“I Only See the Eye”

 

BLUF: For the Christian, the target is Christ.

I can still picture it the way the old stories paint it.

A king sits high in his hall, flanked by torches and banners, the kind of scene where every sound carries. He has a daughter—fair, beloved, watched over like a treasure—and he announces a contest. He will give her hand to the finest archer in all the kingdom of India.

But it won’t be an ordinary shot.

Out on the field stands a pole twenty feet high. At the top, a piece of wood juts out—only about a foot long—and on it sits an image of a fish. And on that fish is an eye, striking and unmistakable. In my mind it’s almost red, like it has its own stubborn little flame.

That eye is the target.

Two hundred yards away, archers step forward one by one. The distance mocks them. The height humbles them. The fish’s eye seems to stare back as if it knows how many strong men will miss.

Then Arjuna enters—the greatest warrior of them all.

The king asks him what he sees.

And Arjuna answers with the kind of simplicity that cuts through every distraction like a blade:

“I only see the eye.”

Not the pole
or the crowd.
Not the princess
or the reward.
Not the pressure.

Only the eye.

And he draws the bow and releases the arrow. And the eye is struck.

Now, I know little of what it means to stand with a bow in my hands— but there is a kind of bow you carry inside your chest. That tension between what I should do and what I feel like doing. The heavy awareness of other people’s opinions. The parade of possibilities marching across the mind when you’re trying to obey God: “What if I fail? What if I embarrass myself? What if the future goes sideways?”

And it’s not only fear that distracts us.

Sometimes it’s good things.

A blessing we want.
A relationship we don’t want to lose.
A plan we’ve built.
A reputation we’ve guarded.
A comfort we’ve come to rely on.

A hundred good reasons for us to take our eyes off the one thing we must see.

Then Christ comes to us—not with theatrics, but with a steady voice—and He says what He said long ago:

“Follow Me.”

And if we’re honest, we often answer Him like we’re surveying the whole field:

“Lord, I see the pole.”
“I see the wind.”
“I see the distance.”
“I see the crowd.”
“I see the risk.”
“I see the cost.”
“I see what they might say.”

And Christ doesn’t deny any of it.

But He calls us to a deeper clarity.

The Christian life does not run on scattered sight. It runs on a single gaze.

Scripture doesn’t merely tell us to believe in Jesus as an idea. It calls us to lay aside what clings so easily—and run our race with endurance—looking to Jesus. (Heb. 12:1–2)

Not glance.
Not check in occasionally.
Not add Him as one priority among many.

Fix.

That word feels like the archer’s stance—feet planted, shoulders set, hands steady, mind gathered up and brought to one point.

Christ does not only save us from sin. He gathers our scattered hearts. He reorders our vision. He teaches us what matters.

Because the world trains us to see everything except the thing that matters most.

It trains us to measure success by outcomes and applause.
To measure safety by control.
To measure faithfulness by how “smooth” life feels.

But Jesus teaches a different measurement.

He says, in effect, “Look at Me.”

Look at the cross, where love held steady.
Look at the empty tomb, where hope broke through.
Look at the reigning Christ, where history finds its center.
Look at the Shepherd, where your life is not a random drift but a guided path.

The older I get, the more I suspect spiritual maturity often looks less like adding more techniques—and more like simplifying the gaze.

Fewer frantic calculations.
Less mental noise.
Less living as if everything is urgent.

More steadiness.
More obedience.
More quiet courage.

More: “I only see the eye.”

And for the Christian, that “eye,” that center point, that single target isn’t a fish on a pole.

It’s Christ Himself.

It’s His face.
His words.
His promises.
His call.

So here’s a question I’ve started asking when my mind runs wild and my heart starts spinning:

“What am I looking at right now?”

Because that question exposes so much.

Am I looking at the opinions of others?
worst-case scenarios?
comfort?
control?
what I can’t fix?

Or am I looking at Jesus?

Not vaguely.
Not sentimentally.
But really looking—through prayer, through Scripture, through the simple act of obedience to my Lord.

And maybe that’s the invitation today.

Not to deny the pole exists.
Nor pretend the wind isn’t blowing.
Nor to act like the distance isn’t real.

But to gather our attention.
Quiet the inner crowd.
Set the heart in line.

And to say, in the face of a thousand distractions:

“Lord, by Your grace… I only see You.”

 

Soli Deo Gloria