We have two ways of seeing the world—through the eyes of the ego or through the eyes of Christ. One keeps us in conflict, fear, and judgment. The other restores peace, offers forgiveness, and reveals love where we thought none could exist. The Course in Miracles calls this shift Christ’s Vision, and it is not reserved for saints or mystics. It is available to each of us, in every moment, if we are willing to see differently.
Christ’s Vision has nothing to do with physical sight. It does not require perfect eyes or youthful clarity. It is a way of knowing, not a way of looking. It sees not the form of things, but their essence. It sees beyond behavior to intention, beyond words to prayer, beyond the mask to the light behind it.
The ego sees separation. Christ sees unity.
The ego sees flaws. Christ sees wholeness.
The ego reacts. Christ responds.
This is not some lofty spiritual abstraction—it is immensely practical. Because the way we see the world determines how we feel in it. If I see only attack, I will live in fear. If I see only competition, I will be anxious. If I see only cruelty, I will grow bitter. But if I can train my mind to see innocence where the ego sees guilt, then I open the door to miracles.
“Vision,” the Course tells us, “is not only unlimited by space and distance, but it does not depend on the body’s eyes at all.” This means Christ’s Vision is not a metaphor—it is a real perceptual shift. One that begins not with better information, but with better intention. It begins with the prayer, “I want to see peace instead of this.”
That prayer is everything.
There was a time in my life when someone I loved betrayed my trust. The facts were undeniable. The pain was sharp. And the ego was quick to react: I was right. They were wrong. I deserved better. But something in me didn’t want to live in that bitterness. I didn’t want to replay the hurt again and again. I wanted peace.
So I turned inward. I sat with the question: What would Christ see here?
It wasn’t an instant transformation. The mind is stubborn. But slowly, I began to see the fear behind their actions, the pain that shaped their decisions, the illusion that led them to act out of guilt and not love. And in that moment, something softened. I realized that their behavior, while hurtful, was not the truth of who they were. I could choose to see beyond it—not to excuse it but to free myself from it.
That’s what Christ’s Vision does. It sets you free.
Free from resentment.
Free from rehashing.
Free from the endless game of judgment and justification.
The ego thrives on guilt. It scans the world for reasons to attack or defend. It needs enemies to affirm its identity. But Christ’s Vision sees no enemies. It sees only confused brothers and sisters who forgot who they were. And because it recognizes innocence, it extends healing.
“The eyes of Christ look on a world forgiven,” the Course says. That doesn’t mean we become passive or accept injustice. It means we see the world through a filter of compassion rather than condemnation. We see pain as a call for love, not as a weapon to be used against us.
This changes everything.
Imagine watching the evening news through Christ’s Vision—not seeing threats, but opportunities for prayer. Not cursing the darkness, but holding space for light. Imagine encountering a rude stranger and silently blessing them instead of reacting. Imagine witnessing someone’s suffering and remembering their holiness even as they forget it themselves.
This isn’t naïve. It’s powerful. Because seeing with Christ’s Vision doesn’t make us blind to the world—it helps us see through it. We see the form, yes, but we don’t stop there. We look deeper. And that depth reveals a world the ego cannot understand.
But how do we get there?
First, we must want to see differently. The ego will not surrender vision easily. It will tell us that judgment is necessary, that hatred is justified, that punishment is power. We must gently interrupt that narrative. We must say: I am willing to see this another way. That willingness cracks the door. And Spirit rushes in.
Next, we practice. Not perfection—but practice. Christ’s Vision is like a muscle. The more we use it, the more natural it becomes. Start with small moments. Look at someone who irritates you and ask, “What if they are not what they appear to be?” Hold back judgment for just one moment and let silence teach you something deeper.
Finally, we trust. We trust that seeing with love will never hurt us. We trust that forgiveness doesn’t make us weak—it makes us whole. We trust that behind every illusion is the face of Christ, waiting to be recognized.
And yes, we will fail sometimes. We will slip back into ego vision, because it’s familiar. (As I did for over ten years) But each time we return to Christ’s Vision, we remember just a little more clearly that it was always available.
There’s a quiet line in the Course that has stayed with me for years:
“To see the world as God sees it is not only possible—it is inevitable.”
That’s the promise.
That’s the comfort.
That’s the journey.
You are not asked to make the vision perfect. Only to make it welcome. Spirit will do the rest.
So today, let us ask together:
Let me see through eyes of love.
Let me look gently on a world that forgot its source.
Let me remember that beneath every mask is a face just like mine—longing to be seen, not judged.
Let me see with Christ’s Vision.
Because that is how I will remember who I truly am.
