I still remember the moment in one of my college classes when someone observed that Jane Austen didn’t really “do” description. It struck me because I hadn’t really noticed—in fact, I rarely paid attention to such things, except as they might relate to symbolism or some other interpretative need. Literature to me was plot and characterization, emotions and meaning. I didn’t really care what color anyone’s hair was, except when it might mean something metaphorically.

In fact, I’d never been a very “visual” person: when I would return from visiting at someone’s house, my parents would ask what the house was like. My frequent response was “nice” or perhaps “tidy” or some such. By contrast, they and my siblings could practically provide a layout with all sorts of details of color and style. 

In recent years, I’ve discovered that I’m someone with some form of aphantasia. That is, when asked to close my eyes and picture an apple (a classic test), everything is a blank. No apple. As a child, when we were told to close our eyes and imagine this or that, I always thought it just meant thinking about ideas—not actually seeing something. Who knew that other people had a whole movie running in their heads. I had lots of other things—music and words, for example—but certainly not some fruit-filled slide show. 

At the end of Marilynne Robinson’s Gilead, John Ames observes: “Wherever you turn your eyes the world can shine like transfiguration. You don’t have to bring a thing to it except a little willingness to see. Only, who could have the courage to see it?”

And that it, isn’t it? Such an overwhelming amount to see. But the key, as Robinson makes clear here, is that we “don’t have to bring a thing to it,” except our steady resolve and openness. It’s why I think we need to be deliberate about our looking: at art, at literature, at the happenings around us–past and present. The best should enlarge our vision, or as Wordsworth help us “see into the life of things.” 

And, I would add: we must cultivate the willingness see each other ever more fully–and to let others help us see what we cannot. 

It’s why I’m deeply grateful for the great, good guidance of my friend Jane Zwart. Our now long tradition of her providing me the prayers she offers at her church to run in this space is an enormous gift: her brilliant, generous approach illuminates even the most well-known Biblical examples and amplifies the real truths of our humanity. It is as if I see things as if for the first time, or certainly, from some distinctly new vantage point. My brain is bigger after I live in the world her words create.

But even more, she always leads me back to the vastness of God’s love for us, despite everything. And that’s something we can never see enough of.

by Jane Zwart

Dear God, who wrestled with Jacob—

Dear God, who wrestled with a man who wouldn’t let go and who was grasping from the first and who never outgrew his impatience for blessing—we ask you to bless us also. 

Bless us because some of us, too, are going round for round with you these days, anger our prayer. And bless us because some of us are desperate, holding onto you for dear life. Bless us with Jacob’s stubborn belief that we cannot do without what only you can give us. Bless us with his surprise at finding a God who doesn’t keep his distance, who never holds the weak at arm’s length, not even when they throw wild punches in his direction.

Of course there are also those of us who feel nothing like Jacob, who can imagine you only in the abstract. So we pray it again: bless us also. Bless us because we showed up this morning mostly out of habit. Bless us because we have no fight left in us. Bless us because we’re no different from the disciples who made contingency plans, as if miracles were too hard for you. Bless us because sometimes we are hopelessly literal, inventorying your glory like loaves of bread. Bless us by softening. Bless us with surprise at how loved we are: as loved as Jacob, as loved as David, as loved as your followers, as loved as your son, Jesus.

Dear Jesus, who began with the least loveable—

Dear Jesus who touched lepers and undid blindness and bested death and forgave and forgave and forgave, embrace us, too. Mend the brokenhearted among us. And mend the hearts of those whom death no longer surprises: those harvesting bodies from the scenes of earthquakes and drone strikes, those whose days have only the theme of hunger or danger.

Jesus, heal the sick and injured. And heal the nations. Quell the outbreak of violence in the Middle East and Ukraine as well as in places that rarely appear on our newspapers’ first pages. Quell the outbreak of Ebola in the Democratic Republic of Congo. And quell the epidemics of selfishness and self-righteousness, of racism and nationalism, of slop and cynicism.

Jesus, travel alongside those of us who are making their way with great difficulty. Keep company with those who are homebound and those who are incarcerated. Stay at the sides of those who can’t make rent, those who are afraid of being picked up by immigration. Stay at the sides of those who sometimes feel like everyone is staring and sometimes feel invisible, but don’t feel seen. Extend your arms to those waiting on the threshold of heaven. More: extend your arms to all of us, lest we forget that you are our long home, and send us your Spirit to accompany us all the days of our lives, this one and the next.

Dear Holy Spirit, our breath and comfort—

Dear Holy Spirit, who mystifies us and translates for us, who speaks in every tongue and in tongues of fire—

lend us love, joy, peace, patience, kindness, goodness, faithfulness, gentleness, and self-control. 

Amen.

Photo by Paul Skorupskas on Unsplash