“Therefore, since we are surrounded by so great a cloud of witnesses, let us also lay aside every weight, and sin which clings so closely, and let us run with endurance the race that is set before us.” (Hebrews 12:1, ESV)
I was reading a devotional this morning that made me pause. It was beautifully written, the kind of thing one almost wishes could be true because it feels tender and reassuring. It suggested that the saints in heaven watch us as spectators, that loved ones lean over the railings of glory to observe our steps, cheer our progress, and pray for our endurance. The imagery was warm and carefully drawn, but Scripture requires us to test every comfort by the Word of God and not go beyond what is written. Something can be poetic, touching, and utterly unbiblical at the same time.
It is common to hear believers speak this way. A grandmother watching over us. A child smiling down from above. A husband keeping quiet vigil through the veil. Yet these are not the comforts God gives. They spring from longing, not doctrine. They rise from imagination, not revelation. And while they may soothe the emotions for a moment, they draw the soul toward shadows rather than light. What troubles me is not merely that they are untrue, but that they subtly shift the focus of our comfort. Instead of anchoring our hope in Christ who lives and intercedes, we begin to lean on the idea of human presence lingering near us. And that is no small loss. If we are not vigilant, we will find ourselves resting on illusions that feel sweet and yet deprive us of the very truth that can sustain us. Satan rarely pushes the believer toward blatant errors first. He prefers softer lies, ones that seem harmless or even loving, ones that can be called “comfort” without much inspection. If one gently challenges these notions, he whispers accusations that such correction is unkind. Yet biblical love must tell the truth, especially when truth guards the heart from misplaced hope.
Hebrews 12 brought this home to me with fresh force. The writer speaks of a “great cloud of witnesses” who surround us as we run the race set before us. But the word witness there, in context, does not refer to spectators who watch the living. It refers to those whose lives bear testimony to the faithfulness of God. The entire flow of chapter 11 is a recounting of lives lived in faith, lives that proclaim that God keeps His promises. They are witnesses not of us, but to us. Their witness is their endurance. Their testimony is their perseverance. Their story is the declaration that trusting God is never in vain. Scripture turns our gaze not upward to those who have departed, but forward to Christ who lives.
When the writer says, “let us run with endurance… looking to Jesus, the founder and perfecter of our faith” (Heb. 12:1–2), he gives the heart of it. Our eyes are not to rest on the departed at all. Their role in this passage is to show us what faith looks like. Christ alone is the One who watches us. Christ alone sees every step. Christ alone intercedes. To give the departed an awareness Scripture does not give them is to blur the distinction between their rest and Christ’s active mediation. Revelation presents those who have died in Christ as fully occupied with the worship and joy of God, resting from their labors, beholding His face, satisfied in Him, not tethered to our present circumstances. Isaiah 63:16 even reminds Israel that Abraham, though their father, “does not know us,” a humbling reminder that the departed saints are not tracking the earthly lives of the living. Their perfection in glory is not diminished by lack of earthly awareness. If anything, it is heightened by undivided communion with God Himself.
As I sat with that truth, I realized how easily we trade the fullness of Christ’s ministry for lesser comforts. To imagine that the dead pray for us, or watch us, or guide us, is to grant them a role Scripture never assigns. Some of these ideas resemble the intercessory system of Catholic tradition more than the sober clarity of Scripture. Christ alone bears that office. Christ alone carries our names before the Father. Christ alone “always lives to make intercession” (Heb. 7:25). Spurgeon once said that any hope which puts another in the place of Christ “steals a jewel from His crown.” Even a small shift in our comfort can become a large distortion in our faith. We must learn to receive the comfort God actually gives instead of inventing comforts that He has not spoken. The former strengthens. The latter distracts.
And here is the real comfort, the one Scripture intends. We do not need the eyes of the saints upon us. We have the eyes of the Shepherd. We do not need the prayers of the departed. We have the intercession of the Son of God. We do not need imagined nearness of those we loved. We have the promised nearness of the One who said, “I am with you always” (Matt. 28:20). The saints who have gone before us are secure in God’s presence, freed from the burden of watching a fallen world, perfected in holiness, and resting in the joy set before them. Their silence toward us is not abandonment, it is fulfillment. Their lack of awareness is not loss, it is glory. And our comfort is not found in their imagined gaze but in Christ’s unceasing care.
There are comforts that God does not give because they would only turn our eyes away from Him. To know that our loved ones are safe in Christ is enough. To know that Christ Himself watches over us is more than enough. It is a truth that steadies the soul. Our comfort does not rest on the imagined awareness of loved ones. Our comfort rests on the living Christ who watches, keeps, and intercedes. That is the comfort Scripture offers, the comfort that will not fail, and the comfort that will carry us faithfully to the end.
