The Unseen Christ
In the twelve years since my first pregnancy, the small miracles and thrilling firsts have faded to simple, warm recollections of a season that has come and gone. I do remember, though, the strange paradox of knowing early on that I was pregnant but not looking or feeling different. It’s a bit mind-bending to know something unseen exists, is happening, and is changing you, but you can’t see it or trace it with your fingers yet. As the months progressed, I began feeling tiny flutters that morphed into stronger kicks and rolls, more urgent and frequent trips to the bathroom, and an ever-expanding belly. Nine months later, a beautiful baby was born. I traced my fingers over his ears and mouth and nose again and again as we tried to decide who he looked like.
In a world focused on what we can see and touch and prove, we struggle to refocus our souls on the unseen. In pregnancy, we often want to rush to the finale, where we get to see and hold our babies. But there’s beauty and wonder in those nine intervening months of an unseen, slowly unfolding mystery. How much more so with our faith? Dane Ortlund’s book Gentle and Lowly has been a catalyst for turning my gaze to perhaps one of the most unseen aspects of our faith: Jesus’s heart. Evangelicalism often asks us if we’ve let Jesus into our hearts. But what do we know of his heart? Ortlund writes, “It is Christ’s gentle heart that adorns him with beauty . . . what most deeply attracts us to Christ is his gentle, tender, humble heart” (96-97).
When I think of the world—its chaos and disorder and discord—Christ’s “gentle, tender, humble heart” is a beautiful balm. But because I cannot see it, because I cannot trace my fingers around its shape and form, I’m apt to forget it. A few short years ago, I was mired in sadness during a season of immense difficulty. I felt suffocated by deep aloneness. I was despondent. I’m not sure there’s ever been a season where I felt more like a stranger to God than then. What I failed to see in my pain was that my own sadness “was endured by [Jesus] in the past and [was also] shouldered by him” in that season of suffering (Ortlund 48). Ortlund reminded me that Jesus’s heart, his very nature, compelled him to be with me in my pain and bear the weight of my deep darkness. I only failed to see him as the pain crowded out my vision.
As I read Ortlund’s words recently, a great clarity pierced my heart. I closed my eyes to meditate on the truth of Jesus’s gentle and lowly heart, and I saw myself sitting, head bent and cradled between my knees, feeling the palpable sadness and darkness that had enveloped me. I experienced that season of suffering almost as if I had been transported straight back into its gritty reality. I saw in my mind’s eye only what I had felt so keenly in my spirit during that season of grief. And then, I saw him. Sitting close to me. I sensed the tangible reality of his love pushing out the darkness and enveloping me. Despite what I could not feel then, I saw that he had been sustaining me with his presence.
The only way I know to say it is, he was there! How had I missed it for so long? I had believed the lie that I was alone, missing the intangible reality of his presence. He had not abandoned me to my fear and desolation. He had been right there, in my corner, loving me fiercely and praying for me fervently, as my intercessor at the right hand of the Father.
In an unseen way, the unseen Christ was growing my faith, though it felt stagnant and depleted then. A seed was planted that I saw come to fruition only recently. When I envisioned the presence of Jesus with me in my suffering, my heart finally caught up with what I had known intellectually for much of my Christian walk. The seed birthed a greater faith and love for Christ, along with a greater intimacy with him. The wait was long, and I couldn’t see or even feel his work during the years between then and now. But in his gracious timing, the seedling emerged from the dark and unfurled its new growth.
He birthed in me confidence in his presence and in his love for me. If I did not repel him in that season, I know nothing can separate me from him or his love, now or ever. As Romans 8 so beautifully reminds us:
Can anything ever separate us from Christ’s love? Does it mean he no longer loves us if we have trouble or calamity, or are persecuted, or hungry, or destitute, or in danger, or threatened with death? . . . No, despite all these things, overwhelming victory is ours through Christ, who loved us. And I am convinced that nothing can ever separate us from God’s love. (NLT)
God’s work within us cannot be made visible on demand. I can’t send you on your way expecting a vision of clarity if you just pray hard enough. But what we can all do is be expectant of God’s work within us. We can stay connected to the body of Christ so that we see the tangible expression of his love through others. We can read his Word and those of others seeking his heart. We can sit before him, thankful that whether we see it now or not, we know he loves us and we know he is working in us.
, a writer and certified journaling instructor, lives with her husband, three kids, a few dogs, and some chickens in South Carolina. When she’s not pondering words, she enjoys nature, deep conversations, and at least two cups of coffee a day. She loves to connect with others about family, special needs parenting, mental health, grief, and faith. You can find more of her writing on her blog Writing Is Cheaper Than Therapy.
Photograph © Gantas Vaičiulėnas, used with permission
