A while back, I noticed something strange about my phone.
I was trying to take a picture in low light — nothing dramatic, just an ordinary moment — and what appeared on the screen didn’t quite match what I was seeing with my eyes.
The image was flat.
Grainy.
Faces lost their depth. Colors were muted.
The phone wasn’t broken.
It was doing exactly what it was designed to do.
It was seeing —
just with limited light and limited resolution.
And it struck me that Scripture says something very similar about the Christian life.
The apostle Paul says, “Now we see in a mirror dimly.”
Not blindly.
Not falsely.
But not yet clearly.
We really do see Christ now.
We truly know Him.
We genuinely love Him.
But we do not yet see Him as He is.
And that creates a quiet tension many believers live with — often without ever saying it out loud.
They are forgiven.
They are faithful.
They are fatigued.
And they wonder — quietly, privately —
“Is this all there is?”
Not because they don’t love Christ.
Not because they’ve lost their faith.
But because forgiveness alone was never meant to carry the full weight of the Christian life.
The Bible never says salvation ends with forgiveness.
Forgiveness is essential — but it is preparatory.
Salvation is moving us toward something greater.
Toward vision.
Toward glory.
On the night before He went to the cross — when everything else fell away — Jesus prayed out loud so His disciples could hear Him.
And what He asked for was not first strength, not endurance, not even perseverance.
He said,
“Father, I desire that they may be with Me where I am — to see My glory.”
That prayer tells us something essential.
Seeing the glory of Christ is not the reward at the end of salvation.
It is the reason for it.
And today, I want us to sit with that truth —
because change does not come before vision.
Change comes after vision.
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Part One — Saved to See
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If that’s true — if change comes after vision — then we need to ask a more basic question:
What is salvation actually for?
Most of us learned to answer that question early on.
Salvation is about forgiveness.
Salvation is about being spared judgment.
Salvation is about going to heaven instead of being lost.
And all of that is true.
Gloriously true.
But it’s not complete.
Because when Jesus speaks about salvation — when He opens His heart the night before the cross — He doesn’t describe it merely as rescue from something.
He describes it as movement toward Someone.
Listen again to His words:
“Father, I desire that they also, whom You have given Me, may be with Me where I am — to see My glory.”
That sentence quietly reorders everything.
Jesus does not say,
“Father, I want them safe.”
Though they will be.
He does not say,
“Father, I want them obedient.”
Though they will be transformed.
He says,
“I want them with Me — so they can see.”
Which means salvation is not merely about being forgiven and left where we are.
It is about being brought into proximity.
Into presence.
Into sight.
We are saved to see.
That helps explain something many believers experience but struggle to name.
You can be forgiven — truly forgiven —
and still feel unsatisfied.
Not because forgiveness failed.
But because forgiveness is the doorway, not the destination.
Forgiveness clears the way.
Vision fills the soul.
That’s why Jesus places this prayer where He does.
This is not a casual request.
This is not a passing thought.
This is His final prayer before the cross.
When everything else falls away — when there is no time for filler — this is what remains on His heart:
“I want them with Me.”
“I want them to see.”
And He knows what it will cost.
He knows that for us to see His glory,
He must first walk into darkness.
For us to stand in the light,
He must bear judgment.
For us to be fit for glory,
He must take upon Himself everything that makes glory unbearable for sinners.
So when Jesus says, “Father, I desire…”
this desire is not sentimental.
It is costly.
The cross is not simply how our sins are forgiven.
It is how our eyes are prepared.
Without the cross, the glory of God would destroy us.
Because of the cross, it will one day delight us.
That means salvation is not only pardon.
It is preparation.
God is not only forgiving you —
He is getting you ready.
Ready to see what you were always created to see.
And that helps us understand why joy can thin when vision fades.
If salvation is meant to carry us toward glory,
then a life that stops at forgiveness will feel incomplete.
Not wrong.
Not false.
Just unfinished.
And the answer is not more effort.
The answer is clearer sight.
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Part Two — Why We See, But Not Yet Clearly
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If salvation is moving us toward sight, then a natural question follows:
Why does that sight still feel incomplete?
Why do we see — and yet still strain?
Scripture does not avoid that question.
It names it honestly.
Paul says,
“Now we see in a mirror dimly, but then face to face.”
That sentence is not an apology.
It is a description.
We see — but not yet with full clarity.
And notice what Paul does not say.
He does not say, “You barely see.”
He does not say, “Your sight is unreliable.”
He does not say, “If you were more spiritual, this wouldn’t be true.”
He says this is the normal condition of life on this side of glory.
Which means limited sight is not a sign of weak faith.
It is a feature of unfinished redemption.
We see Christ now through faith — and faith is real sight —
but we see Him through finite minds, fragile bodies, and distracted lives.
We see Him while carrying grief.
We see Him while managing responsibility.
We see Him while aging.
We see Him while hurting.
We see Him through noise.
And because of that, even sincere believers can feel tired.
Not because they are drifting —
but because they are living between real sight and coming glory.
That space in between creates tension.
We love Christ.
We trust Him.
We obey Him.
And yet, there are moments when the heart quietly asks,
“Why does joy feel thinner than it once did?”
Scripture’s answer is not,
“You should be further along by now.”
The answer is,
“You were never meant to be fully satisfied here.”
Partial sight was never designed to carry eternal weight.
That’s why longing is built into the Christian life.
Not longing as dissatisfaction with Christ —
but longing as anticipation of fullness.
And here is where the gospel brings relief instead of pressure:
That longing is not something to fix.
It is something to understand.
Because longing does not mean something is wrong with your faith.
It means your faith is oriented toward something real that has not yet arrived.
You were not made to be sustained forever on glimpses.
Glimpses are enough to keep us alive.
They are enough to keep us faithful.
They are enough to keep us hopeful.
But they are not enough to fully satisfy —
and they were never meant to be.
That’s why Scripture never tells us to eliminate longing.
It tells us to aim it.
Toward Christ.
Toward glory.
Toward the day when what is dim will be clear.
So if you feel that tension —
if you sense both gratitude and weariness living side by side —
you are not confused.
You are located.
You are living exactly where Scripture says we live:
Between seeing truly
and seeing fully.
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Part Three — Redeemed for Glory
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If we were made to see —
and if our sight is real but incomplete —
then the next question is unavoidable:
How will we ever be able to see fully?
Scripture is very clear about one thing.
No human being can look upon the unveiled glory of God and survive it.
That’s not because God is cruel.
It’s because glory is not safe for sinners.
So when Jesus prays, “Father, I want them to see My glory,”
He is not making a poetic request.
He is naming the very reason He came.
Because for us to see His glory,
something in us has to change first.
And that change does not begin with effort.
It begins with redemption.
On the cross, Jesus did far more than forgive individual acts of sin.
He took upon Himself everything that makes us unfit for glory.
Our guilt.
Our shame.
Our corruption.
Our fear.
Our distance from God.
The cross is not only where sin is removed.
It is where capacity is restored.
Jesus does not simply clear the record.
He prepares the person.
That’s why the Bible speaks of salvation not only in terms of forgiveness,
but in terms of new creation.
Something real has already happened to you.
You are not waiting to become someone else —
you are waiting to become complete.
And that completion is not moral perfection first.
It is glorification.
Scripture promises that one day we will be made like Him —
not because we have earned it,
but because we will finally see Him as He is.
The glory that would undo us now
will one day remake us.
That’s why the resurrection matters.
Jesus didn’t rise merely to prove the cross worked.
He rose to show what kind of bodies are coming.
Bodies capable of glory.
Eyes capable of sight.
Hearts capable of joy without fatigue.
This means salvation has always been moving in one direction.
Not just away from judgment —
but toward transformation.
Not just toward safety —
but toward splendor.
And until that day, something remarkable happens.
Even now — in partial sight —
we begin to change.
Scripture says that as we behold the glory of the Lord,
we are being transformed.
Not suddenly.
Not completely.
But truly.
Change does not come from striving to become someone else.
It comes from looking.
From returning, again and again, to the face of Christ.
From letting what we see shape who we are becoming.
Which means this:
The Christian life is not sustained by willpower.
It is sustained by vision.
And the cross has made sure that vision will one day be complete.
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Part Four — Beholding and Becoming
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If all of this is true —
if salvation is moving us toward vision,
if redemption is preparing us for glory,
and if even now we are changed by what we behold —
then the Christian life takes on a very different shape.
It is no longer driven primarily by strain.
It is driven by attention.
Scripture does not say, “By working harder, we are transformed.”
It says,
“Beholding the glory of the Lord, we are being transformed.”
That word beholding matters.
It is not frantic.
It is not forced.
It is not rushed.
It is sustained attention.
Which means much of our fatigue does not come from loving Christ too little —
but from looking at Him too briefly,
or too rarely,
or through too many competing distractions.
We live in a world that constantly trains our eyes.
Screens.
News.
Noise.
Fear.
Comparison.
Our attention is being discipled all the time.
So when Scripture calls us to behold Christ,
it is not asking us to add another burden.
It is inviting us to reorient our gaze.
To come back — again and again —
to the One who is already for us,
already near,
already glorious.
This is why worship matters.
Not as performance.
Not as emotional manufacture.
But as reorientation.
Worship lifts our eyes from what is loud and urgent
to what is true and lasting.
This is why Scripture matters.
Not as a task to complete,
but as a place where Christ reveals Himself.
This is why prayer matters.
Not because it proves devotion,
but because it keeps us looking.
And when we look — even dimly — something happens.
We begin to change.
Slowly.
Quietly.
Almost imperceptibly at first.
Not because we are forcing growth —
but because vision reshapes desire.
What we behold, we begin to love.
What we love, we begin to move toward.
And over time, who we are begins to reflect what we’ve been seeing.
That’s why Scripture never asks us to fix ourselves first.
It asks us to come and see.
And if you are tired —
if obedience feels heavier than it once did —
if joy feels thinner —
this is not a call to intensify your effort.
It is an invitation to linger.
To stay longer in the presence of Christ.
To look again at what first drew you.
To let vision do the work effort cannot.
Because change does not come before vision.
Change comes after vision.
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Part Five — Living Toward the Light
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So what does it mean to live faithfully in this in-between space?
It means we stop misreading the tension.
We stop assuming that longing means something is wrong.
We stop assuming fatigue means failure.
We stop assuming joy has disappeared just because it has grown quieter.
Instead, we recognize where we are.
We are living between real sight and coming glory.
We really do see Christ now.
And what we see is enough to keep us faithful.
But it is not meant to be enough to make us feel finished.
The Christian life is not designed to close the story early.
It is designed to keep us facing forward.
That’s why Scripture never tells us to settle.
It tells us to wait —
not passively,
but expectantly.
Waiting, in the Bible, is not standing still.
It is standing oriented.
Eyes lifted.
Heart turned toward the horizon.
That’s why hope is such a central Christian word.
Hope is not denial of the present.
Hope is confidence about the future.
And our hope is not vague.
It is anchored in a promise.
“We shall see Him as He is.”
That is not poetry.
That is destiny.
One day, the dimness will lift.
One day, effort will give way to ease.
One day, obedience will no longer feel heavy,
because vision will be complete.
Until then, we live faithfully — not frantically.
We tend the habits that help us see.
We return to the places where Christ has made Himself known.
We refuse to confuse stillness with stagnation.
And when we feel the ache —
we let it remind us where we are headed.
Because the ache itself is evidence that glory is real.
If nothing more were coming,
your heart would not long the way it does.
But something is coming.
And Christ Himself has prayed that we will see it.
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Conclusion — From Dim Sight to Full Light
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So this is where we are.
We are living between real sight and coming glory.
We really do see Christ now.
We truly know Him.
We genuinely love Him.
But we do not yet see Him as He is.
And that is not a flaw in your faith.
It is the shape of the Christian life.
If you are forgiven, faithful, and fatigued —
if joy sometimes feels thinner than it once did —
the answer is not that your faith has failed.
It may be that your heart is doing exactly what it was created to do.
It is longing for glory.
On the night before the cross, when everything else fell away, Jesus told us what He wants most for His people.
“Father, I desire that they may be with Me where I am — to see My glory.”
That prayer has not been forgotten.
It has not weakened with time.
It has not gone unanswered.
It was sealed by the cross.
It was secured by the resurrection.
And it will be fulfilled.
One day, the dimness will lift.
One day, faith will give way to sight.
One day, what we have only glimpsed will be fully seen.
And on that day, joy will not need to be summoned or sustained.
It will simply be —
because we will finally see Him clearly.
Until then, we do not strive to manufacture change.
We do not accuse ourselves for longing.
We do not confuse fatigue with failure.
We return — again and again — to the simple, faithful pursuit.
Not trying harder.
But looking longer.
Because we are not changed by effort.
We are changed by beholding.
And even now — even dimly —
what we see is real.
So lift your eyes.
Open the Word.
Come not to perform, but to see.
And trust this:
The glory you glimpse now is only the beginning.
The prayer of Christ guarantees the rest.
Amen.
