Jesus urged His disciples to open their eyes to the world around them and behold the hand of God. In the seasons of the year, in the gathering of storms, in the birds of the air and flowers of the field, signs are offered that reveal God’s presence and purpose. Those who have eyes that perceive deeper things can discover that divine presence in Jesus’ own person and in the radiance of His own face. “He who has seen me,” He tells Philip, “has seen the Father!” In order to believe the other disciples’ witness, the apostle Thomas needs to see the risen Lord. Once that vision is granted to him, his hope is fulfilled and his joy is complete.
In this same vein, the Fathers of the Church declared that the ultimate purpose of reading Scripture is to acquire theoria, an inspired “vision” of God and His Truth. We read the Word of God and we hear it proclaimed through preaching and liturgical hymns. Yet we never really grasp it, understand it and take it into ourselves until we can “see” it—that is, until the words become in some sense “icons,” sacred images that enable written words to become a living Word. In order for the biblical text to be heard, it also needs to be “seen.” It needs to convey to us visual impressions that imprint themselves on our memory. Like Thomas, once we have actually “beheld” Christ, through the Scriptures and in our personal experience, then we can truly believe.
The other day a friend was lamenting the difficulty he found in discovering God’s presence in the midst of his daily routine. With war raging in Iraq, with images of the horrors being perpetrated by all sides in the world’s vast number of conflicts, with anxieties growing over gas prices and tuition costs, he has a hard time perceiving through the fog any trace of divine presence and purpose, and still less of beauty and holiness. All the earthly cares that impact upon him each day become distractions that get in the way of his prayer and numb him to any goodness and beauty that may actually lie about him. He is more discouraged and worried than depressed. That is, his condition is more spiritual than psychological. And he’s looking for something else, something more than what’s offered in the paper or on CNN or by the water cooler at work.
I didn’t have much to say, because I find myself in that state sometimes, too. What strikes me, though, is that the state itself is most appropriately characterized as blindness. I don’t any longer see what I know to be true. I can read about it in Scripture, even celebrate it in a church service. But if I’m not able to behold it, to perceive its reality and truth with the eyes of the heart, then it might just as well not exist. Like Philip and Thomas, we need to look beyond what is immediately present and see reality in its depths. Then we can enter into it and make it our own. It’s the difference between looking into a fish tank and swimming amid coral reefs, between mowing the lawn and picking wildflowers, between passing a school playground and holding a young child in your lap. We can look at good and beautiful things, or we can truly see them. And when we do see them, then we see beyond them, into a deeper reality. We can see in a Bible story the living Word of God; and in the person of Jesus, the very face of the Father.
In an effort to make this point, I shared with my friend a little piece of verse from many years ago. It’s not intended to be [auto]biographical. It grew out of an encounter many years ago with a person who, in total simplicity and humility, radiated holiness. Most people around him, it seems, never saw anything special in him at all. If I was allowed to perceive in and beyond him something that touched my life to the core, it had nothing to do with me; it came as a pure gift. The point is, once again, that if we have eyes to see, as everyone of us can have, then we perceive miracles all about us. The birds of the air and the lilies of the field become signs of Heaven, and holy people give irrefutable proof of the presence, the power, the majesty and the glory of God.
The Hermitage
Nothing ever happens here –
No miracles attract the eye,
No interviewer questions why
He chose to live so very near
To nowhere. Tourists never come
Encroaching on his solitude.
No neighbors ever bring him food
Or seek him out for fun as some
Eccentric curiosity.
They sense his need to be alone,
And so they leave him on his own
To dwell in dull obscurity.Nothing ever happens here –
No crises ever change the pace
That marks this simple, quiet place.
No would-be pilgrims flock to hear
Him sing the sacred liturgy
He offers up with fervent tears
Within this forest chapel. Years
Pass by, yet no one comes to see
What I have seen: that when he stands
To consecrate the holy breadA dazzling light surrounds his head
And flames leap from his outstretched hands.