“Learning to See Truthfully” – Fr. Pete's Sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent (Laetare Sunday) – March 15, 2026

Ephesians 5:8–14; John 9:1–41

We’ve had a lot of people here having to deal with cataract surgeries lately! And they are in our
prayers!

I had my own cataract surgeries years ago. Since childhood I’d been severely nearsighted, but now it
was time to deal with my cataracts. Oh, it seemed to me that my vision was just fine. I wore glasses
or contacts back then, so I could drive. I could read. I could recognize people across the room.
Maybe a bit of fuzziness, but everything seemed normal to me.
​
But after my cataract surgery, suddenly, the whole world sharpened. And everything was so much
brighter! One of our dear members who just had the surgery said, when she went back home, she
thought she had left the lights on! And another person wondered if someone had changed her
light bulbs to a higher wattage! But no, everything was just brighter, clearer.

What I hadn’t realized until after my cataracts were removed was how long I had been
compensating. Squinting. Adjusting. Accepting fuzziness as normal. I wasn’t blind—but I wasn’t
seeing clearly either.

That’s kind of how our spiritual vision works. We assume we’re seeing the world accurately. We
trust our interpretations. We rely on familiar categories. And only later—sometimes much later—do
we discover how much we’ve been missing. That’s where today’s Gospel story takes us.

By the way, speaking of seeing, when you came in this morning, I hope you saw something different.
Yes, today is Laetare Sunday. Laetare means “rejoice.” In the middle of this reflective and
penitential season, the Church offers a little glimpse of joy along the way. That’s why the altar
hangings and vestments shift today from the deep purple of Lent to rose—a color that hints at the
light of Easter beginning to dawn. It’s a reminder that Lent is not meant to leave us in darkness, but
to help our eyes adjust to the holy light that is coming. And that makes today’s Gospel story
especially fitting.

"This Lent, we’ve been learning to live more openly and honestly before God. First, in the wilderness,
we learned to trust God’s promises and tell the truth. Then, with Nicodemus, we learned to trust God
enough to be born from above. Last week, at the Samaritan well, we learned to name our true
spiritual thirst.

Now Jesus invites us into something even more unsettling: learning to see clearly and honestly.
John tells us that Jesus encounters a man who has been sightless from birth. Immediately the people
around him begin asking the wrong question:
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“So who sinned and made this guy blind? Did he do something to cause this, or did his parents? We
gotta blame somebody!

That instinct feels familiar. We like clean explanations. We want moral clarity. We want to believe
suffering fits into tidy categories. We want to know who to blame—for the problems in our lives, our
country, and the world.

But Jesus refuses that framing entirely. “This is not about blame,” he says.

“This is about God’s work being revealed.”
​
And then Jesus spits on the ground, makes mud, smears it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to go
wash. The man does—and for the first time in his life, he sees.

But the miracle, it turns out, is only the beginning. Because sight, once received, cannot be undone.
And seeing clearly comes at a cost.

His neighbors are unsettled. The Pharisees are threatened. The parents are afraid. It’s actually a very
comical story. Everyone wants the man to explain himself—to fit back into the comfortable, familiar,
old story.

But the man refuses. At first, he knows very little. “I don’t know how it happened,” he says. “I only
know this: I was blind, and now I see.”
​
That simple honesty is the beginning of authenticity.

As the Pharisees’ interrogation continues, the man’s vision deepens—not just physically, but
spiritually. He moves from calling Jesus “the man,” to “a prophet,” to finally recognizing him as
Lord.

And with each step of clarity, the cost increases. He is challenged. Mocked. Eventually thrown out of
the community.
​
This is where Lent sharpens. Because living authentically before God does not always make life
easier. Sometimes it makes it harder. Seeing truthfully means we can no longer pretend not to see
injustice, cruelty, or our own complicity. Becoming true of heart means we may no longer fit
comfortably into systems built on denial, or even outright corruption. There are any number of
situations in our society right now that may haunt us about this.

Paul names this tension in Ephesians: “Once you were darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.
Live as children of light.” Not just feel like children of light. Live as them. That means aligning our
lives with what we now see.

The religious leaders in John’s Gospel insist that they do see clearly. That’s the irony. Their certainty
blinds them. They cling so tightly to what they think they know that they cannot recognize the truth
standing right in front of them.
​
The blind man, meanwhile, grows braver as the story unfolds. He doesn’t claim certainty. He simply
tells the truth of his experience. He refuses to deny what has happened to him—even when it costs
him immensely.

That is what authenticity looks like in real life. Not perfection. Not certainty. But courage.

The man born blind walks straight into the consequences of his words—social rejection, spiritual
risk, costly honesty. And there, Jesus meets him again.

When Jesus hears that the man has been cast out, he goes looking for him. Jesus does not heal and
disappear. He stays. He seeks. He asks the final, decisive question: “Do you believe?” And the man
answers—not with theology, but with trust.
​
This Lent, we are being asked similar questions.

What are we seeing now that we once overlooked?
What truths have come into focus that we can no longer ignore?
Where might authenticity require courage rather than comfort?

Learning to live authentically before God means allowing our vision to be healed—even when that
healing disrupts familiar arrangements. It means becoming true of heart, even if it costs us approval
or comfort, or our easy life.
​
So this week, I invite us all to pray a dangerous prayer:
“Lord, perform spiritual cataract surgery on me! Help me to see the clear light of your holy love.”

Help me to see, not just what is comfortable, or flattering, or easy—but help me to see what is true.
What needs to be addressed in my life. Not just what confirms my assumptions—but what deepens
my love.

And then let’s trust that the One who opens our eyes will also walk with us—through every valley,
into every hard conversation, toward a brighter, clearer life ahead.
​
Amen.