My husband and I have been reintroduced the past few years to the joys of playing hide-and-seek with our two little granddaughters. Both girls are now two years old, with a six-month gap between them. We played peek-a-boo with the girls when they were babies, hiding behind our hands. According to child development, each girl thought that because they could not see our faces, we must not be present. Whole-body, toothless grins and chortles almost always ensued when we pulled our hands away, revealing we had been there all the time, though occasionally the game seemed to startle or worry the little ones.
Both granddaughters have now moved on to playing hide-and-seek when we visit them in their homes. It goes something like this: the oldest one, a tall, slim wisp of cornsilk hair and blue eyes, will call out to us to watch her hide and then come and find her. She often hides under the same blanket lying on the couch or behind the same pantry door. We watch her disappear, as directed, and then find her, as directed. And then we all laugh. No other response is appropriate because she is thrilled; she was sure she would not be found because she could not see us! And if she could not see us, she reasoned, we could not see her.
The youngest granddaughter, she with a crown of dark curls and enormous brown eyes, eventually runs and hides in her favorite place: The closet in her small bedroom, a hideaway without a door, only a curtain pushed to the side. She stands there in dim light, surrounded by toddler clothes on hangers above her head and items stacked on the floor, her sturdy little body as still as she can be, grinning as we step into the room, calling out her name each step of the way (all of three steps) until she sees us standing squarely before her and she bursts out laughing. We have had our eyes on her the whole time we have been walking towards her, of course, but not in her mind. As far as she is concerned, we have just found her, and it is hilarious, surprising and fun that we discovered her in the exact spot where she hid herself (again).
I think hide-and-seek and Advent have a lot in common. Both are rooted in expectation. Both require waiting. Both speak to not seeing – and not being seen. The long-awaited Light of the world coming into the world has myriad layers, each a blanket that can be peeled away or a closet that can be peered into. It matters that the Light came and that it was for the whole world, for every person in every place and in every time. But it matters first that it was, and is, for me, that the Light has pierced and continually pierces the darkness of my own life.
There is a story in the Gospel of Luke, chapter 18, where a blind man hears a crowd passing by. He hears them – young ones running ahead, the halting elderly, mothers with crying babies on their hips, important folks bearing the weight of their dignity, striding laborers, the worn and tired poor. No one notices the blind man sitting by the road.
The man listens intently to what he cannot see: whispers, shouts to slow down or speed up, authoritative calls for order, shuffling, pushing, determination to get to the front of the line. He discerns that the crowd is following something or someone of great interest. This is no regiment of soldiers marching to time or group of vendors pushing their carts. So afraid of missing out, so curious, so wanting to be included, to feel a part of what is going on, so envious of what others have that he does not possess, the blind man cries out, “What is going on?” Tell me. Tell me what I cannot see for myself, what I cannot know or understand with my eyes. What is going on?
The crowd tells the blind man they are following Jesus, who is on his way to Jericho. Because he cannot see for himself who Jesus is or where Jesus is – or know if it matters at all that He is passing by – the blind man calls out in the direction of the pulsing mass, “Jesus, have mercy on me. Have mercy.”
Some members of the crowd rebuke the blind man, tell him to shush, be quiet, who does he think he is? But he is insistent and calls again, louder. “Jesus, have mercy on me.” He is a man who has tried every remedy, listened to every self-help peddler imaginable, done all the village doctor prescribed, tried seemingly ridiculous things. Nothing has worked. No one has been able to help him. He has not been able to help himself. He is still blind. Worst of all, his needs, his anxieties, his fears, his sense of having no personal agency have rendered him unseen. He begs for a living. He cannot see others, and others, even those he knows and loves best, do not really see him. They cannot imagine what it means to be who he is.
Until Jesus stands in front of him. Just like playing a child’s game of hide-and-seek, the one hiding, the blind man, cannot see the Seeker, the Light who is Jesus. It is not unreasonable that the blind man thinks Jesus cannot see him. It’s a big crowd. But Jesus sees. Jesus has the blind man brought before him and then, surprisingly, asks the man to name his need. Isn’t it obvious, the blind man must think. Someone led me by the hand to you. I cannot see. I sense you are standing right in front of me but for all I know I am wrong. But whoever you are, whatever it means for you to see me now, have mercy. Heal me. Give me eyes that see. And Jesus does.
As we move through this season of Advent, with its frenzied focus on family and festivity, gifts and – let’s be honest, the real, hard work of traveling and shopping and feeding and entertaining and occasionally enduring difficult people for the sake of holiday cheer – I can easily be blind to the presence of Jesus in my life.
I am blind to the one who has come, the one who is coming still, the One who stands before me this very moment. And like my little granddaughters, because I do not see Him, I conclude He does not see me, not the real me. Not the worries that wake me too early in the morning or my fears of irrelevance or my grief and sorrow and confusion over what cannot be changed. Not my desire to be loved and understood. Not my exhaustion and exasperation over trying to manage what I cannot fix. Not my guilt, self-obsession, fake gods. My inability to see Jesus makes it impossible to see myself – who I really am – and my needs clearly. I am blind not only to who He is and where He is, I am blind to myself.
The blind man could not see Jesus, but Jesus saw him and moved toward him with compassion, love and forgiveness. Jesus alone saw in that foundering man what no one else could see. He moved through the crowd and offered the blind man hope that everything could change. Hope. And eyes that could see. It did not depend on the blind man. It depended on the Light of the World.
May we hold onto the promise that the Light stands before us whether we see Him today or not. And may we know that He can and will restore our sight, that we will be found, to our relief and great delight.
Friends,
I want to remind you there is no charge for these posts. No matter what Substack asks, you do not owe me a penny. I’ll give you advance warning if I ever think that needs to change.
Thank you, so much, for reading,
Andrea
Just lovely, Midge. ♥️
Beautiful, Andrea