We Were Made for God

There is a simple truth at the heart of the Christian life: We live for God and we die for God, because we were made for God.

Everything else in life – our work, possessions, accomplishments, relationships, pleasures, disappointments, suffering, aging, and even death – must eventually be understood in the light of that truth.

St. Paul expresses it beautifully. “For if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord; so then, whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s” [Romans 14:8].

Those words change the meaning of both life and death. Life is no longer simply the number of years between birth and the grave. Death is no longer simply the closing of the curtain. Both belong to a much larger story.

We came from God. We travel toward God. And ultimately, we belong to God.

Augustine’s Restless Heart

Few Christian thinkers understood this better than St. Augustine of Hippo.

Augustine spent much of his early life looking for happiness in places that could never completely satisfy him. He pursued ambition, intellectual achievement, pleasure, relationships, and recognition. Yet something remained missing.

Eventually he discovered that the hunger within him was larger than anything the world could feed.

At the beginning of his “Confessions,” (Book 1, Chapter 1) Augustine wrote one of Christianity’s most famous observations: “for thou hast made us for thyself and restless is our heart until it comes to rest in thee.”

The human heart is like a compass needle. We can shake the compass, turn it upside down, or carry it in different directions, but needle will eventually always point to north.  God is the true north of the human heart.

We sometimes try to make created things carry the weight that only God can carry. We expect money to give us security, success to give us identity, relationships to give us completeness, and pleasure to give us happiness. These things can be good, but they are not God.

A boat is a wonderful thing when it is on the water. But water becomes dangerous when it gets inside the boat. In the same way, the things of this world are good when we use them properly. They become dangerous when they begin to fill the place in our hearts that belongs to God.

Jesus asks us, “What profit is there for one to gain the whole world and forfeit his life?” [Mark 8:36].  Augustine discovered this truth for himself.  Possessing the world is not enough if we lose sight of the One for whom we were created.

Merton and the Search for the True Self

Thomas Merton approached the same mystery from another direction.

Merton knew something about worldly success. Before entering the Trappist monastery at Gethsemani, he had been an ambitious young writer searching for meaning. Yet he eventually discovered that our deepest identity cannot be manufactured. It must be discovered in God.

Merton often distinguished between the false self and the true self.

The false self is the person we construct for the world. It depends upon reputation, possessions, approval, status, and comparison with others.  The true self is the person God created us to become.

Imagine an actor who has worn a costume for so many years that he has forgotten he is acting. He looks into the mirror and thinks the costume is actually his identity.

Much of the spiritual life involves removing the costume. Prayer asks, “Who am I before God when all the titles disappear?”

When our careers end, who are we? When our strength fades, who are we? When people no longer applaud us, who are we? When possessions pass to someone else, who are we? Christianity gives a remarkable answer: We are God’s.

That is why aging can become not merely a process of losing things but a process of discovering what cannot be lost.

Chesterton and the Gift of Existence

G. K. Chesterton possessed an extraordinary ability to see ordinary life with wonder. For Chesterton, existence itself was astonishing. We often treat tomorrow as though God owes it to us. Chesterton’s imagination encourages us to see things differently. Morning is not merely another sunrise. It is another gift.

The child understands this better than the adult. A child can ask someone to tell the same story again, play the same game again, or push the swing again. The child has not yet become bored with repetition. Chesterton saw something almost childlike in creation. The sun rises again. The seasons come again. Flowers bloom again. Life appears again.

Creation seems to whisper: Again! This changes how we understand living for God. Living for God does not necessarily mean doing extraordinary things. It means receiving ordinary things extraordinarily well.

A simple meal can become thanksgiving. Work can become service. Friendship can become communion. Suffering can become an offering. Forgiveness can become grace. Growing old can become preparation. And prayer can become the recognition that every breath is borrowed.

The psalmist says: “Teach us to count our days aright, that we may gain wisdom of heart” [Psalms 90:12].  Counting our days does not mean living fearfully. It means living gratefully.

C. S. Lewis and Our Desire for Another Country

C. S. Lewis also recognized that human beings possess desires that this world never completely satisfies.

We can experience moments of extraordinary beauty – a sunset, music, friendship, falling in love, the ocean, the birth of a child – and something within us says, “I wish this could last forever.” But it does not. The sunset disappears. The music ends. Children grow up. People we love die. Our own bodies grow older.

Lewis argued that our deepest longings may be signs pointing beyond this world. Hunger suggests food and thirst suggests water, but our longing for a joy that nothing earthly can completely satisfy may suggest that we were made for something beyond earthly life. We were made for God.

It is a mistake confusing the road sign with the destination. It is also a mistake not loving the beautiful things of this world.

Imagine driving home after a long journey. Along the highway you see a sign bearing the name of your hometown. You would never stop the car, embrace the sign, and announce, “I have arrived.” The sign is significant only because it points beyond itself.

So, too, with the beautiful things of creation. A marriage points beyond itself. Friendship points beyond itself. Beauty points beyond itself. Love points beyond itself. They are glimpses through the window of something greater.

If We Live, We Live for the Lord

This brings us back to St. Paul: “Whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s.” That sentence becomes increasingly powerful as we grow older. When we are young, life can appear to stretch endlessly before us. Later, we begin measuring time differently. We realize there are more years behind us than ahead of us.

Christian faith does not ask us to pretend otherwise.  Instead, it tells us something astonishing: the destination explains the journey. A sailor does not fear the harbor because the voyage is ending. The harbor was the reason for the voyage.

Death, then, is not simply the destruction of life. For the Christian, it is the final surrender of life into the hands of the One who gave it.

Jesus said: “I am the resurrection and the life; whoever believes in me, even if he dies, will live” [John 11:25].

Christian hope does not deny grief. Jesus Himself wept at the tomb of Lazarus. We grieve because we love. But grief does not have the final word. Death does not have the final word – God does.

Made for God

Augustine tells us why our hearts remain restless. Merton reminds us where our true identity is found. Chesterton teaches us to receive existence with wonder. Lewis reminds us that our deepest desires point toward another country. Together they lead us toward the same conclusion: We were made for God.

Therefore, the purpose of life is not merely to accumulate possessions, extend our years, build a reputation, or leave our name carved somewhere in stone. The purpose of life is to become the person God created us to be. Life is a pilgrimage, not a permanent residence.

We are travelers carrying bags that eventually must be put down. Some bags contain accomplishments. Others contain regrets. Some contain memories. Others contain wounds. Eventually we must surrender them all.

And perhaps at the end of the road, we will discover something Augustine understood centuries ago: the restlessness was always homesickness. We were searching for God because God had first been searching for us. We live for Him. We suffer with Him. We love through Him. We die in Him.

And if Christ’s promise is true, death is not the extinguishing of the lamp. It is the dawn. “For if we live, we live for the Lord, and if we die, we die for the Lord.” We came from God. We belong to God. And we are going home to God.