What Does Your Life Say About God?

I came across a phrase yesterday that stopped me in my tracks.

It was used by Rabbi Jonathan Wittenberg, a senior British rabbi, speaking about what he had witnessed in the West Bank. He described the violence being perpetrated by Israeli settlers against Palestinians as a Chillul HaShem — a desecration, or profanation, of God’s name.

It is a phrase I had encountered before, but I had never really stopped to think about it.

The literal meaning is something like the desecration of the Name. But it means more than using God’s name disrespectfully. Chillul Hashem is the idea that human behaviour can bring dishonour upon God.

And suddenly the phrase seemed to me to contain an extraordinary thought.

What we do can affect what other people think about God.

Rabbi Wittenberg’s words were not simply saying that violence is wrong. They were saying that when people who identify themselves with Judaism behave in a way that is cruel, unjust or violent, something else happens as well. Their behaviour becomes a kind of statement about the God whose name they claim to bear.

That is a frightening responsibility.

But perhaps it is also a profoundly hopeful one.

Because Judaism has another expression: Kiddush HaShem — the sanctification of God’s name.

If Chillul HaShem means that our lives can profane the sacred, Kiddush HaShem suggests that our lives can also make the sacred visible.

And I began to wonder whether this is an idea that belongs only to Judaism.

I don’t think it does.

Christianity has its own uncomfortable version of the same thought.

St Paul, writing to the Christians in Rome, quotes the Hebrew Scriptures:

“The name of God is blasphemed among the Gentiles because of you.”

It is an extraordinary sentence.

Paul is not saying that God’s reputation depends upon human beings. He is saying that other people encounter the God we proclaim through the lives of those who proclaim him.

Jesus puts the matter differently when he warns his followers not to become a stumbling block to others. And then, in the Sermon on the Mount, he says:

“Let your light shine before others, so that they may see your good works and give glory to your Father in heaven.”

Notice the direction of travel.

They see your life.

And somehow they glimpse God.

That is quite a responsibility.

It also changes the nature of what it means to be religious.

We tend to think of religion as something we believe. We have doctrines, scriptures, prayers, rituals and institutions. We can explain what we believe and argue about whether other people believe the right things.

But there is another possibility.

Perhaps religion is also something we embody.

Perhaps, for the person who claims to believe in God, every encounter with another human being becomes a tiny theological statement.

How we treat the person who cannot do anything for us.

How we behave when nobody is watching.

How we respond when we have been insulted.

What we do with power.

What we do with money.

How we treat strangers.

Whether we can admit that we were wrong.

Whether our compassion extends beyond the boundaries of our own tribe.

Whether we can see the humanity of somebody whose politics, nationality, religion or opinions we detest.

None of these things looks like theology.

But perhaps they are.

Because if I tell you that I believe in a God of love, and then treat you with contempt, which of those two things will you believe?

If I tell you that I believe in forgiveness, but remain incapable of forgiving anyone who has hurt me, what exactly have I communicated?

If I speak endlessly about the dignity of every human being, but reserve my indignation for people who belong to my own side, what has my life said?

And if I claim to follow Christ, but my Christianity makes me less compassionate, less generous, less patient and less willing to listen, what might someone reasonably conclude about Christ?

These are uncomfortable questions.

Perhaps they should be.

The idea is not confined to Christianity or Judaism. Other religious traditions have recognised versions of the same responsibility. Buddhism, for example, places enormous emphasis upon the conduct of those who represent the Buddha, the Dharma and the Sangha. A teacher’s behaviour can strengthen confidence in the Dharma — or undermine it.

Islam places a powerful emphasis upon the connection between faith and righteous action. Sikhism asks its adherents to embody the teachings of the Guru rather than merely profess them.

The details differ. The theology differs enormously.

But underneath them lies a remarkably common intuition:

What we do tells people what we believe is true.

And perhaps that is why the phrase I encountered yesterday has stayed with me.

Because we are living through a time when religious identity is once again becoming highly visible — and sometimes highly weaponised.

We have become very good at defending our identities.

Christian.

Jewish.

Muslim.

Hindu.

Buddhist.

Atheist.

Conservative.

Progressive.

Nationalist.

Liberal.

We gather around our labels and defend them fiercely.

But perhaps there is a more searching question than What do you call yourself?

It is:

What does your life make that identity look like?

There is an even deeper problem.

We don’t only represent our religions.

We represent our families.

Our communities.

Our countries.

Our political convictions.

Our professions.

The causes we support.

The people we claim to admire.

And sometimes simply our species.

Every time we encounter another human being, we give them a little more evidence about what human beings are like.

That thought can sound grandiose until you reverse it.

Think of the person who has shown you extraordinary kindness.

You probably remember them.

Perhaps you don’t remember what they said. Perhaps you don’t even remember exactly what they did.

But you remember how they made the world feel.

For a moment, because of them, you believed something different about human beings.

Perhaps that is what Kiddush HaShem ultimately points towards.

Not making a speech about God.

Not winning an argument for God.

Not persuading somebody to adopt your beliefs.

But living in such a way that another person catches a glimpse of the goodness you say lies at the heart of reality.

The Jewish tradition gives us two remarkably concise possibilities.

Chillul HaShem: our lives can make the sacred look contemptible.

Kiddush HaShem: our lives can make the sacred visible.

And perhaps there is a question here for all of us, whether or not we use religious language.

If you say you believe in God, there is the obvious question:

What does your life say about God?

But perhaps the question can be turned around.

What does your life say about what you believe is ultimately important?

What does it say about love?

About truth?

About justice?

About human dignity?

About forgiveness?

About hope?

Because other people are watching.

Not necessarily critically. Not necessarily consciously.

But they are encountering us.

And perhaps, without ever intending to, we are telling them what kind of world we believe in.

The thought that began with a Hebrew phrase used by a rabbi speaking about violence in the West Bank has therefore left me with a much more personal question.

Not What do I say I believe?

But:

What does my life make believable?