You See Me
After Matthew 20:1-16
You see me.
You dive deep within
and pull apart the metal
walls of my fabricated
being and say,
"Come out. Why are you
hiding?"
You see me as the unmasked
and unhurried
child who plays
in the safety of
your gaze and
keeps playing.
You see my need
my potential
my the pain
and my future
and you give
what I need
is to be seen.
I might be first. I might be last.
But best of all
I am seen.The first will be last, and the last will be first.
That’s perplexing.
I’m beginning to think that Jesus is less concerned with what we deserve, or think we deserve, and instead focuses on what we need. Grace, like love, is not an abstract or general principle—they raise us to new life!
I’m becoming more convinced that Jesus, and so much of the ministry of Jesus, sees people. In the parable found in Matthew 20, the people who had worked the longest were frustrated that the ones who worked much less were paid the same. But it’s the landowner’s choice, and this is what is decided.
But it’s this need to compare ourselves and our merits and what is due to us and others that gets us into trouble. The ones who came later to work that day, sure, they didn’t do as much, but that doesn’t mean they aren’t just as important.
Our importance is based on the fact of our existence—not what we do or what we have accomplished. God sees us and works in our lives in the ways we most need. This isn’t always completely obvious to us, but the more I look back on my life, I notice a consistent pattern of God seeking to break me out of my too-serious religiosity and rigidity so that I can breathe and begin to see others in the way that I am seen. God has been restoring my sense of play—and that is not what everyone needs, but that’s one of mine.
There’s a modern parable that I first heard from Howard Thurman, that goes something like this:
A mom, her firstborn daughter, and her son go out to eat. The waitress comes to take their orders and asks each person what they would like to have. The mom says what she wants, the daughter puts in her order, but the son is shy. So, the mom speaks up, “He would like the kids’ burger with fries.” The waitress ignores the mom, looks at the boy, and asks, “What would you like to eat?” The boy doesn’t answer, and so his sister chimes in with an annoyed tone, “If my mother can’t order for him, then I will. He would like a kids’ burger with fries.” The waitress ignores the girl and looks again at the boy and asks, “What would you like to have for lunch?” The boy finally speaks up: “I’ll have the kids’ burger with fries.” “What would you like on your burger?” Asks the waitress, “Ketchup, mustard, pickles?” The boy repeats back, “Ketchup, mustard, and pickles.” The waitress, as if everything is completely normal, says, “Great—your food will be out momentarily.” By this point, the mom and daughter are already making mental notes about how they will never come back to this restaurant again when the boy says to his mom, “Mom, the waitress thinks I exist!”
God is like that waitress: sees our deepest needs—that need we have to feel like we exist, and the good news is, in God’s eyes, you do!
You are important. The people who are first are important, and the people who are last are important. The somewhat right people are important, and the ones who are somewhat wrong are important.
What lessons is God teaching you?