Seeing Others Through God’s Eyes: A Spiritual Reflection

At one of my churches, we recently completed our Equality, Diversity, and Inclusivity (EDI) training. The big takeaway? We all carry preconceived notions about people. And not just “some groups”, let’s be honest, it’s everyone we come across.

It’s how our brains are wired: we see, we assess, we assign meaning. We fill in blanks based on past experience, cultural messaging, or subconscious instincts. And, unfortunately, those blanks often get filled with something negative.

Take a walk with me down the high street of judgment:

  • That person in gym gear, tank top barely hanging on, protein shake in hand, not in fact going to the gym, but actually on their way to Greggs. Vain!
  • The family with full Christmas lights up in October? Ridiculous!
  • The person with a quadruple-shot, oat-milk, half-sweet, sugar-free caramel latte? Pretentious!
  • That guy who won’t stop telling you he ran a marathon in “under 3 hours 23 minutes”? Okay, that one might be just impressive.

We might smile and laugh at such examples, but we know it’s true. We form opinions fast. And while those judgements are sometimes based on real experiences, they can become barriers to seeing people through God’s eyes.

I was recently out at the pub with some folks from church for our “Tough Questions” discussion group. Same night as the Arsenal–Paris match. And in walked three gentlemen, driven by vodka, not football, and gave us a night to remember.

One approached us (uninvited) to offer his match analysis, slurring, swaying, and full of energy. Our first instinct? Awkward. Drunk. Best avoided. But instead, we welcomed him in, chatted, and eventually shared why we were there.

Soon, his two brothers joined, each at a different stage of intoxication:

  • One was philosophical and keen to debate theology.
  • One was jovial, laughing mostly at himself.
  • One was angry, offended at our faith, and shouting his opposition.

And yet, God was present. We talked. We listened. We didn’t argue, but engaged honestly. We bore witness to God’s love. And by the end? One took a Bible and a reading plan home. Two shook our hands. None walked away untouched by that encounter.

Snap judgments could have kept us silent. But grace, the kind that shaped the early Church, called us to something deeper.

Even Peter, the rock, the miracle-worker, the Pentecost preacher, wasn’t immune to assumptions.

In Acts 10, Peter receives a vision: a sheet descending from heaven, filled with animals considered “unclean” by Jewish law. God says, “Kill and eat.” Peter objects: “Surely not, Lord! I’ve never eaten anything impure or unclean.” (Acts 10:14)

God replies, “Do not call anything impure that God has made clean.” (Acts 10:15)

This wasn’t about food, it was about people. Specifically, Gentiles. People Peter had been taught to avoid, to think of as “outside” of God’s promises. But here’s God saying: You’re thinking too small, Peter. My grace is bigger than your categories.

So Peter visits Cornelius, a Roman centurion, shares the Gospel, and witnesses the Holy Spirit fall on Gentiles (Acts 10:44–48). That’s the moment that changes everything.

In Acts 11:1–18, Peter has to defend this to the other apostles. “You went into the house of uncircumcised men and ate with them?” (v. 3)

Peter shares what happened, how God clearly acted. And then he says:

“If God gave them the same gift he gave us… who was I to think that I could stand in God’s way?” (Acts 11:17)

There we have it. No more arguing. The early church concludes:

“So then, even to Gentiles God has granted repentance that leads to life.” (Acts 11:18)

That moment changed the course of Christianity. From a movement for a select group, to a mission for the whole world.

I recently visited Butlins with my family for a toddler week, and saw two men loudly swearing, staggering about with a large bottle of Hooch. First thought? Gross. Inappropriate. I need to shield my kids. Second thought (a bit later)? I wonder what pain they’re carrying. I wonder who taught them they weren’t worth more.

Jesus calls us not to deny our initial reactions, but to move through them toward grace.

Think of John 13:34–35, where Jesus says:

“A new command I give you: Love one another. As I have loved you, so you must love one another.”

And what kind of love is that?

  • A love that sees the “unclean” and calls them beloved.
  • A love that looks past reputation, appearance, even sin, and says, “Come to me.”

If Jesus, perfect and holy, looks at us, sinful, flawed, messy, and still calls us “My child”, then how can we look at others and say “common,” “unclean,” “not worth it”?

Today is Aldersgate Sunday, when we remember John Wesley’s experience of having his “heart strangely warmed.” It was a turning point, not just for him, but for the entire Methodist movement.

Wesley’s warmed heart led him to coal miners, gin drinkers, field preachers, and the poor. It led him to say: “The world is my parish.”

We carry that same fire. That same calling. That same commission.

Here’s the challenge: the next time you notice a snap judgement rising in you, name it. Don’t bury it. But don’t stop there. Ask:

“Lord, how do You see this person?”

Pray this:

“God, thank you for making them in your image. Thank you that you love them. Use me, if only in prayer, or if needed in word, to show them grace.”

And if you’re bold, go one step further: talk to them. Listen. Laugh. Learn. Be the open door that Jesus always is to you.

Let’s be a people who don’t settle for human vision, but reach for God’s perspective, and trust that He might still be writing someone’s redemption story through us.

Let’s leave our churches, our homes, our EDI training sessions, and our own assumptions behind, and bring that warm, strange, scandalous love of God to everyone.

Especially the ones we wouldn’t think to.

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