Lent has a way of leading us gently, step by step, into deeper light. Each Sunday’s Gospel seems to take us a little further along a path of seeing—seeing God more clearly, seeing ourselves more honestly, and seeing others with renewed compassion. Two weeks ago, on the mountain of Transfiguration, the disciples were given a glimpse of glory. It was only a glimpse, but it was enough to steady them for the journey ahead. Last week, at the well in the heat of the day, a Samaritan woman discovered that Jesus saw her completely—her past, her wounds, her longing—and yet loved her completely. And today, a man born blind opens his eyes for the very first time, not only to the world around him but to the presence of God standing before him. These three stories form a kind of Lenten pilgrimage, inviting us to pray with the words of the hymn: “Open my eyes, Lord. I want to see Jesus.”
The healing of the man born blind is one of the most intriguing miracles in the Gospels. Jesus could have healed him with a word, as He did for others. He could have touched him gently, or simply willed it. But instead, He bends down, mixes dust with His own spittle, and places the mud on the man’s eyes. It is a strange gesture—almost puzzling. And perhaps that is why it lingers in the imagination. It makes us wonder why Jesus chose this way. Maybe He wanted the man to take part in his own healing. Maybe He wanted to draw attention to the slow, gradual nature of grace. Or maybe He wanted to remind us that God often works through the ordinary, the earthy, the unremarkable things of life. Healing does not always arrive in flashes of light. Sometimes it comes through the small, patient, everyday things: a conversation that softens us, a moment of prayer that steadies us, a kindness that lifts our spirits. Most of us are healed like that—quietly, gradually, almost unnoticed.
Jesus sends the man to wash in the pool of Siloam. And as he goes, something begins to change. Healing becomes a journey, not an instant. That is often how God works in us too. We pray, and nothing seems to happen at first. We ask for light, and the darkness does not lift immediately. But if we keep walking, keep trusting, keep washing in the waters of daily faithfulness, we begin to notice that something has shifted. Light is creeping in.
And as the man’s physical sight is restored, something deeper awakens. His spiritual sight begins to sharpen. At first, he simply says, “The man called Jesus healed me.” That is where many of us begin—Jesus as a good man, a teacher, someone who helps. Later, when questioned, he says, “He is a prophet.” His understanding has grown. Jesus is not just a man; He speaks with God’s authority. Pressed further, he says, “If this man were not from God, He could do nothing.” Now he sees that Jesus carries the very presence and power of God. And finally, when Jesus seeks him out and reveals Himself, the man falls to his knees and worships Him. What began with mud and water ends in adoration. His eyes—body and soul—are fully opened.
This gradual awakening mirrors the journey of Lent. We begin with dust on our foreheads, a reminder of our fragility and our belovedness. We take up the simple practices the Church gives us—prayer, fasting, and almsgiving—not as burdens, but as ways of restoring our sight. Prayer helps us see God more clearly. It draws us back into right relationship with the One who loves us. It opens our eyes to His presence, His patience, His quiet work in our lives. Fasting helps us see ourselves more truthfully. It reveals what we rely on, what we cling to, what we avoid. It teaches us that we are more than our appetites, more than our distractions. It restores a right relationship with ourselves. And almsgiving helps us see others with compassion. It opens our eyes to the dignity, the goodness, the hidden burdens of the people around us. It restores a right relationship with our neighbour. These three practices are not about earning God’s favour. They are about clearing our vision—so that we can see God, ourselves, and others as they truly are.
There is another kind of blindness that Jesus invites us to heal in one another. Many people cannot see the good in themselves. They carry wounds from the past, harsh words spoken long ago, or a lifetime of feeling inadequate. They are blind to their own worth. One of the greatest gifts we can give is to reveal to others the riches they already possess. To affirm them. To bless them. To help them see what God sees. The surest sign that the Spirit of God is alive in us is not how much we know, but how willing we are to bring light into someone else’s darkness.
Perhaps that is why the hymn’s prayer is so fitting for this Sunday: “Open my eyes, Lord. Help me to see Your face. Open my ears, Lord. Help me to hear Your voice. Open my heart, Lord. Help me to love like You.” It is the prayer of the disciples on the mountain, dazzled but confused. It is the prayer of the Samaritan woman, who longed to be known. It is the prayer of the man born blind, whose sight unfolded step by step. And it is our prayer too, as we walk these Lenten days.
So maybe this week, we can let that simple prayer echo quietly in our hearts: “Open the eyes of my soul, Lord.” Open my eyes to Your presence. Open my eyes to the truth about myself. Open my eyes to the goodness in others. Open my eyes to the slow, patient ways You heal. And may we, like the man in today’s Gospel, find ourselves kneeling before You—not just seeing You, but recognising You as Lord.
Paul Jenkins O.Carm
