Adore is a strong word. Many dictionaries say it means "to love deeply", though this is usually intended in the romantic sense. When it comes to one's relationship with God, most dictionaries offer that to adore is "to worship as divine". But they also define worship as "showing…adoration of the divine", which is, of course, circular and therefore, unhelpful.
I am not sure that one can actually define what it means to adore God unless one has actually had the experience of adoring God. So perhaps the people who write up such definitions can only speak from observations of what faith people do, rather than firsthand understanding of what faith people experience. But given that I used the word "adore" in last week's post, some of you may be wondering: what exactly did I mean, by saying that I adore Jesus?
I find it painfully inexact to equate adoration and love. For sure, both adoration and love are forms of deeply devoted affection. But the experience of loving my wife and children, on the one hand, and of adoring God, on the other, is qualitatively different in a very profound way. I was surprised by how many words it took me to describe these differences. (Who would have thought that it would be hard to give words to complex feelings?) Still, after many days and much reflection, this is what I came up with.
The starting point is the observation that there are “intrinsic” and “intentional” attributes to both love and adoration. I'll explain this in more detail later, but for now I simply wish to establish that (1) these are not the sole attributes of these complex emotions; but (2) I focus on these as there are fundamental differences in how each of these aspects present themselves in love, as compared to adoration — and therefore can help explain why I do not equate the two.
The intrinsic and intentional nature of love. One attribute of love is the inexplicable force of attraction drawing us towards the object of our love (we intrinsically feel attracted to X). But love also manifests as a willingness to do hard things in difficult circumstances in service of the object of our love (we intentionally make sacrifices to benefit X). This is common human experience, which, as it turns out, is patterned after God’s love for us. He is both perplexingly (and intrinsically) drawn to us in spite of our lack of regard for him, and at the same time, he is willing (intentionally) to go to great lengths for our welfare, even at punitive cost. However – and this is a key point – the manner of God’s love is such that his love for us is unlimited in each and every one of the ways that our propensity to love others is limited. This distinction, between the limited and the unlimited, is essential to understanding how adoration differs from love.
The contrasting nature of adoration. We, being limited, do not have the capacity to love God, the unlimited, in the same way as God loves us. Let’s consider the “intrinsic” dimension of my adoration for God. As a believer, I am drawn to his light in the same way I am drawn to my children. But there is something far greater at work in my relationship with God: awe. What, then, is awe? Awe is surrendering to the knowledge that I am not capable of grasping the scale of who he truly is. One songwriter put it this way: "You are beautiful beyond description/Too marvelous for words/Too wonderful for comprehension/Like nothing ever seen or heard". What about the “intentional” aspect of adoration? It turns out we encounter a similar phenomenon: my volition, my willingness to follow what he asks, is grounded by the knowledge that I can do nothing for him, that nothing the finite can offer is worthy of the infinite. But how do I confront these realities, of God’s limitlessness meeting my limitedness?
A confounding outcome. In the face of God's omnipotent capacity to love me, I find myself at the very outer limits of who I am. I am at the limit of my knowledge (for I cannot grasp the scale of him) and also at the limit of my ability (for I can offer him nothing that is worthy). When nothing I know or nothing I can do matters, what is left of me? I find myself vulnerable. I am exposed. And I am my naked, unvarnished, self in a way that I never find myself with any other living being. In this space, I have no power or control over what happens. I have no means to explain, no ability to account, no skill to deceive. Nothing can be hidden, and all is revealed. If this stripping away happened before any other human, this would surely be tantamount to my destruction. But confoundingly, when it is God who is with me in that place, I am utterly secure; I am completely and unreservedly accepted, without regard for my inadequacy and failings. (There’s that “P” word again: propitiation).
Gratitude of a different complexion. A natural response to this unexpected sense of wholeness is gratitude. But — spot the trend — the gratitude I feel in adoration goes much deeper than any normal other form of gratitude. Why? Because that gratitude does not flow simply from what he has done for me. It flows from what he has done, period. For he has not died only for me, but he has died also for you. As it turns out, this is rather important.
Why does that matter? Take solemnly, for a moment, the idea that as human beings we owe a fundamental responsibility to each other. This notion is key to cherished ideas such as equality, decency, and respect. Jesus' death matters because when I inevitably fail you, when I am too weak to do what I must, when I cannot provide the love you both crave and deserve, when the most I can offer is worth nothing to you, I contribute to the despoiling of the world. This is a crushing reality. Yet, despite this, because of Jesus' sacrifice, I am no longer condemned to carry the misery of my shame, or to bear the burden of my guilt.
And, critically, vice versa, neither are you.
Instead, I (we) can look to him, knowing that he has done that which I (we) cannot; indeed, he has done that which nobody else can. This knowledge, this confidence, this reassurance, this security, this hope – that is what sits at the heart of adoration.
It is the most freeing feeling in the world, and I wish everyone in the world could know it. If you ever are curious, just reach out.
Grace and peace,
-J
I realize this was a longer read, and fairly conceptual. There is always a risk that people are turned off by the combination of religion and abstraction. As such…
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