Seeing beyond visual range
The air force has a term they call “BVR,” which refers to seeing a target miles away—”beyond visual range.”
It’s a useful concept as we stumble upon Hebrews 2:8-9, where the writer to the Hebrews encourages us about seeing Jesus. It’s not just about sight—not just the act of seeing, but the deeper question of what we choose to focus on, beyond visual range. It’s an extraordinary claim: “But we see Jesus.” It’s a bold statement, especially when we’re surrounded by so much that feels seeable—wars that rage on, systems that oppress, creation itself groaning under the weight of misuse. And yet, into the tension of our brokenness, this resounding hope rings out: “But we see Jesus.” I want to avoid the passive legalism of saying, “But do we?”
It’s no accident that this verse echoes Psalm 8. David, staring up at the sky or the stars, marvels: “What is man that you are mindful of him?” (Ps. 8:4, ESV). He’s profoundly impacted! There’s wonder here—sheer awe at the thought of humanity crowned with glory and honour, entrusted with dominion over creation. When we look around today, it may feel like the promise has faltered—fires rage, oceans rise, violence grips cities and homes alike. Creation was handed to us as a gift, but it looks like we’ve dropped the ball, gone astray from the promise and encouragement. The dominion of Psalm 8 feels like a distant dream. And yet, the Word of God, forever established, offers us something exhilarating…
The good news is Hebrews doesn’t shy away from this tension. “At present, we do not yet see everything in subjection to him. But (and this ‘But’ is majestic in its scope, challenge, and provocation) we see Jesus” (Heb. 2:8–9, ESV). Do you hear that? It’s an invitation to see beyond what’s visible, to shift our gaze from the fractures of the world to the One who holds it all together.
Jesus is the embodiment of what Psalm 8 looks like in motion. He is glory and honour personified, stepping into the chaos, into the pain, into the very brokenness that seems to overwhelm us—entering the human story not as a distant saviour who observes from afar, but as one who stands in the fire with us. He takes on our frailty, “a little lower than the angels,” and tastes death so that we might taste life.
God being God, His work doesn’t stop with you or me. It’s not just about personal salvation. When we see Jesus, we’re reminded that His reign is truly cosmic in scope. It’s not only our hearts He’s redeeming—it’s the stars that David marvelled at, the oceans that rise, the nations that rage. This is supremacy in all things! Psalm 8 points to a humanity crowned with purpose, and Jesus is that humanity—fully alive, King not just of souls but of creation itself. The earth is His, and He’s renewing all of it.
That changes everything. The world feels like it’s coming apart at the seams, but the seams are not the end of the story. Jesus is holding it together, stitching it back into something beautiful. The violence, the injustice, the environmental devastation—even Tesla’s space debris around Mars—don’t have the last word. He does.
And, looking into the Scriptures, savouring and adoring Jesus, if we truly see Jesus, it will change how we live. This isn’t just an abstract theological concept; it’s a massive, radical, and audacious call to action. What does it mean to see Jesus today, when the world is so fractured? It means looking for Him in the most unexpected places, seeing His image in the refugee searching for a home, finding His heart in the colleague quietly struggling with depression. It means caring for His creation—the earth He’s redeeming—even as we long for the day when all things are made new.
Now, to see Jesus is to respond; you can’t look at Him and remain unchanged. Seeing Jesus leads to living like Him—loving boldly, forgiving extravagantly, working tirelessly for justice and mercy, beginning to mirror Him. In a world starving for hope, that reflection matters more than ever.
What about when it’s hard to see Him—when He feels BVR? There are days, seasons even, when the brokenness feels bigger than the promise, when prayers feel like they’re bouncing off the ceiling, and the weight of suffering seems too much to bear. What then?
The writer of Hebrews understands this. Seeing Jesus isn’t always easy—it’s not about perfect clarity or constant certainty; it’s about persistence. Sometimes, seeing Him means naming the doubts, the questions, the pain, and holding them up to Him. Faith isn’t the absence of struggle; it’s the decision to look for Him even in the struggle. Often, faith, trust, and obedience are the answers.
When we look, we find Him: “You will seek me and find me, when you seek me with all your heart” (Jer. 29:13). He’s the one who stepped into death so we wouldn’t have to fear it, who rose again, declaring once and for all that suffering and sorrow don’t get the final say. His cross is where brokenness met its match, and His resurrection is where all creation started to turn back toward life.
The gospel changes everything. It’s the place where you see Jesus. The cross isn’t just a symbol of redemption; it’s the centre of reality. Jesus tasted death for everyone—for you, for me, for the world. And that’s why we see Him. That’s why we cling to Him and why the resurrection isn’t just an event in history; it’s a promise for the future and power for the present.
When David marvelled at the stars in Psalm 8, he didn’t know the fullness of what he was pointing to. But (in spite of everything around us or against us), we see Jesus—the crowned King, the suffering Servant, the resurrected Lord. Because of Him, we can look at this broken world and say, with confidence, that the story isn’t over. The cracks are being mended. The kingdom is coming. The King is here.
But… we see Jesus. That’s our vision. That’s our hope. That’s what we need today, tomorrow, and every day until the kingdom comes in full.