Lent as a gifted time for learning to see

There’s a lot that we don’t see. Even the things we think we see – the familiar objects and people we interact with every day – we probably don’t really see. At least, not with a fullness of detail.

Think about it, if you had to draw a picture of your local coffee shop with all the detail and colors, the paintings on the walls, the signage, the shape of the wood on the chairs and color of the material on the seat, and draw it all as accurate as a photograph, that would be an almost impossible challenge.

There’s a coffee shop I go to regularly. I spend hours there at a time. While I could draw the general idea of the place, many details would be wrong or forgotten entirely.

Eyewitness testimony isn’t as reliable as we thought. I know this firsthand based on an experience I had in college. I was walking home from my late-night shift waiting tables at IHOP when two young men got up from sitting on a picnic table outside of an office complex and approached me. I always cut through the complex on my walk back to my apartment. It was a suburban area in a fairly safe midwestern city, so I didn’t think anything of being in a quiet parking lot at 1 am.

That is, until one of those guys pulled a gun out of his pocket and pressed it to my forehead.

They took all my tip money, took my apartment keys, told me to count to 100 and not look up until I’d finished, and ran off. I counted to about 4, looked up to see what they looked like, and sprinted home to call the police.

The police were quick and efficient. Almost miraculously, they picked up two likely suspects based on my description of their clothing about half an hour later. The police asked me to look at their faces and identify them. As I looked, a police officer searched them and pulled my tip money and keys out of the pocket of one of the men. I recognized him, so the police bundled him off to the station. The other man I was almost certain was the second robber (logically, he almost had to be), but I had to be honest and admit that I couldn’t remember his face. They let him go.

We’re blind to so much. Sometimes even human faces don’t register.

This extends to the metaphorical as well. There are spiritual mysteries of which we know nothing, intellectual truths we miss, the motivations of others are hidden. I have, so many time, obstinately thought I was right in my opinions only to have a new perspective revealed and, suddenly, I “see” a new possibility.

I used to be more confident in my perspective. These days I’m not so sure. I’ve been humbled enough at this point that I’ve learned to ask myself what am I not seeing? I’ve come to think of my vocation as being a guy who is simply learning to see.

In the Christian tradition, Heaven is described as the “Beatific Vision.” Our eternal happiness is, essentially, the opportunity to look directly at God, face to face, and never stop looking. On earth, our spirituality is defined by the darkness of faith. It’s a true vision that faith provides, to be sure, but until we make it to Heaven, we’re peering through a veil.

Sometimes we “see” God more directly and feel his presence, experience intellectual or moral clarity, or a moment of piercing beauty; more often, though, we’re pilgrims marching through the night. There’s just enough light from our lamps to see the next step but no further.

If we want to make it to the end of the pilgrimage, we must be honest about what we don’t see. This is one of the great benefits of Lent as a time to put aside distraction – all the shiny things that misdirect our attention – and narrow down our perspective so we have a better chance at seeing further down the road. It’s a slow, patient process, continuously practiced. It feels like a form of suffering, a sacrifice of attention for a greater purpose. It’s a spiritual discipline that runs counter to rushed 5-minute devotions and youtube-clip-style spirituality. Slow and steady is the only way to increase our depth of vision.

If the goal of life is to contemplate God (contemplation is a word that literally means “to see deeply”), then we should be learning to see not only during Lent, not only in Church, but in the whole of our lives. I once had a philosophy teacher who told the class that, no matter what we do, the goal is contemplation – a contemplative handyman, a contemplative mother, a contemplative factory worker … we can see God through it all. This is a goal sufficient to itself, this striving to see our Maker.

For me, quiet time in nature is beneficial. Sitting on the porch and looking at the sky. Watching my children play. Playing the piano. Looking at art. Writing. I’m sure others could chime in and mention working on the car, cooking, cleaning, building a model ship, gardening, fishing … I guess the point is, absolutely anything. If we’re willing students, we are always learning to see.

Like St. John the Evangelist, lean in close to Christ. Feel his heartbeat. See with his vision. This is the key to happiness. I can’t help but to connect St. John’s later revelatory visions with his experience of seeing the face of his Savior up close. Throughout his Apocalypse, he repeats over and over that he is looking and seeing. The more he looks, the more is unveiled.

The startling truth is that learning to see draws us ever deeper into a personal apocalypse. When we glimpse the truth, it changes us. We are called into a new life and the old is left behind.

When we contemplate, the increased vision we receive is a gift. And if it is a gift, this means that some mysterious communion is being shared between gift and giver. We participate in what we see. It’s a shared grace. When we see God, we start to become more like him. There’s no turning back now, friends. Keep looking.

Read more:How mental prayer can open us to the warmth of Heavenly Love