Ecclesiastes 1:8

The eye is not satisfied with seeing.

The unsatisfied eye

This fact is selected as an instance of man’s profitless curiosity, as a symbol of the insatiable-ness of the human mind. My remarks will, I think, prove applicable to two cases,--to the dreary doctrine that man is virtually nothing, and all his efforts are unavailing; and also to the Christian’s affirmation, that there is something better and more lasting than the objects of our sensuous vision.

I. I direct your attention to the thing itself which in the text is said not to be satisfied with seeing. Consider what instances of skill we gaze at with admiration, and cross oceans to behold, and yet how imperfect and clumsy they are compared with this little compact organ set in its bony cup, with its lenses and regulators and pulleys and screws, its curtaining iris and its crystal deep, its inner chamber of imagery on which are flung the pictures of the universe,--the aspects of nature, the shapes of art, the symbols of knowledge, the faces of love; this magic glass, both telescope and microscope, filled with the splendours of an insect’s wing, yet taking in the scenery of heaven; this sentinel of the passions; this signal of the conscious soul, kindled by a light within more glorious than the light without, and never satisfied with seeing. Such is the human eye. And from the lowest creatures, whose visual apparatus is a mere nervous speck, up to the most complex organisms, there is nothing that has the range of this organ. In certain specialties of vision man may not be equal to some animals or insects. The shark and the spider, the hawk and the cat, may see better on some particular plane of sight; but in that general power which far transcends any special capacity, in scope, in possibility, in educated faculty, in expressiveness, the human eye excels all others. If, then, superior qualifications are to be taken as proof of superior purpose, this fact of itself is significant as to the dignity and the destiny of man. But in this line of argument nothing seems more suggestive than the very statement of the text: “The eye is not satisfied with seeing.” Now, so far as we can judge, the merely animal eye is satisfied with seeing. The brute does not shift about to get better views of nature. He does not search the landscape for objects of beauty and sublimity. It is man only who finds in the opportunities of vision the inspiration of action, and in all that lies under the sun secures employment for a restless curiosity. He ponders unfathomable problems in the pebble and the weed, and eagerly searches the secrets of the universe. How much of human enterprise is simply the result of a longing for vision,--the desire to see strange lands, and look upon memorable faces, to watch the evolution of facts, and detect hidden causes! No man is satisfied with that which he sees right around him. The child longs to know what lies beyond the hills that bound his familiar valley, into what strange country the sun goes down, and upon what marvellous region the rainbow rests. The eye, however, is not satisfied with its own natural limits, but seeks the aid of instruments. As, in its aspects, it is the most striking of all the organs of sense, so does it transcend them all in its scope, both of space and time. This little orb of observation, turning on its minute axis, sweeps the splendid theatre of suns and systems, comprehending millions of miles in a glance, and visited by rays of light that have been travelling downwards for thousands of years.

II. What is it that is not satisfied with seeing? In no scale of created being,--not even the lowest,--is it the eye itself that sees. It is the instinct, or consciousness, back of the eye. Examine the dead organ in man or animal, and all its wondrous mechanism is there. Lift the fallen lid, and the light of the outward world flickers upon its surface. But the faculty of sight is not there. Whatever that faculty may be in the brute, we have seen that in man it is a peculiar and distinctive faculty. We have seen that to him belongs this desire for vision ,--this pushing inquisitiveness that is never satisfied. Such, then, must be the inner and conscious nature of man. Such must be the mysterious power behind the eye,--the thing that really sees. Therefore the eye that is not satisfied with seeing is the spirit within us. The mind of man is the eye of man. And here opens an argument that rebukes materialistic disparagement and confirms Christian hope. It is because of the limitless nature of the human soul, that the eye of man never rests, but perpetually wanders over all the visible world, over all the regions of possible truth and beauty. Surely, if this were merely a mortal and limited nature, this would not be. Man would be satisfied with seeing.

1. In the first place, consider what it is that the physical eye itself implies. An examination of this mechanism alone,--these cups, these tissues, these muscles, these elastic veils,--shows at least that the eye is adjusted to the conditions of the external world, and that there are external things for it to behold. But, this being so, I ask, What is implied by that consciousness which acts behind the physical organ,--that faculty which really sees, and is never satisfied? What does that restless mind itself, with its capacities and instincts, imply? Surely it implies the existence of objects fitted to those capacities and instincts,--the existence of unlimited truth and beauty and goodness, and a field of deathless activity for that faculty which is never satisfied. Back of iris and retina there are other lenses. There is a lens of instinct, a lens of reason, a lens of faith, through which come reflections far beyond the visible veil of earth and heaven, images of ideal majesty and loveliness, and “a light that never was on land or sea.” Are these mere fantasies engendered from within? If so, I ask, What do these interior lenses imply? And why do they exist at all? What can we infer, but that in the wide realm of actual being there are spiritual objects which answer to its function? For the mind, and not the body, being the real eye, the faculty of looking out upon material forms is only one of its functions. This faith-vision, this perception of reason, is just as truly an original faculty, although now its objects may be seen only as “through a glass darkly.” You never really saw the most familiar object. Yet we do not distrust these transmitted images. We live in their light, and rejoice in their communion. Why, then, distrust these other conceptions, though they are but images also, and we may behold them only in that transparent world where the material lens shall be shattered, and we shall see as we never do here,--“face to face”? Why suppose these to be fantasies, any more than the mountains, the stars? This apprehension of God as an inscrutable Essence, yet also a veritable Presence; this impression on the retina of the soul of those who have vanished from our material sight,--are these but mists of fancy, or dreams of mortal sleep? I answer that they are as legitimate as any transcript of the outward world, only more indefinite, as all facts involved with the infinite and the immortal necessarily must be. There are diseased eyes, and there are defective eyes, by which the optic nerve brings false reports, upon which the outward world looks grim and obscure, to which all external things are a blank. So, too, there may be diseased and defective souls, whose images of spiritual things are fantastic and exaggerated, or whose vision is sealed altogether by sad, interior blindness. But these do not impeach the legitimate function of the eye, nor refute the general convictions of men. Moreover, as this faculty of vision that permits no limit to its material discoveries, and looks beyond these sensuous veils, is never satisfied with seeing, I ask, What does this fact itself imply? Surely it suggests boundless opportunities of action. The desire to see is never quenched: nevertheless the mere physical organ of sight grows weary, and gladly retreats under its drowsy lids. The dew of sleep is required for its refreshment, and the periods of darkness indicate a necessary suspension of its work. Age draws over it a filmy curtain. And so comes Death, shutting up the worn-out easements, and bringing on the final night when all this curious mechanism is resolved into its elements. But the actual eye is not yet satisfied with seeing, and the forces that shatter its material instruments do not quench its capacity or its yearning. But no capacity is without its sphere, no instinct is for ever baulked. The unsatisfied eye demonstrates the deathless and ever-unfolding mind.

III. Therefore in perfect consistency with what has been said, I also urge this truth,--that the eye sees more and more, and more and more shows its capacity for seeing, in proportion as it becomes accustomed to worthy objects. There may be diversities of spiritual, as there are diversities of physical faculty. Consider what some men will train their natural eyes to behold,--the sailor at the masthead, the Indian in the woods, the Esquimaux among the snows. And so there are diversities of spiritual sight, some of them perhaps resulting from original differences in power. But the spiritual vision of any man may be educated to still better results. One reason why men have not this spiritual discernment is because they will not see, because they neglect the faculty of seeing. It has been truly said that “the eye sees only that which it brings the power to see.” It does not create the thing to be seen, any more than the microscope creates the pomp of an insect’s wing, or Rosse’s tube the splendours of Orion. But we see just what we exercise the power to see; and no external revelations, however urged upon us, will make up for the lack of spiritual refinement. Educate the physical eye if you would see more of the natural world. But, even then, the mind must be educated, if we would discern the glory and the beauty everywhere, and live in a world of perpetual delight, detecting a rarer loveliness in the daisy, and pictures of wondrous grandeur in the shadows that drift along the mountain. It is not merely far travelling that enlarges and enriches the vision. The observant philosopher discovers a world of wonders in “a tour around his garden.” Let the eye of the soul be educated if you would see the world in new relations, if you would detect the true significance of life, if you would discern the real blessedness of every joy and the right look of every affliction, if you would stand consciously in the presence of God, and gaze upon spiritual things. What we really need is not more things but better eyesight. And is it not this eye of the soul that we must mainly rely upon? How far will physical sight guide us? How long will it last us? How much will it enable us to see? At best it gives us only appearances, and itself fades and grows dim ere long. Think, then, of the desolation of those who have no interior vision. How light, comparatively, has been the affliction of physical blindness to men like Niebuhr, who, when the veil had fallen upon present things, could cheer the darkness of his closing years by retracing in the luminous track of memory the scenes of early travel; or to Milton, who, “with that inner eye which no calamity could darken,” saw “those ethereal virtues flinging down on the jasper pavement their crowns of amaranth and gold.” (E. H. Chapin.)