As I write today, I’m sitting outside a Panera restaurant in one of the Chicago burbs, using the few hours between visits to the chiropractor. Looking up from the screen, looking out on the scene before me, I’m trying to listen with my eyes.
Not an easy thing. Just above my head an outdoor speaker pumps some pop music just loud enough to ensure distraction. Off to my right, a couple guys are in conversation, one of them, quite animated, is attempting to talk the other into taking a job with his company, holding out the carrot of a certainly lucrative position.
Yet I’m deliberately wanting to hear what my eyes see before me.
Twenty feet in front of me, tied to the railing marking off the restaurant’s patio, hangs a banner tantalizingly promoting Panera’s new flatbread pizza. The glistening pepperoni, oozing cheese, lightly browned crust tell me “You want this. You know you do!” The banner itself testifies of man’s susceptibility to the power of suggestion. It implies that such in-your-face promotionalism is vital to get people to do what you want them to do.
Just beyond the railing, a patch of nature separates concrete patio from asphalt parking lot. Lilies are popping open in front of a row of white-flowered plants. I reflect on how much their color adds to the otherwise drab storefront. And I hear them say, “For all his construction abilities and efforts to cover earth with parking lots and buildings, man is drawn to us, needs us to enhance and complete his creative endeavors.”
Across the parking lot, a busy Meacham Road is less than a hundred yards away. Three lanes of traffic in each direction, cars and trucks scurry along, most occupied with only the driver. Of course, I hear the engine roar, the hum of rubber meeting road, the whir of speeding vehicles.
But what does it all say?
“Life is a hectic blur. All these people going somewhere, but do they really know where?”
“Every driver is a unique individual. See all the uniquely different cars? No two exactly the same?”
“Every driver is like every other in many ways. Their cars tell it: four wheels…steering wheel…fuel-dependent…etc. Sure, plenty of unique differences, but similar in basic, fundamental ways.”
Across Meacham stands a 25-story glass and steel office building, testifying to its designer’s creativity, the green-hued windows reflect the clouds and sky…the layered edges add a touch of character to what would otherwise be a tall, rectangular box. It tells me that people appreciate an attractive place to invest their time and energy. It reminds me that, barring a pandemic-mandated lockdown, vast numbers leave the comforts of home early in the morning for the commute to their workplace and spend a good chunk of life there.
Rising above the 4-level parking garage next to said office building, the blue-and-white “Woodfield Mall” water tower speaks volumes. “You may want the flatbread on that banner in front of you,” says the orb, “but you need what I have to offer—can’t live without it!” The tower also subtly suggests local priorities. It’s not the community; it’s a shopping center.
“Are you implying that we need the mall as much as we need the water” I ask the tower. “Well,” comes the reply, “some seem to think so.”
Up above, coming in and out of the clouds, the sun forces the eyes to squint. How I take ol Sol for granted! There it is every day delivering us from darkness and gloom and depression. Yet I rarely take time to listen to the sun tell me how vital it is to my very existence.
“You need my warmth, or you’d freeze to death!” he says. “And furthermore, if your home planet were much closer to me, I’d fry you!”
“Oh, you need my light, too, or those green plants in front of you couldn’t manufacture the oxygen your lungs demand!”
“OK,” I’m thinking, “You don’t need to shout!”
My conscious effort in this little exercise is prompted by the opening paragraph of the 19th Psalm.
The heavens declare the glory of God, and the sky above proclaims his handiwork. Day to day pours out speech, and night to night reveals knowledge. There is no speech, nor are there words, whose voice is not heard. Their voice goes out through all the earth, and their words to the end of the world.
Psalm 19:1-4a
Every day we see the sky, the clouds, the sun. What do we hear it all say?
Unless obscured by clouds or city lights, every night we see the moon, the stars, the constellations, perhaps a planet or two. What do they tell us?
Surely the images sent by the Hubble telescope have captivated the mind and left with a sense of awe. Hubble’s powerful, penetrating lens has shown us more of the detail, splendor, magnificence, beauty, and vastness of the universe than we’ve ever been able to see before.
Are we listening to what our eyes take in via this incredible tool?
Interestingly, the psalmist zeroes in on one tiny speck in the vastness of the universe and encourages us to listen with our eyes.
In them he has set a tent for the sun, which comes out like a bridegroom leaving his chamber, and, like a strong man, runs its course with joy. Its rising is from the end of the heavens, and its circuit to the end of them, and there is nothing hidden from its heat.
Psalm 19:4b-6
The sun, like its innumerable counterparts throughout the universe, speaks to us of the Creator’s design…of contentment in fulfilling one’s purpose in creation…of carrying out that daily existence with joy.
I watched an episode of “Beachfront Bargain Hunters” recently. A couple with young children were in the market for a beachfront home in North Carolina, and one scene captured their thrill at watching the sun fall below the horizon. It was a first for their children, yet the parents commented often that they would be taking in lots of sunsets in their new home.
Most people are drawn to two daily events, when they have (or take) the opportunity to experience them: sunrise and sunset. I’ve written before about this common human delight. But for all the enjoyment provided by witnessing the spectacle, how many of us listen to what this “bridegroom” has to say as he leaves his night-time chamber…and then returns to his tent after joyfully running his circuit?
Maybe you sense it, too. We live in an incredibly distracted age. It’s hard enough to concentrate on what we hear with our ears for very long. Only with disciplined effort can the distractions be held at bay so we can pay attention what’s being said. Listening with the eye requires ratcheting up disciplined endeavor even more.
Yet the psalmist tells us—and our experience will bear it out—that if we listen well and hear rightly, the effort is well worth it.
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