Scratchings from this week’s focus on Sight…
Jesus is the one asking. He is asking, gently, tenderly.
His eye is steady, searching deep. His breath falls warm. “What do you want?” (Lk. 18:41).
A current shoots through, tingling.
Someone cares.
Very God incarnate sees. And genuinely wants to know. “What do you want?”
No one bothers to ask that question. Except, perhaps, the voice crackling through that box at the drive-through. Or a weary, frustrated spouse? Or a once-rocked-close-babe now grown into more skin and more attitude who yells some kind of variation from behind a closed door at the end of the hall.
But this is Jesus who is drawing close, softly imploring what cries in this heart. He knows. But maybe He wants me to probe within, look, know for myself.
I take a deep breath. For what actually does this heart howl? For what do I thirst, crave, yearn? Do I even know the answer? His voice nudges again: What do you really want?
I ask myself while I string laundry out on the line, dip my hands into sudsy soap water, squeak the squeegee over fingerprints smudging the window panes. The porridge burns. The toilet backs up. The computer crashes. Socks get holes, milk goes sour, the price of fuel goes up, the account runs down. We dig graves and weep. We pop pills and pray. We argue and ache.
“What do you want?” He is persistent, passionate.
I have tried to buy what I thought I wanted. Threads unravel, plastic cracks. New, better, flashier models are released.
I have tried to book a ticket there. But no matter where I wing, sail, or drive on this spinning orb, this worrying heart, this racing mind, this heavy, sinful skin comes too. I can’t escape me.
I have tried to build it. Drywall chips, floors wear, carpet stains.
In the midst of this questing, this buying, this thirsting, Jesus stirs, “What do you want?”
The answer emerges from the fog. I feel it first. Before it takes shape as an image, as words, my body knows it: the tension drains from my shoulders. I loosen, untie. I breathe long and deeply. Like a gentle ocean breeze washing over me and the stars and the night, the answer refreshes, cool and reviving. A smile spreads in its wake. Yes, Jesus, I think I know what I want. (Dare I say?) I simply want a little bouquet, three flowers, sweet aroma wafting. I want a bud of relief, a few petals of peace, a profusion of joy.
But I wonder. Is that the all-about me-answer? Does that answer slot one in the category of self-gratifying pleasure seeker? God Himself beckons His child to cast the crushing burdens upon Him. Yet He too asks His followers to take up a cross. He is the One Who offers His people peace, a supernatural, all-encompassing peace that passes all understanding. And yet our Lord announces that He came not to bring peace, but a sword. Doesn’t He meet seekers with the joy of the abundant life, the joy of living waters? And yet He makes it known that blessed are those that mourn.
Jesus asks, “What do you want me to do for you?” Can one genuinely , in purity of heart, a heart that beats with His, ask for a trio of little blooms: respite, peace, joy?
This same Jesus , the One asking what I want, is also the One who said,
“Take my yoke upon you and learn from me, for I am gentle and humble in heart, and you will find rest for your souls (Mt. 11:29). I have told you these things so that in me you may have peace (Jn 16:33). Ask and you will receive, and your joy will be complete (Jn 16:24).”
I will believe Him. I will ask for that bouquet, though I know that each petal has a paradoxical underside, a different, darker hue and shade.
I know I can’t buy that little bunch, or craft them, paint them, or stitch them. I can’t embark on a quest for them. Mainly because I can’t molt out of my skin. I take my sinful DNA with me, wherever I go. Barring being made new, I am doomed to inevitably crush that bouquet underfoot. And that crushes me.
Simply, plainly, I need to be healed. I have been blind. I have missed His gift, this bouquet of His. I need my sight. I need to eyes to receive what He is offering this bleating heart.
The beggar did too. When Jesus asked “What do you want me to do for you?” he doesn’t miss a beat. He knows what he wants: “Lord, I want to see” (Lk. 18:41).
And I too say, “I want to see.” I want to see Jesus who gives rest, joy, peace. I want to see God who walks here and knows me, who dwells in this skin with me. How can I, rushed, stressed, and overloaded, see God in everything, everywhere, everyplace? I want to wake up. The whirring pace of life has droned me to sleep, a fan of white noise. I have lived groggy and blind. I grope and rant and rail through the maze of my daily obstacle course. And flail right by the rest, peace, joy that He stands here offering to me.
What do I want? I want to see the sacred in the common, the hallowed in the everyday, the holy in the now. I want to have eyes for grace. I want to know life as gift. I want to see God, El Shaddai, who is enough: my very own rest, my perfect peace, my wellspring of joy.
The way into the life that sees God is thanksgiving. “Enter into His courts with thanksgiving.” When I am willing to give thanks, the gates swing open. When I clothe myself in gratitude, I am ushered into the presence of the giving God. When I wash off the scales and the grime of this earth with thankfulness, I see God.
Can I give thanks and see ?
What do you want, Jesus asks.
I want to see.
I want to see that what I want is what I already have.
Lord? I know what I want. I want You to lay hands over these eyes. And I want to open them. To lay eyes on You. Everywhere. I want to SEE.
