My husband, Andrew, and I had a disagreement on Sunday before heading off to church. We sat next to each other in the pew, glowering, and I grimaced every time I thought of the upcoming exchange of the sign of peace. Worship went out the window as I wallowed in my annoyance. Lord, I’m sorry, I prayed, I know it’s wrong, but I’m not going to snap out of this without help.
A moment later I thought, The problem is that I cannot see Christ in my husband.
Bingo. I turned to look at Andrew. Though he wasn’t looking particularly holy, I told myself, “Christ lives in him. If I can’t see that, it’s not entirely Andrew’s fault.”
It was a jarring thought. It zapped me out of my petulance, and got me thinking: How much of my inability to see Jesus in others has nothing to do with their sins hiding him, but with my own blindness?
