The Love who sees

 

 ‘Come to me, all you that are weary and are carrying heavy burdens, and I will give you rest. 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. For my yoke is easy, and my burden is light.’ (Matthew 11:28-30)

To see anyone is to see their need, or at least to see they are every bit as needy as yourself. This is one of the more striking and attractive characteristics of Jesus in all four biblical portraits of his presence: He sees.

He sees human beings in their neediness. He sees that being human is not easy. He sees that human souls break down beneath the burdens life heaps upon them. He sees human hearts long for a gentle word, an understanding presence and a way of being that lightens their load.

He sees and welcomes the burdened to come as they are and rest in his presence, the presence of compassion where there is no need to be anything but whatever it is they are at the moment.

One doesn’t begin to understand this, not really, until you imagine him turning his face to glimpse the hidden need your eyes cannot deny and speaking directly to you, “Come ... and rest.”

Only then, do we begin to feel why human souls clamored near to him, hungry to feel whatever it was that made their hearts breathe and burn in his presence.

They came because he was ... and is ... the Love who sees. The Love who welcomes. The Love who whispers the truth that we are creatures of Love, created by Love to know the Love he is coursing through our lives and hearts, giving relief, release and purpose.

My burden is light, he says of that purpose. Maybe so, though I don’t always believe it. Bearing the weight of love, both the receiving and the giving, will break your heart and teach you just how weak and inadequate you really are.

But it is for this receiving and giving that we are born, and it is only this that fulfills and completes a human life. It is our chief beauty, however much we might fail in the endeavor. A single moment of truly knowing and truly loving sparkles with the brilliance of eternity.  

And even when we break down beneath the weight we carry, the divine voice continues to call, echoing through the centuries in search of our souls, a voice earnest and eager who beckons, “Come. Rest in the Love who knows you.”

David L. Miller