do. Children are not the only ones who struggle when trying to come to an understanding of the nature of God that is meaningful in their everyday lives. Some would say that these are not the questions we should be asking — and yet it is difficult not to ask them.

There is no single way to understand the nature of God. For me, I am most acutely aware of the presence of God whenever I have a meaningful encounter with another person. Sharing a significant moment with someone else is, for me, a sacred occurrence. It is certainly not always a serious moment; just a time of true connection. The connection may occur during a visit with a sick congregant, studying with one of my b’nei mitzvah students, or taking the time to play a game with a small child. What all these situations have in common is that they are free of distractions — moments of calm in a turbulent world. Holiness is defined as something that is set apart from the commonplace. These sacred moments are oases, temporal sanctuaries sheltered from the chaos of everyday life.

The anthropomorphic characteristics we tend to impose on God become most real for me when I spend time with children in the hospital. God’s countenance appears in the mirror of their faces. When I see the bright smile of a child oblivious to the life-threatening illness he is battling, the placid face of the unconscious child whose body is healing itself from a serious injury, or look down at the innocent infant surrounded not only by tubes and machines
but enveloped by the loving arms of parents, I know that I am staring at the reflection of the face of God.

People often ask me how I can work as a chaplain on pediatrics. They are convinced that it must be a place filled with anguish and grief. While I certainly encounter difficult situations and painful moments, this is not the pervasive tone of my experience. Rather, I find myself filled with sensations of awe, warmth, wholeness, and joy — for everywhere I look, I encounter the face of God. In the Book of Exodus, Moses asks to behold God’s presence.

God replies that no human can look into God’s face and live. Instead, God passes before Moses and allows him to see God’s back. From this we learn that, while we may not be able to engage the Divine directly as we would people or objects in our physical universe, we can experience the result of God’s presence in the world. In the course of our daily activities, we may have to look a little closer to see evidence of God. My hospital work makes me acutely aware that, if I pay attention, I can see God’s reflection all around me — and for this I give thanks each day.

L’shalom,
Andrew Bernard
Cantor