“He who has ears to hear, let him hear.” (Mt. 11:15)
This line stuck out while meditating on Scripture recently. Not because of its apparent simplicity, but because I knew I’d seen it before. Several times. And not just in Matthew.
Jesus uses this phrase like a flashing signal throughout the Gospels. I’ve seen it after the Parable of the Sower, after the lamp under the basket, after the teaching on defilement, after the salt parable. It appears seven times in Revelation alone. Each time, it’s a warning to His children that this particular teaching requires deeper spiritual discernment, not just surface comprehension.
Okay. Got it. Saw the signal. Let’s dive beneath the surface.
In Matthew 11:7–15, Jesus speaks to the crowds about His cousin John, confirming that he is the one of whom it is written: “Behold, I send my messenger before your face, who shall prepare your way before you.” Then He adds something strange: “Among those born of women, there has arisen no one greater than John the Baptist; yet he who is least in the kingdom of heaven is greater than he.”
What does that mean?
That’s the part I was drawn to.
So, I asked the Holy Spirit to come, to empty me of myself and fill me with His wisdom. And then I said, “Lord, I cannot discern this passage on my own. My wisdom is imperfect, layered with selfishness and pride bigger than my home. I am nothing but a beast, an ape, worm food. I need you.”
The Lord’s response was gentle: You are not merely an animal. Yes, sin brought death into the world—your body will return to dust. But it will not stay there. Body and soul together, you bear My image. And both will be raised, glorified, made whole. You are so much more beautiful, so much more holy than you know.
And then He showed me a recent, yet recurring, conversation I’ve had with my sixteen-year-old son.
For the last six months, my son has been exercising faithfully. Every day. Sometimes twice a day. He’s obsessive. Wants to get bigger, stronger. He’s constantly checking his progress in the mirror, worried that eating certain foods will impede his progress or reverse what he’s gained. That he’s not training hard enough. None of which is true. In fact, he’s never been stronger, more muscular—and yet he constantly complains how small he is. How his shoulders and forearms aren’t big enough. That his chest doesn’t compare to the professional bodybuilders he sees on social media, or even to his genetically gifted (and likely pharmaceutically enhanced) peers.
But you know what I see, as his father?
I see his body utterly changed. Not just good. Great. I tell him constantly: You look beautiful, son. And he does. He’s been given gifts that would make Adonis—even Achilles—jealous. He just doesn’t see it. Can’t see it.
I do. And I’m bewildered that he can’t.
Every day I have to remind him of what he’s accomplished, how amazing he looks. Every day. I don’t tire of it. I just hope my words will sink in one day. That his eyes will open, and he will see.
But that’s his choice. I can’t force him to see what I see. I can only keep saying it, over and over and over: Son, you look beautiful. You’ve never been stronger than today. Don’t stop. Keep going.
And somewhere in those words, I heard it.
Maybe that’s what God is saying to me. Not about bodybuilding—but about my faith. My perception of self-worth. How I’ve looked deeply inward with brutal honesty and seen how filthy my interior life truly is.
And still He thinks I am beautiful. Warts and all.
I don’t know why that’s so hard to believe. But it is.
And yet—what else would a loving father see? What else would a loving father say?
The Spirit showed me this truth through my own fatherhood. Through my own imperfect, stumbling, relentless love for my son. If I—selfish, prideful, broken as I am—can look at my child and see only beauty, only potential, only someone worth fighting for…how much more does the Father see when He looks at me?
His words are there. His encouraging voice, filled with eternal love, is ever present.
Most days I feel like my son, struggling to see my worth through His eyes. Worried that I’m not good enough. Will never be good enough.
In those moments, all I need to do is pause, turn myself toward His face. Quiet my doubts. And listen.
Photo by Tatiana Zhukova on Unsplash
