Fourth Sunday of Lent

Fourth Sunday of Lent

Deacon George Gussy

Today, on this Fourth Sunday of Lent, the Church gives us a Sunday of quiet joy. Today is traditionally called Laetare Sunday, from the Latin word meaning “Rejoice,” and it marks a kind of halfway point in our Lenten journey. The rose vestments, the softening of the penitential tone — all of it reminds us that even in a season of repentance, there is hope. Light is beginning to break through.

And fittingly, the readings that we heard today are all about sight and light. The Gospel presents us with one of the most powerful encounters in all of Scripture: Jesus healing the man born blind. But this story is about far more than physical blindness. It is about spiritual sight. It is about recognizing who Jesus truly is. It is about moving from darkness into light. It’s about faith, grace, pushback, and resistance.

At the beginning of the Gospel, the disciples see a blind man and immediately ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, that he was born blind?” They assume blindness must be punishment. This was a common assumption at that time. If you were wealthy, it was a sign of God’s blessing and if you were poor, or has some sort of physical illness or handicap, then God was punishing you. They looked at suffering and immediately searched for blame. You may find this a little strange in our day and age, but when you think about it, how often do we do the same thing? When something goes wrong, we look for someone to blame — even ourselves. We ask, “What did I do to deserve this?” or “Why is God punishing me?”

But Jesus shifts the focus completely. He says, “Neither he nor his parents sinned; it is so that the works of God might be made visible through him.” Jesus does not reduce the man’s suffering to some moral equation. Instead, He sees an opportunity for grace. Then Jesus does something startling. He spits on the ground, makes clay, and spreads it on the man’s eyes. He tells him to wash in the Pool of Siloam. The man goes. He washes. And he comes back able to see.

Notice something important: the man obeys before he really understands what Jesus is about to do. He trusts before he sees. There is already a movement of faith happening. This Gospel is not only about the healing of the blind man. It is about the healing of spiritual sight — in stages.

At first, the man refers to Jesus simply as “the man called Jesus.” Later, he calls Him “a prophet.” Eventually, he proclaims, “If this man were not from God, he would not be able to do anything.” And finally, when Jesus reveals Himself as the Son of Man, the man responds, “I do believe, Lord,” and he worships Him. His physical sight is restored instantly. But his spiritual sight unfolds gradually.

Isn’t that how faith works in our own lives? Rarely do we see everything clearly all at once. Our understanding of God deepens over time — oftentimes through struggle, confusion, even opposition. The irony in this Gospel is striking: the blind man comes to see more and more clearly, while the Pharisees — who can physically see — become increasingly blind. They interrogate him. They question his parents. They argue about the law. The law that says you can’t do work on the sabbath and Jesus spitting on the ground and making clay was, to them, work. So in their opinion, he did not keep the Sabbath. They cling so tightly to their interpretation of how God should act that they miss the miracle standing before them. Their problem is not lack of intelligence, they were all very smart men. Their problem is hardness of heart.

Spiritual blindness is not about what the eyes can perceive. It is about what the heart refuses to accept.

And this brings us to ourselves.

The question is not whether we are blind. In some way, we all are.

We are blind when we fail to see the dignity of the person in front of us.
We are blind when we judge too quickly.
We are blind when pride prevents us from admitting we are wrong.
We are blind when resentment clouds our vision.
We are blind when we reduce people to their worst moment.

Saint Paul tells us in the second reading, “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord. Live as children of light.”Notice he does not say, “You were once in darkness.” He says, “You were darkness.” Without Christ, we do not merely experience darkness — we become entangled in it. But now, in Christ, we are light. Light reveals. Light exposes. Light heals.

And that can be uncomfortable.

When we allow Christ to touch our blindness, He may reveal areas of our lives we would rather ignore — habits, grudges, hidden sins, patterns of selfishness. Like the clay placed on the blind man’s eyes, the healing process may feel strange or even messy. But the clay is not meant to obscure. It is meant to heal.

You know, there is another beautiful layer to this Gospel. In the ancient Church, this passage was closely associated with Baptism. The early Christians would call this the “Scrutiny Gospel,” proclaimed to those preparing to be baptized at Easter. The blind man washing in the Pool of Siloam is a powerful image of Baptism — washing in the waters and emerging able to see.

In a sense, every one of us has been to that pool. We have been washed. We have been claimed as children of light.

Yet the journey does not end there.

The blind man’s healing leads to conflict. He is questioned, doubted, and eventually expelled from the synagogue. Following Jesus costs him something.

And that is another important lesson.

To see clearly may mean standing apart from the crowd. It may mean being misunderstood. It may mean letting go of familiar securities.

But what does the man gain? When he is cast out, Jesus seeks him out.

That is a beautiful detail. The man does not go searching for Jesus. Jesus searches for him.

“Do you believe in the Son of Man?”

“Who is he, sir, that I may believe in him?”

“You have seen him.”

And for the first time in his life, the man looks into the face of the One who healed him and says, simply, “Lord, I believe.”  There’s no questioning, no wondering, no whining. Just, “Lord, I believe.” And he worshipped him. After all this, the man has more faith than when he began. When the day began, he had never even heard of Jesus. By the end of the day, he had lost what little he had in this world. He stood alone. He had lost it all. But he had gained eternity.

That is the goal of sight — to see the face of Christ.

All of Lent is leading us toward that encounter. Toward Easter. Toward the risen Lord.

But perhaps today we might ask ourselves gently:
Where am I still blind?
Where is Jesus trying to bring light into my life?
Where am I resisting?

Perhaps we are blind to how deeply we are loved.
Perhaps we are blind to the ways we hurt others.
Perhaps we are blind to the needs in our own family.
Perhaps we are blind to God’s action in our suffering.

Sometimes we fear that light because it will change us.

But that light is not our enemy. It is our salvation.

The Psalm today gives us words that steady the heart: “The Lord is my shepherd; there is nothing I shall want.” A shepherd guides. A shepherd leads. A shepherd walks with the flock even through the valley of the shadow of death.

The blind man trusted a voice he could not see. He followed directions he did not fully understand. And that trust led him to sight.  Faith begins the same way for us. We follow the voice of Christ — in Scripture, in prayer, in the Church — even when we do not see the whole picture.

And slowly, gradually, our vision clears.

On this Laetare Sunday, there is reason to rejoice. Because no darkness in our life is permanent. No blindness is beyond Christ’s healing. Even if our sight comes in stages. Even if we stumble. Even if others doubt our experience of grace.

Christ is the Light of the World.

Not a light among many.
Not a temporary glow.
But the Light.

And light does not argue with darkness. It simply shines.

As we continue this Lenten journey, perhaps our prayer can be simple — the prayer that echoes through this Gospel:

“Lord, that I may see.”

See myself as You see me.
See others as You see them.
See my sin honestly.
See Your mercy clearly.
See Your presence in my suffering. See the path You are opening before me.

And one day, beyond all partial sight and gradual understanding, we will see fully. We will stand before Him face to face — no more shadows, no more confusion, no more blindness.

Until then, we walk by faith.

And the Light walks with us.