The Servant With Sacred Eyes

“The man gazed at her in silence to learn whether the Lord had prospered his journey or not.” – Genesis 24:21

The oldest servant of Abraham (whom some commentators think is Eliezar from Genesis 15:2, but we don’t know for sure) has been stewarded with a high-stakes task here, so difficult that he asks for a way to make it easier, which Abraham refuses. The servant takes a serious oath. He travels from Beer-lahai-roi to Haran, which had since been named Nahor, a journey of 450-500 miles that would have taken him about a month to complete. He asks God for something specific—not such a departure from daily routine that it would have been unimaginable, but exceeding social standards sufficiently as to call for something remarkable—and “before he had finished speaking, behold, Rebekah” (Genesis 24:15).

Apparently camels drink up to 20 gallons of water or more when thirsty. Considering Rebekah had only the one jar, was letting each camel not just sip but drink until they were “finished,” had to “go down” or perhaps descend in some fashion to access the well, and a gallon of water weighs 8.3 pounds—even with her running as she was, watering ten camels probably took her an hour or more. The entire time, the servant does not speak a word. He doesn't distract himself with small talk or attempt to help. He doesn’t ask her name or marital status. He doesn’t interview her or run down a checklist of ideal attributes for a wife. He doesn’t try to figure out how willing she might be to leave for a strange land. He is intentional: he prepares for the journey, he prays, and he does not travel alone (24:59). But in this moment, the crucial moment, he watches in silence.

Parenting is a bit like this journey: it’s high-stakes, the end is unseen, and we travel it as stewards entrusted with our children, servants representing God as the one in the story represented Abraham. But when we parent, it’s hard to do as the servant does. Instead of being intentional in preparing, we react in stress. Instead of praying, specifically and situationally, we analyze and worry. Instead of finding people to walk with, or ways to support ourselves along the way, we push alone until we are too depleted. And instead of watching in silence, we jump in to act.

Lately I’ve been thinking about this concept of having what Ruth Haley Barton calls “sacred eyes.” She describes it this way in her book Invitation to Solitude and Silence: “I turn inward to that place of quiet where I had grown accustomed to meeting God. I asked God to give me sacred eyes—set-apart eyes to see and feel and know spiritual reality in this moment.” Julian of Norwich writes of being present to God when in the company of others, “I look at God, I look at you, and I keep looking at God.” I think this is the kind of gaze the servant had: he was looking at Rebekah, but for the purpose of learning from God about Rebekah. He was holding both in his mind and view. 

As a parent, I want to see my children this way. I want to see this way before I act. Instead of reacting in frustration or correction to emotional outbursts or quarreling, I want to ask God first for eyes to see the true heart of the issue or need. Instead of experiencing the kids as interruptions, I want to have moments when I pause from tasks to focus on them fully. I want to sense God’s love for them filling my own heart.

I don’t think it’s an accident that the servant who gazes is the one who prays. The best way to practice having sacred eyes is to become accustomed to God’s presence in solitude and silence. Then we can turn inward to that place during times of clamor. We can, like Abraham’s servant, gaze in silence amidst the bustle at the well, discerning God’s answers to the most important questions in our heart.