The God who sees me

Nazli Flores

Cathedrals

Artists spend years and centuries clawing and chipping away at cathedrals, in the hopes that they can frame God’s glory, even if just a glimpse. They piece together thousands of colors, hopeful that if it's vibrant enough, the light will peak through and push back the darkness. It’s beautiful, awe-inspiring, and blinding to all else in the room. And while I’ve stared through stained glass, reflecting on God’s beauty, I’ve found that there’s a difference between painting the likeness of God and staring at God Himself. Art is beautiful, but the dirt where His feet have walked is gut-wrenchingly beautiful. So I’d rather follow God where He goes than solely behold the history of where He’s been. And I’d rather hold hands with a God who’s near than the picture of a God who’s not.

And so it is my conviction that God delights in meeting us in the most ordinary of places, to prove to us that there is nothing ordinary about a space where He dwells. It’s often when I’m kneeling in the dirt with smiling children, 20 minutes from the Mexican-American border, where I have felt God’s glory the most. Sitting in a dirt-packed church in Malawi is where I have come the closest to seeing God’s beauty. In the songs of a language I’m not fluent in. In the faces of people I’ve never locked eyes with. Sitting at tables, in places I’m not familiar with.

So while I love my home church, and the living rooms of my community groups, and the worship songs I know by heart, maybe the most sacred of spaces are those I’m not familiar with. Maybe, just maybe, if we pray to see God’s face, He’ll take us by the hand, away from the most glamorous parts of the Christian life, and closer to the face of our neighbor. Maybe, if we ask God to heal our world, He’ll start by breaking our hearts first.

Somewhere Between Hope and Heartache 

My heart for missions started at a young age. At 13 years old, I remember standing in my church and asking God if He’d use me to change the world. A lofty prayer, maybe, but never once did I not feel Him dwell in the space of that prayer. I gave Him my yes, and I told Him I’d go anywhere He calls me to go.

And yet, if you follow the feet of the Savior, I am almost certain that God will lead you to the parts of the world that make His heart ache just a little deeper. So while I can soften the blow of harsh realities with my words, I cannot rewrite the stories some of my neighbors have had to live through.

I have sat at tables with refugee women in Mexico as they tell me how they’ve had to flee because the cartel burned their home down. I have had friends from Guatemala ask me for prayer because their siblings were killed in front of their children. I have held the hands of Sudanese children in Uganda whose parents were killed due to war. And I have looked in the eyes of Malawians who have gone weeks without food. Story after story, I have come to the realization that injustice passes by faces — innocent, weathered, or pleading for it to pass by, and it does not discriminate.

In the face of such deep need, the familiar questions I struggle with resurface: “Where is God’s kindness in the muck and mire of such heartache? Where is the nearness of the Savior in the face of such despair?” Walking through villages that often feel forgotten, my prayers are often rooted in deep trust that God is in the midst, and in the same measure, dotted with a big “God, do You see this?” 

In those moments, staring at classrooms that have no roof and looking at children who have one too many ribs showing, I am reminded that God is not distant from the ache of this broken world. To think that the Cross was enough for my sin, but not enough to redeem the darkest stories before me, is to reduce the Cross of its glory. And to reduce the Cross of its glory is to refuse to see my Savior kneeling in the dirt with the poor, the oppressed, and the ones crying out to be heard. Sometimes, the places we label as “hopeless” or “too far gone” are places He already dwells, declaring “Never will I leave you; never will I forsake you” (Hebrews 13:5).

After all, compassion does not call us to brush aside the ache and pain and sorrow of this broken world — it calls us to gaze at Jesus as He sticks His nail-pierced hands right through the thick of it. Somewhere between hope and heartache, it is the kindness of Jesus that boldly declares, “I have already defeated death. My character does not fade away in the face of injustice.” And if we want a full glimpse at what the Father is feeling, we’ll find it in the spaces that hold both hope and heartache well.

The God Who Sees

The first time I went to Malawi, I kept thinking of the words “deep praise.” Everywhere I went, I witnessed a deep adoration for Jesus. Whether I was staring in the face of a gogo (a Malawian grandma) or in the face of a child, I was convinced, encounter after encounter, that the people of Malawi have praise built into their bones. The tenderness of Jesus sits on their lips like no other, and before I could even ask God why they faced certain hardships, I was interrupted by a flow of praise. It made no sense to me at the time. 

And yet, Scripture says, “Blessed are the pure in heart, for they shall see God.” And maybe that’s why their praise didn’t make sense to me — because it offended the wavering in my Spirit. The kind that’s hidden deep, deep within that says, “God, I’ll praise You, but if you take this away, I don’t know if I can.” Because these are people who have had everything stripped from them, and they can see God in a way I am still learning to see Him. In this sweet country, my spirit has been reminded that the purest of praise is not conditional. This world says that the richest treasures in this life can be found buried in the ground, but mine came walking out of the grave. Therefore, it is no surprise to me that I have learned about the richness of life in the poorest of places, because beholding Jesus is a treasure that cannot be stripped away.

My second time in Malawi, God kept reminding me of wells in the Bible. The first instance that came to mind was with the story of Hagar. Fleeing from her suffering, Scripture says that the Angel of the Lord found her in the wilderness next to a spring. In being found by the Lord, Hagar named the well Beer Lahai Roi, which means “the well of the living One that sees me.”

Then the story of the Samaritan woman kept coming to mind. In John 4, it says Jesus needed to pass through Samaria. And so the Samaritan woman found Jesus sitting by the well, and not only did He show her where true living water came from, but He showed her that He knew her. 

So when we traveled as a team, almost two hours down a dirt road to see a village receive clean drinking water for the first time, it felt like seeing Jesus sitting by the well. It’s like God Himself stepped down and said, “Look! Look in the eyes of your brother and sister, and see them as I see them.”

It felt like God was saying, “If you forget to pass through deserted places, you might just miss Me sitting by the well.” If we set our gaze on stages, stardom, and applause, we may just miss our beautiful Savior sitting in deserted places and the things He invites us into, because the glory of the Cross is that it always stops for the one. And so maybe the gospel is less about how loud we can shout in a crowded room and more about how far the invitation extends. Maybe it’s about kneeling low on the ground next to your neighbor, taking their hand, leading them to the table God has set, and saying, “Look who sits at the head. He sees you and there’s a better story He’s written for you.” 

It’s easy to question where God is in the midst of deep need, without asking what we’re doing with the resources we’ve been given. Jesus said, “Go and make disciples of all nations,” and if disciples look like Jesus, you’ll find them feeding the poor, praying for the sick, and stopping by wells in deserted places. He is the God who sees.

Cast Down Your Cape and Your Crowns

But if there’s something that this kind and gentle Jesus has taught me in the mission field, it’s that heroism isn’t part of the gospel. For the longest time after my first long-term mission trip, I was angry at the world. I felt helpless and without hope. It felt like God had sent me to change the world, and I had all but left a dent in the ground. And maybe that’s the point — it was never supposed to be about me. 

After some time reflecting, it felt like God gently tapped me on the shoulder and said, “You feel helpless because you think I called you to be a hero, but I called you to be a friend.”

In wanting to save the world, I almost forgot the deep weight of stopping for the one. I had spent my Sundays casting down crowns at the feet of Jesus and had forgotten to lay down my cape. In wanting to serve thousands as a successful metric, I had turned my neighbor into a number. So when I’m tempted to puff up my chest in an act of service and inadvertently turn my mission into a checklist, I have to remind myself that Jesus called His followers to be teachers and evangelists and pastors, not heroes. Teachers sit eye to eye with those being taught, but heroes fly high above. Apostles dig deep roots in a community and build God’s Church with people they've come to know, but heroes come and go at the sound of the alarm. Evangelists preach the gospel and make disciples that look like Jesus, but heroes make disciples that look like themselves. So while there are heroes in God’s Kingdom, they look a lot different than we thought. In God’s Kingdom, heroes take their capes off to clothe those in need, and they take the crowns off their heads, place them on their neighbor’s head, and say, “You’re royalty in this Kingdom too.” 

And so I’ve learned, if I’m not willing to kneel in the dirt or spend hours with the one neighbor in front of me because it doesn’t meet my personal standard of “doing ministry right,” then I’ve forgotten the entire point. If I only love my neighbor when they’re on “their side of the border” or when a camera is propped for me to pose, then I have missed the whole point. If I only pull out a seat at the table for those I deem worthy of sitting down, then I have made myself the savior instead of Jesus. And if I deem a mission trip successful because I served thousands versus loving on the one life in front of me, then I have forgotten the deep and beautiful weight of seeing the Creator in His creation. At the end of the day, love doesn’t cater to convenience or comfort — love follows the feet of the Savior.

A Seat at the Table

I once read a devotional that said, “At the foot of the Cross, the ground is level.” The Cross does not ask for your social status, economic standing, skin color, or fluency in a spoken language to come near. The Cross is an invitation to come near, no matter what shapes the life around you.

So maybe pouring oil at the feet of Jesus looks like pouring water on the feet of a Malawian grandmother, whose feet have grown tired from walking. Maybe your perfume becomes all the more fragrant when you wash over a refugee with words of blessing. And maybe just maybe, the tangible presence of God is housed in the eyes of a neighbor you have never met, you have yet to understand, and who has walked down paths you will never see.

And if my soul forgets where God is in the face of injustice, I’ll remind my soul that the Cross was the biggest declaration that says, “You are the God who sees me.” Isaiah 25 says that “he will swallow up death forever. The Sovereign Lord will wipe away the tears from all faces.”

So, as you go out into your workplaces, your neighborhoods, or thousands of miles away to another country, do not forget the power of the blood that Jesus spilled for every nation, tribe, and tongue to come close.

Precious is the flow that meets the prostitute where she is and calls her redeemed. Precious is the flow that does not close its eyes at the sight of an impoverished child but breaks the chains of injustice. Precious is the flow that sees the man in a far-off village, in desperate need of medical care, and does not pass him by. Precious is the flow that sees the family fleeing cartel violence at the border and covers them in compassion. Precious is the flow that sees the witch doctors on a hill in Mozambique and drowns out the darkness with mercy and invitation. And precious is the flow that spills from the obedience of our lives when we say yes to loving our neighbor as we love ourselves.