Looking God in the face.

The Color of God’s Eyes

I was taught in Sunday school that no one has ever seen God’s face.

           

            Exodus 33:20

            20And he said, Thou canst not see my face: for there shall no man see me, and        live.

            No soul still attached to a living body has ever ventured into The Presence and seen the majesty that is Jehovah.  That is not to say that it is forbidden, but more along the lines of impossible to accomplish, like trying to carve the early morning fog with a steel chisel.  The Presence is a place of indescribable beauty, but it is also a place of pure energy, and so nothing even remotely connected to the physical can venture there.  If a soul is called there then its tenure within a living, breathing body is over, and there is no venturing back and telling the tale. 

That is the truth behind the scripture passage.

On the other hand, it’s not the whole truth.

I went to bed pondering my latest and greatest rejection by my mother.  The world had taught me that every mother loves their child, no matter how the situation appears.  Countless television programs and movies portray this supposedly immutable and universal truth.  Whereas fathers can come in varying levels of commitment, the standard is that mothers love.

I never found that to be the case in my life.

One usually has their parents to turn to when things go awry, or at least one parent to turn to. 

My father became an occasional visitor when I was about five.  Over the years, he had taught me the concept of “emotional detachment.”  To him, I was occasionally a proud possession, as in, “My son is very talented and here’s what I’ll have him do for you…”  My stepmother’s family, which consisted of five step-siblings, had a family saying for such a situation.  They used to say that Dad would give a stranger the shirt off of their backs.

I lay there staring up into the darkness, recalling how she had never said the words “I love you” to me in my entire life.  Confronting her on the matter wouldn’t accomplish anything positive, and long ago I decided to leave little painful details of my life like that for God to talk to her about.  I assumed that Jehovah would be immune to her chilly stare. 

Once, in high school, I had made the mistake of wanting to talk to her about my troubles.

She had replied sharply with, “I don’t want to hear it.  I’ve got problems of my own.”

Her words were cold and final, and left an eternal aftertaste of, “You were a fool to broach the topic.”

I had survived my father’s drinking and violence, and then divorce essentially removed him from my daily life.

I had survived my stepfather’s drinking and violence, and then divorce removed him from the house and replanted his shriveling body directly across the street.

I had survived my younger brother’s emotional and physical abuse until I couldn’t stand it any longer and I had brought it to an end.  Now it seemed that my standing up for my right to peace and quiet had gotten me physically divorced from the family unit and ejected from my own home, such that it was.

I wasn’t sure if I would survive a lifetime of my mother’s cold callousness, because being rejected by her always hurt me so deeply that there were no words that could ever begin to describe the pain. 

She had once said to me, “When you were younger, I used to tell the babysitter that she could beat Steven if she felt that she had to, but all she’d have to do is yell at you to make you cry.”  I never understood why she shared that with me, other than to imply that she knew how to control me and how to hurt me, and a part of her seemed immensely proud of that fact.

Whereas untold millions of people went to bed on Christmas Eve caught up in the excitement of what the next morning would bring, presents, family, feasting and love, I found myself facing silence, rejection, and packing.

I felt that I was pretty much at the end of my spiritual rope, for how could any person be more of a failure than to be loathed and rejected by the very person who had given them life? 

Utterly overwhelmed and emotionally beaten-up, I muttered my usual desire to be called home, and I fell into a fitful asleep. 

I woke up in the middle of the night to a light coming from the main part of the basement, which was down a short hallway and a jog to the right, from my bed.  I heard the sounds of a lot of people milling about.  My initial, confused thought was, “Are they having people over to drink again this late at night?”  When he redid the basement, my stepfather, Nathan, had created a custom bar area on the far end of the main part of the basement, and my mother and he had frequently had people over to drink and socialize way back then.  During those occasions, I had been challenged to fall asleep during their partying, but they had never started a party after I was already in bed before. 

Then, as my foggy head cleared, I realized the impossibility of my mother and my stepfather doing anything together in the basement again, because of their messy divorce.

The voices and noises seemed unfamiliar, even when compared to the previous party noises.

I got out of bed and moved towards the hall jog that led to the main room.

I had only taken a couple of steps, the hallway only being about six feet long, when I heard a very strange sound.  It was a horn of some kind, one that I had heard before. 

Last spring, I had directed a production of the musical Godspell and that’s when I had heard the sound.  The sound was from a shofar, which is an ancient Jewish musical instrument made from a ram’s horn. 

At that moment, I knew it wasn’t a drinking party.

I got to the end of the hall and turned right.  It was just a couple of feet to the main part of the basement.  The room was bathed in golden light, and there were many people standing there, seemingly waiting for me to come in.

Before I had a chance to focus on even a single face for details, a figure stepped in front of me and blocked my path.

At that moment, my world stopped.

My thoughts, my fears, and my consciousness all ground to an instant halt, and time stood still.

I looked up into His face for the briefest of milliseconds. 

One focused thought formed in my head, “Oh my God, I’m dead.  I’m here standing before God, and somehow I died in my sleep.” 

I fell to the floor and bowed my head, not that it made any real difference. 

I had looked up into the face of a man, but I had seen the presence of God in his countenance.  And why do I say that I have seen the face of God?

It is because of His eyes.

His eyes were red – not the red of a photographic mistake, but the red of the core of the sun! 

His eyes were a presence of their own! 

Even though I had dropped to my knees instantly and averted my eyes, my spirit could somehow see where my eyes could not.  His eyes never moved, yet I could feel them scan and scrutinize every fiber, every thought, and every hidden corner of my soul, exposing it to the Light.  Everything that I was seemed exposed to scrutiny, every thought that I had ever had, and every action that I’d ever taken.

Had my prayers been answered? 

Had I been called home?

I thought that my time with the world’s darkness was over. 

            I was fabulously ready to go.

            He slowly looked down at me and quietly said, “Forgive them, as I have forgiven them, and lead those who are willing back into the Light, my old friend,” and then He placed His hand upon my shoulder.

            I was shocked to wake up the next morning.

            It was still early, so I got up and began packing my few belongings. 

            I decided to leave my old models behind, which were the only possessions that I had which took up any significant space, except for my drawing desk.  I could have myself moved out in just one trip with my truck. 

            I felt that my sitting in the living room in a little while and opening presents with my mother and Steven would be an emotional travesty, even more so knowing that my presents would consist of sale items from the local seasonal toy wholesalers that I had never asked for.  Steven would find himself surrounded by piles of Hot Wheels, which were his favorites. 

            They would be part of his yearly reward for having served his mistress faithfully.      I wondered if he got a bonus Hot Wheels every time he thwacked me in the back of the head.

            I suspected that it would be a long, silent day, and I cried, not at the loss of the family that I never really had, but rather at the loss of the illusion that I would ever have a real family who cared for me.