“I wonder if, like newborn children, we spend our lives looking for a face—a gaze that heals us. One that loves, welcomes, and recognizes us.” — Allen Levi, Theo of Golden

Not long ago, someone close to me pointed out that when they spoke, my eyes often wandered toward the floor, across the room, or to someone passing by. I hadn’t even realized I was doing it. Even though I was listening, my eyes were communicating that I wasn’t interested or truly present.

It was such a small thing, just eyes meeting eyes, and yet it had a ripple effect. What I realized is that looking at someone is one of the most powerful ways we communicate that they matter, they’re loved, and they’re worth our attention.

The way we look at someone always communicates something. And having a brother with autism and working in special education has only made me more aware of people’s tendency to overlook those with disabilities. As a result, many with disabilities go weeks, months, or years without anyone outside their immediate circle really looking at them.

Fortunately, Scripture gives us a picture of this in John 9 through the story of the man born blind, where we see three ways people looked at him. Everyone is looking. The question is what they see and believe about him. 

The Look of Blame

The first look John 9 depicts is a look of blame: “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” (John 9:1–2)

The disciples’ question reveals their judgmental hearts. When they saw this man, they immediately assigned blame. They saw a problem to explain, not a person to love. The man was looked at, but not seen.

We recognize this instinct. When we encounter suffering, we often ask the same question: Whose fault is it? We may not say it aloud, but we wonder what choices led someone here. Unfortunately, a gaze shaped by blame will never move us toward someone. It will only move us past them.

The Look of Invisibility

The next group of people John describes lived in proximity to the blind man, but had largely ignored him: “His neighbors and those who had formerly seen him begging asked, ‘Isn’t this the same man who used to sit and beg?’” (John 9:8)

The neighbors knew his condition better than his face. They had a vague memory of “that beggar,” but couldn’t recognize him with confidence. Their question makes us wonder if they had ever truly engaged him at all.

Most people who overlook those with disabilities aren’t trying to be cruel; they’re trying to be careful. The parent who tenses when their child asks about someone in a wheelchair. The child with autism left off a birthday invitation because no one knows how to include them. 

When we don’t know what to say, we often choose not to engage at all. Our intention may be kindness, but the result is often invisibility. And to be unseen altogether is its own kind of wound. 

The Look of Love

The final look we see in this story is a look that heals: “As he went along, [Jesus] saw a man blind from birth” (John 9:1).

Before anyone speaks, John tells us that Jesus saw him. Not his condition, not a theological problem, but him. Jesus’ look of love blossomed into an intimate healing. Instead of restoring the man’s vision from a distance, Jesus knelt, touched the man’s eyes, and involved him in the miracle. He sent him to wash in the pool of Siloam, a public act that invited the man into a relationship and trust. 

Jesus didn’t just restore the man’s sight; he restored his dignity. He didn’t just give the man healing; he invited him to participate in it. One of the best ways to see and love someone with disabilities is to invite them into an activity or task together. Even though we might be able to do the task apart from them, this involvement dignifies them and forms a path to relationship.

See As We Have Been Seen

Every Palm Sunday, our adult Sunday school class for those with developmental disabilities leads our congregation in worship. They wave palm branches, march down the aisles, and sing “Hosanna!” As their voices fill the sanctuary, the congregation rises to its feet, clapping and singing along. Every eye is on them, theirs on us, the entire church in smiles, being led in rejoicing by those who are so often overlooked, worshiping the God who looked on us.

Every intentional look of love toward those with disabilities reflects the goodness of God and the beauty of the gospel. It mirrors God’s own gaze toward us: one that loves, welcomes, and recognizes us. And often, that kind of seeing becomes a small kind of healing.

One day, we will see and know Jesus, just as he sees and knows us (1 Cor. 13:12). This interlocking gaze will heal us fully; in seeing him, we will be made whole (1 John 3:2).

The next time you encounter someone with a disability, take an extra moment to pause: to look them in the face, to say hello, to communicate what you really believe about them. They matter, are loved, and have our attention. And by looking in love, you embody the eyes of Jesus, who sees and cherishes them.