A few summers ago I found myself in rural Perthshire, quietly walking round a labyrinth painted onto an old green tennis court. I’d been asking the Lord for sustenance for the journey; a word or a phrase that I could hold close for the coming year. My mind was awash with the old song ‘Turn your eyes unto Jesus’ and I found myself mulling over the significance of where we place our sight.
When I arrived at the centre of the labyrinth, without really thinking about it, I placed my coat on the ground and lay down on my back. It was a grey day, but as I opened my eyes to the sky, I was blinded by the light. The sky is so very big, and lying there on that tennis court, I realised again that I am so very small..
Some moments float away with the wind, never to be thought of again, but that time on the tennis court those years ago has stayed with me. It wasn’t so much the idea that God (sky) is big, and I am small, though that’s a helpful perspective, rather the thought that followed. For in those still moments as I squinted my eyes so as not to be blinded by the light, one gentle freight-train of a thought settled on my mind: He’s already looking.
Wherever I find myself, whatever I’m doing, the very second I ‘turn my eyes unto Jesus’, I find that he’s already looking. I’m under his gaze. When I go about my work, he’s watching. When I burrow myself into a crime-thriller, he’s looking. Whenever and wherever I turn towards him, my Heavenly Father is poised, ready, to catch my eye. .
He’s ready, whether I turn or not. I’m always under his gaze
Why does that matter?
It matters because when we ‘fix our eyes on Jesus’ (Hebrews 12:2), we’re not just glaring into the abyss, hoping for the best. No, it’s deeper than that somehow, for the glancing of our eyes is profoundly relational.
The turning of the eyes may wordlessly say help. Or it might say wow, or thank you. It almost doesn’t matter why we turn our eyes, but the point is that we do. And in that sense each turning is an act of submission, a reorientation to the big sky: the big God who lives in unbearable light.
Further to that, though, the real significance of this turning is not in what it shows of our intentions, rather what it reveals of the intensity and purity of the gaze of love we meet when we do.
It is impossible for us to move out of the gaze of his love for us. Impossible. That means, when we stop to think about it, that every situation we find ourselves in is permeated by a broad shining spotlight of love, hope, truth and power.
The kitchen is a mess downstairs, some pans need a good scrub. I’m avoiding them by sitting up here gladly writing words that take my thoughts away from the domestic. But the reality is that as I descend the loft stairs in a few minutes, and set about remedying the pot encrusted with refried beans, I will do that under the gaze of the Creator. I will wipe surfaces under his gaze. There is no difference in his attentiveness to me in that domestic chore, and other seemingly more ‘noble’ pursuits eg prayer.
But how is my washing up changed when I’m mindful of the companionship of the Creator with me?
The answer is in the question.
The companionship of the Creator.
Where can I go from your Spirit?
Where can I flee from your presence?
If I go up to the heavens, you are there;
if I make my bed in the depths, you are there.
Psalm 139:7-8
Somehow everything changes when I have the source of all light, all hope, all joy, all goodness, staring at me with a ferocity of love that saw the stars flung into space, and a perfect God-man hung on a cross. I don’t think I’ve even begun to understand the implications of that; what it really means to live as one seen, and loved..
In these intervening years, as I have walked many solitary places, I’ve often found myself lying on the ground and feeling the gaze of the sky as I’m seen from above. I don’t need to lie down to remind myself of the Creator’s gaze, but I keep finding myself doing it. The sky is always up there, big and present, but sometimes we don’t see it unless we really choose to look.
Last week, as I take a short walk around our local river one lunchtime, a bed of autumn leaves catches my eye: so soft and inviting. This is not a secluded location, and mindful as I am of my daughters’ collective concern with my lack of self-consciousness, I check the distance of the nearest dog-walker and lie on my back in the sun.
Eyes heavenward, resting on the season’s fierce colours, I am seen.
I’m imbued with rays of love.
Surely it’s worth risking damp clothing to be reminded of that again.
Turn your eyes upon Jesus….and you’ll find you’re already under his gaze.
And, no, I didn’t carve this into the sand, I just happened on it.
