4th Sunday of Lent 2026 - To see with the eyes of Christ

 

The story of the man born blind comes just a few chapters after last Sunday’s Gospel, the story of the woman at the well. Last week, we heard of the woman estranged from her community, going from one assumably failed marriage to the next, estranged from her God. Yet, Jesus comes into the messiness of her life, and offers her a drink of the life-giving waters that well up to eternal life. Her story is our story. Jesus doesn’t wait for our lives to be perfect, he enters into the messiness of our lives, and offers us water to drink—and sends us out to offer that life-giving water to others.

In the Gospel today, we heard of the man born blind.  His story, also, is our story. Each of us struggles with some amount of spiritual blindness. We don’t see as we should.  We don’t see our neighbor as we should, we don’t see our God as we should, we don’t see ourselves as we should, we don’t see the changes we need to make in our lives, in the patterns of our speech and behavior, as we should.  As Jesus offered sight to the blind man at the pool of siloam, so too, He offers sight to us, as well.

Jesus Christ came to restore sight to the spiritually blind, and so by the light of Christ, we are now able live in the light of the truth, not only avoiding those behaviors and attitudes that are harmful to our souls, but seeing how good it is to live virtuously. Spiritual sight helps us to be ever-more attentive to the needs of the suffering, so that we may come to their aid. Spiritual sight even enables us to see ourselves as God sees us, as sons and daughters worth dying for.

The ancient theologian Origen said, “to be holy is to see with the eyes of Christ.”  “To be holy is to see with the eyes of Christ.” 

Here’s an illustration from my own life. During the semester I studied in Rome, I attended several masses at St. Peter’s basilica. Pope St. John Paul II was Pope, and the basilica would often be packed with those hoping to get close to the saintly Holy Father. During Holy Week that year, I went to St. Peter’s for the Chrism mass at which the Pope blesses the holy oils for the upcoming year. I got there very early so that I could get a good seat, and I found myself right on the aisle, where the Pope would be processing up to the altar.

This was in 2004, and the Pope’s health was not great, but he walked up the aisle that day, and I tell you, for a moment, the saint and I locked eyes. And it was if I was looking right into the eyes of Jesus. This spiritual light emanated from the eyes of the Pope. And I felt seen by God, and loved, and confirmed in my vocation. It was so beautiful. I saw the love of Jesus in the Pope’s eyes—a love that was for me and for all. He was truly a saint, for he “saw with the eyes of Christ”, as Origen said, which are eyes of love.

And that’s the goal for all of us: to be so filled with the light of God, the peace of God, the wisdom of God, the compassion of God, that we see with the eyes of Christ. But that only happens when we allow ourselves to be washed, and cleansed, healed and anointed.

When people look into your eyes, what do they see? Harshness, criticism, rash judgment, annoyance? Or do they see patience? Do they see welcome and understanding? Do they see someone who will calmly lead them to the God? If not, why not?

What has yet to be healed in you, so that the light of God can be seen in your eyes? What spiritual blindness is causing you to see not with the eyes of Christ, but with the eyes of the world—the cold, calculating, critical, self-interested eyes of the world? Do you see others as inconveniences or people God has put into your life for you to love?

When we seek to see Christ in others, they will see Christ in us. That was certainly true for the other saintliest group people I have ever met, the missionary sisters of charity, the order of consecrated religious sisters founded by St. Mother Theresa.

I told this story during my first weekend as pastor, how each Friday, when I lived in Rome I would volunteer at the missionary sisters of charity men’s homeless shelter. 

Each week, a group of us seminarians and college students were blessed to work along the sisters in their care for the homeless. And it was always so powerful to be serving alongside these holy woman. Each one of the sisters had this beautiful Christ-like light in their eyes. For their charism was to see Christ in others, and to serve the poorest of the poor as they would serve Christ himself.

We would assist with serving breakfast to the homeless men, and helping the sisters do the laundry. Since Mother Theresa didn’t believe in modern conveniences like electric washing machines, this meant washing the homeless men’s clothing, soiled sheets and towels on old fashioned scrub boards.

One Friday, during Lent, one of the seminarians asked one of the sisters, “Sister, are you ready for Easter?” And in all seriousness she replied, “No, I still have much dying to do.” And she was probably one of the most joyful people I had ever met. “No, I still have much dying to do”. Here was a woman who lived every day in what appeared to be total- selflessness—no possessions, no comforts, spending her days washing soiled sheets and washing the grime off of the homeless. Yet she said, “I still have much dying to do.”

I think about her words quite a bit. For, I know that her words contain one of the most important lessons: that without dying to self, without learning to see with eyes purified by the salve of Christ, we will never have real joy.

On the fourth Sunday of Lent—Laetare Sunday—the priest vests in rose-colored vestments, the color of dawn's first light before sunrise. The liturgical color, rose, symbolizes joyful anticipation for easter—signaling that easter joy is on the horizon. And, yet at the half way point of Lent, it is a reminder that if we want to see that joy, we still have much dying to do.

Our Lenten prayer, fasting, and almsgiving, our Lenten repenting, our Lenten penances, our Lenten confessions are aimed at helping us to die to self that we may see rightly. “Blessed are the pure of heart, for they shall see God”.

From what do I still need to be purified? What impurity is still rooted in me so deeply that I don’t even detect it? Or what impurity am I afraid to acknowledge because of the change that will be demanded of me if it is healed?

To remain in spiritual darkness is to be deprived of joy. There are none so blind than those who choose not to see, and they are quite joyless as well.

 But, the Lord wishes that joy may be in us and joy may be in abundance. So may we not be afraid to expose the darkest parts of our lives to the light of the Lord, to allow him to heal us, to fill us with light, to help us to see with His eyes and joyfully love with his heart, for the glory of God and the salvation of souls.

4th Sunday of Lent 2025 - The Prodigal Son and Joyful dying to self

 Today, on this Fourth Sunday of Lent, known traditionally as Laetare Sunday, we hear one of the most beautiful and beloved parables Jesus ever told: the Parable of the Prodigal Son. This story encapsulates the heart of the Gospel, revealing the Father's boundless mercy, compassion, and joy at the return of his lost child.

The Gospel today describes a son who, after squandering his inheritance on selfish pleasures, finds himself in misery and loneliness. Coming to his senses, he returns to his father, expecting rejection or punishment, yet he receives an extravagant welcome instead. The father, filled with joy, proclaims, "We must celebrate and rejoice, because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found."

The father's words remind us profoundly of what Lent is ultimately about: dying to sin and rising to new life in Christ. His joy captures the essence of this Laetare Sunday—a moment of joyful anticipation as we draw closer to the celebration of Easter—a reminder that if we die with Christ we will experience the joy of rising with him to new life.

Today’s call to joy reminds me vividly of an experience from my seminary formation.

I’ve shared before how, I was able to study in Rome, Italy for about six months.  I attended classes at the wonderful Dominican School, the Angelicum; every day I was walked passed the famous Trevi Fountain and the famous Spanish steps, down the same streets of the Eternal City that saints had walked. 

In addition to our academic work, my seminary formation involved some charitable apostolic work.  I had the blessing of working alongside the Missionary Sisters of Charity at a homeless shelter, in their care for the homeless men and women of Rome.  So, every Friday morning, a few of us seminarians would walk past the Coliseum to the Sister’s homeless shelter: we would serve breakfast to homeless men, clean up after breakfast, then help the sisters do the laundry. 

Now Blessed Mother Theresa didn’t believe in modern conveniences, so the clothing and the soiled sheets and towels were washed by hand on old fashioned scrub boards.  Mother Theresa wanted the sisters to learn how to do small tasks with great love—which included doing laundry with the love of Christ in your heart.  

One sister, likely detecting my need to learn a lesson of humble service, had me scrub the baseboards with a toothbrush, teaching me to serve joyfully, even in the smallest ways.

One Friday, deep in the season of Lent, as we are now, one of the seminarians, enthusiastically asked a sister, “Sister, are you ready for Easter?” With seriousness yet unmistakable joy, she replied, “No, I still have much dying to do.” Her words struck me deeply. Here was a woman who lived every day in total selflessness—no possessions, no comforts, spending her days washing soiled sheets and caring for the homeless. If given a simple chocolate bar, she would joyfully give it away, knowing even small acts of love could bring hope to another. Yet she still said, “I still have much dying to do.” She understood profoundly that dying to self leads to rising with Christ.

Today, I stand vested in liturgical rose, the color of dawn's first light before sunrise. It symbolizes joyful anticipation—Easter’s joy is now on the horizon. This Sunday invites us to pause in the midst of our Lenten disciplines to experience joy—not simply because Lent is almost over, but precisely because we recognize the life-giving purpose behind our Lenten penances and sacrifices.

They help us to die that we might live. Like dear sister, we have much dying yet to do. But that dying is done joyfully. We do our penances joyfully because we know that they lead to life. They lead to a fuller embrace of God. 

I don’t know about you, but during Lent, it sure feels like there are more inconveniences than normal. Even those inconveniences though can be embraced joyfully because when we endure them patiently, without complaint, we are dying to self in order to live more fully for God. 

In the Eastern Catholic traditions, believers intensify their spiritual efforts as Holy Week approaches, recognizing the urgency of preparing their hearts fully for the Resurrection. Perhaps we too can intensify our commitment, recognizing that the deeper our "dying," the greater our joy will be on Easter morning.

Today’s Gospel assures us that, regardless of how far we have strayed, from our Lenten penances or even from the path of Christ, the Father joyfully awaits our return. He longs to celebrate our resurrection from sin to grace, from death to life. Like the prodigal son, may we humbly arise and return, trusting fully in God’s merciful embrace.

“Sister, are you ready for Easter?” “No, I still have much dying to do.” As we journey onward toward Easter, let us also joyfully embrace this final stretch of Lent, knowing that our dying to self will lead us directly into the joyful light of the Resurrection—for the glory of God and the salvation of souls.