There is a wonderful irony at the heart of this Sunday’s Gospel from John. A man who has been blind from birth receives his sight. And yet the deeper story John tells is not really about physical vision at all. The man born blind, it turns out, has been able to see all along — not with his eyes, but with his heart. And the ones who could see perfectly well? They are, in the end, the ones who cannot see at all.
This is John the Evangelist at his finest. He loves these layered stories where physical realities become windows into spiritual ones. The blind man, healed by Jesus with mud and water, simply receives what is given and responds with trust. When the Pharisees press him — “Who healed you? Was it a sinner? What do you think of him?” — he keeps growing in clarity. First Jesus is “a man.” Then he is “a prophet.” Finally, when Jesus finds him again and asks “Do you believe in the Son of Man?” the man born blind says simply: “I do believe, Lord.” And he worships.
The Pharisees, meanwhile, move in precisely the opposite direction. They start knowing everything and end knowing nothing. They have the Law, the tradition, the credentials. But their certainty about what they already believe prevents them from seeing what is right in front of them. Jesus puts it plainly: “If you were blind, you would have no sin. But now you are saying, ‘We can see,’ so your sin remains.”
The scandal of the Gospel is always this: God so often comes to us through what we have not anticipated, and our prior certainties — our frameworks for what God can and cannot do — can become walls rather than windows.
The writer Brian McLaren has written thoughtfully about how all of us carry what he calls “filters” — unconscious assumptions shaped by our upbringing, our culture, our wounds, and our loyalties. We do not simply see the world as it is; we see it through the particular lens we have been given, or have chosen, or have had imposed upon us. McLaren is not saying our tradition is wrong — he is saying that we hold it, and we are limited creatures. What we think we see clearly may have its own shadows.
Lent invites us to take this seriously. Our theme this year has been “Untying Your Knots,” and here is one of the knots John names most honestly: the knot of our own certainty. It is not the certainty that comes from faith — that is something else. It is the certainty that closes off the question, that already knows what God looks like and has decided that this is not it. Stubbornness, woundedness, fear — these can knot our vision as surely as any physical blindness.
To ask the Lord to heal our sight requires a great humility. It means admitting that we cannot see ourselves honestly without help. The man born blind did not resist the mud or the sending to the pool of Siloam. He simply did what Jesus asked, and he received sight. There is something almost embarrassingly simple about it.
If the Gospel acts as a mirror, it can show us not just the world but ourselves. If we allow Christ to be that mirror, we may discover that some of what we have called “seeing” has actually been a kind of looking away.
This is also, I believe, a word our moment in history needs. We live in a time of extraordinary information, and extraordinary manipulation. Much of what flows through our screens and televisions is, at best, partial truth, and at worst, deliberate distortion. There are powerful forces that want us to believe certain things, to see certain people as threats or enemies, to stay afraid or angry or certain in ways that serve someone else’s purposes. The noise is relentless.
The invitation of this Sunday is a counter-cultural one: return to the Gospel. Return to Christ as your mirror. Ask not “What am I being told to see?” but “Lord, what do you want me to see?” The man born blind received more than physical sight that day. He received the freedom that comes from seeing truly. And that freedom is available to us too, if we have the humility to ask for it.
This week, as we continue our Lenten journey together, I invite you to sit with the blind man’s prayer — not literally his words, but his posture. Open hands. Simple trust. A willingness to receive sight even when it costs something to see clearly. That is the Lenten path.
A word of heartfelt thanks to the many ministries who have been generously hosting our Stations of the Cross each Friday evening at 6pm in the Church, followed by a simple soup supper in Spooncer Hall. On Friday, March 20th, families and children will lead Stations of the Cross together. These evenings of prayer and fellowship have been a true gift to our community during Lent, and I am grateful to all who have given their time and care to make them possible.
This morning at 10am, Fr. Dat and our Eucharistic Adoration community are hosting a morning of adoration and prayer for peace and in prayerful solidarity with immigrants and asylum seekers. I hope some of you can join them for even a few quiet moments before the Lord.
Please also mark your calendars for our Parish Lenten Reconciliation on Monday, March 16th at 7pm. Jim Arena, parishioner and spiritual director, will preside, and myself, Fr. Dat, Fr. Thanh and visiting priests will be available for individual confession following the service. Come and receive the grace of God’s mercy as we move closer to Holy Week.
I also hope to see some of you this evening at our St. Patrick’s Day celebration in the Parish Center. For details on all upcoming events, please visit stsimon.church/events.
Please continue to join us for our Lenten events in the weeks ahead. As we have said throughout this season: untie your knots, pause, take a breath, and remember that God is with you.
God bless,
Fr. Brendan