Fourth Sunday of Lent (Laetare Sunday) 2026

 

Last Sunday after Mass I went over to the parish breakfast at St. Augustine’s in Peru, NY. 

I sat down at a table where a group from another parish had come to eat: an older married couple and two men who seemed to be either brothers or father and son.

I happened to sit next to the younger man. His name was Cameron. 

We started talking for a bit. As the conversation went on, I noticed that he seemed a little different—maybe a little socially awkward. Something about him seemed unusual, though I couldn’t quite put my finger on it.

After a few minutes they got up to get their food, and I was left sitting with the woman at the table. 

She leaned over and quietly said to me, “Those two men don’t have a lot of friends because of him. He is autistic. But he is a wonderful person. He is a child of God.”

That stayed with me.

When Cameron came back to the table, I made more of an effort to talk with him and make him feel welcome.

But later I realized something.

In that moment, I was the one whose eyes were being opened.

I had already begun forming impressions about him. I thought I understood who he was. 

But God used that simple moment to remind me that there is always more to a person than what we see on the surface.

And in a way, Cameron became for me a little bit like David in the first reading—someone who might easily be overlooked, but someone through whom God was working.

Because that is exactly what happens in the first reading.

The prophet Samuel is sent to anoint the next king of Israel. 

When he sees Jesse’s oldest son, Eliab, he immediately assumes, “Surely the LORD’s anointed is here before him.” Eliab looks strong and impressive—the obvious choice.

But God stops Samuel and says something remarkable:

“Not as man sees does God see.”

Human beings look at appearances.
God looks into the heart.

One by one the sons of Jesse pass before Samuel, and none of them are chosen. Finally Samuel asks, “Are these all the sons you have?”

And Jesse says almost as an afterthought: “There is still the youngest… the one tending the sheep.”

The boy no one even thought to bring into the room.

And God says, “There—anoint him.”

The one everyone overlooked becomes King David.

Something very similar happens in the Gospel.

The disciples see a man who has been blind from birth and their first question is, “Who sinned? This man or his parents?” 

In other words, someone must be to blame. Something must be wrong.

They think they understand the situation.

But Jesus sees something entirely different. He sees not punishment or failure, but an opportunity for the works of God to be revealed.

And the great irony of the story begins to unfold.

The man who was physically blind gradually comes to see more and more clearly—not just with his eyes, but with faith. 

At first he simply calls Jesus “the man called Jesus.” 

Later he says Jesus is a prophet. Eventually he says Jesus must come from God. And finally he says, “Lord, I believe.”

Meanwhile the people who think they see clearly—the Pharisees—remain blind to who Jesus really is.

Which is why Jesus says at the end of the Gospel:

“Those who do not see may see, and those who think they see may become blind.”

The truth is, we are all a little bit like the blind man in today’s Gospel.

There are places in our lives where we think we see clearly, but we don’t yet see the full picture. 

We form quick judgments about people. We think we understand who someone is. We look at appearances, reputations, or first impressions.

But God sees deeper.

God sees the heart.

And sometimes God uses unexpected people to open our eyes.

Sometimes God uses Scripture.

Sometimes God uses prayer.

And sometimes God uses a person sitting next to us at a parish breakfast.

Someone we might have overlooked…
Someone we might not fully understand…
Someone who turns out to be a reminder that every person is a beloved child of God.

St. Paul tells us in the second reading, “You were once darkness, but now you are light in the Lord.”

Christ is the light who opens our eyes.

Today is Laetare Sunday, a Sunday of rejoicing in the middle of Lent. The Church lightens the tone a little bit. We wear rose vestments as a reminder that Easter is getting closer.

And the reason we rejoice is that Christ is still at work in us.

Still opening our eyes.

Opening our eyes to see God more clearly.
Opening our eyes to see ourselves more honestly.
And opening our eyes to see other people the way God sees them.

Because, as the Lord reminds Samuel in the first reading,

“Not as man sees does God see.”