15 March 2026
Seeing What Is True
Lent gradually teaches us how temptation works. Temptation rarely begins with something dramatic or obvious. It begins quietly, almost invisibly, with a distortion of how we see reality. The deeper problem in spiritual life is not simply that we make bad choices. The deeper problem is that we begin to see things incorrectly—especially when it comes to God.
If the heart begins to believe that God is withholding something, or that His ways diminish us rather than lead us to life, then trust is diminished almost automatically. The will eventually moves in the direction the mind believes is true. In other words, sin often begins with spiritual blindness.
And that is exactly what today’s Gospel is about.
The healing of the man born blind in John chapter 9 is one of the longest and most dramatic miracle stories in the Gospels. But the miracle itself happens almost quietly. Jesus sees a man blind from birth, spits on the ground, makes clay, places it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to wash in the pool of Siloam. The man goes, washes, and comes back able to see.
At first glance, that might seem like the whole point of the story: a physical healing. But if you follow the conversation that unfolds afterward, it becomes clear that the physical miracle is only the beginning. The real drama is about who truly sees and who remains blind.
After initial confusion, suspicion and arguments over the healing gradually something remarkable becomes clear: the man who was born blind begins to see more and more clearly, while the religious leaders—who are physically able to see—become increasingly blind spiritually.
At first the healed man simply calls Jesus “the man called Jesus.” Later he calls Him “a prophet.” Eventually he recognizes Him as the Son of Man and worships Him. His vision deepens step by step.
Meanwhile, the Pharisees move in the opposite direction. They start with certainty that they understand God’s law and God’s ways. But the more evidence they encounter, the more defensive and resistant they become. They question the miracle. They question the man’s parents. They question the man himself. And in the end, they refuse to accept what is plainly before them.
By the end of the story, the man who once lived in darkness sees clearly, and those who claim spiritual authority cannot see at all.
Jesus summarizes the whole situation with a striking line: “I came into this world for judgment, so that those who do not see might see, and those who do see might become blind.”
The point is not that Jesus wants blindness. The point is that the ability to see God’s work depends on humility. If a person begins by assuming they already understand everything or being unwilling to be taught, their vision closes. But if a person knows their need and are humble, their sight can be given to them and restored.
This same theme appears in the first reading. Samuel is sent by God to anoint the next king of Israel. Jesse presents his sons one by one, beginning with Eliab—the impressive, strong, obvious candidate. And Samuel thinks to himself, “Surely the Lord’s anointed is here before me.”
But God stops him. “Do not judge from his appearance or from his lofty stature… Not as man sees does God see, because man sees the appearance, but the Lord looks into the heart.”
That sentence might be one of the most important spiritual lessons in all of Scripture.
Human beings constantly evaluate reality based on appearances: strength, success, possessions, influence, reputation. But God sees something deeper. The true measure of a person is not what is visible on the surface but what exists in the heart.
And even though we know this intellectually, subconsciously we still judge by appearances. That is why the youngest son, David—the overlooked shepherd boy—is the one God chooses. From the outside, he looked like the least likely option. But God sees differently.
The same contrast runs throughout today’s Gospel. The Pharisees are experts in religious law, respected in the community, confident in their authority. Yet they cannot recognize the work of God standing right in front of them.
The man born blind has none of those advantages. But because he is honest about what he has received, his vision grows.
Saint Paul describes this transformation in the second reading. “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.” Notice Paul does not say merely that people once lived in darkness. He says they were darkness. That is how profound the change is when a person encounters Christ. Faith is not simply gaining new information about God. It is a new way of seeing reality itself.
Paul continues: “Live as children of light… and try to learn what is pleasing to the Lord.”
In other words, once the light of Christ begins to illuminate our lives, we are invited to let that light reshape how we see everything—our priorities, our relationships, our choices.
But that transformation requires something difficult: honesty about our blindness.
The man in the Gospel begins there. He knows he cannot see. He receives what Jesus gives him, even though he does not fully understand it yet.
The Pharisees cannot begin there. They believe they already see perfectly.
And so the irony of the story unfolds. Those who admit their need receive sight. Those who insist on their clarity remain in darkness.
That is why the Church gives us this Gospel on Laetare Sunday.
Right in the middle of Lent—when the journey can begin to feel long—the Church pauses and reminds us why we are walking this path in the first place. Laetare means “rejoice.” Not because the struggle of conversion is finished, but because the light of Christ is already breaking through the darkness.
The truth is fasting, prayer, and almsgiving are not spiritual accomplishments we display to God. They are ways of clearing the dust from our vision. They expose the places where our hearts have become dull, distracted, or hardened. They help us recognize where we have been seeing incorrectly—about ourselves, about others, and about God.
Because the greatest spiritual danger is not weakness. The greatest danger is believing we already see clearly enough.
The Pharisees’ final question in the Gospel is revealing. “Surely we are not also blind, are we?”
And Jesus answers with unsettling clarity. “If you were blind, you would have no sin; but now you are saying, ‘We see,’ so your sin remains.”
In other words, the path to healing begins when a person is willing to admit their need.
That is the invitation of Lent. Not simply to improve our behavior, but to allow Christ to restore our sight. Where we have judged only by appearances. Where we have assumed we already understand. Where we have failed to recognize God’s work unfolding quietly in front of us.
And then, like the man in the Gospel, to allow Christ to restore our sight.
The good news is that the Lord delights in doing exactly that. The same God who saw David’s hidden heart, who opened the eyes of the blind man, and who calls us children of light is still at work.
He does not reveal truth in order to condemn. He reveals truth in order to heal.
Because the moment a person begins to see clearly again—about God’s goodness, about the dignity of others, about the path that leads to life—everything begins to change.