A Reflection for Wednesday of the Sixth Week in Ordinary Time
Putting spittle on his eyes he laid his hands on the man and asked,
“Do you see anything?”
Looking up the man replied, “I see people looking like trees and walking.”
Then he laid hands on the man’s eyes a second time and he saw clearly;
his sight was restored and he could see everything distinctly. (Mk 8:23-25)
You can find today’s readings here.
Those of you reading this with 20-20 vision have lots of privileges in life, even among those of us who are privileged enough to enjoy the benefits of corrective lenses. You don’t have to poke and prod at your eye in a daily savage morning ritual. You don’t feel the weight of metal, or the uncomfortability of plastic, hanging from your face all day. Your eyesight doesn’t fog up when coming inside from the frigid cold.
I resisted getting contacts or glasses well into my twenties. I had pretty solid vision until high school, when one eye started to slip. I spent a week trying to put in contacts and said forget it. Eventually, I found myself squinting too much in my college classrooms and finally gave in. Got the prescription and committed to touching my eye every morning (okay fine—not every morning. I still sleep in my contacts from time to time. No, I won’t tell you how often. Yes, I know it is bad for me.)
When I gave in, I experienced that magical shift in perspective where everything clicks into focus. Where you can see the leaves in the trees and even the space in between them. Where you can see the laces on the baseball. When you realize that you were putting low grade strain on your eyes throughout the day just to see slightly out of focus. It’s not as dramatic as having sight completely restored, but I found wonder even within the gradation of my relatively low prescription.
I imagine Jesus is like an eye doctor, asking, Tell me which is better: 1…or 2? 2…or 3?
Of course, even if you have perfect vision it is still more likely than not that you are not seeing the full picture. We all live with biases and narratives about ourselves, others and God that skew the world from the way it really is. And sometimes something happens to us to steer us out of those well trodden ruts of our psyche: a chance encounter, a moving piece of music or an incisive observation from a friend.
After his encounter with Jesus, the Gospel says that the blind man at Bethsaida “could see everything distinctly.” Abstract tree trunks sharpen into distinct people.
This movement from abstraction to distinction is the hard work of the spiritual life. Humans abstract and put things into recognizable patterns as a matter of survival. Communication itself would be impossible without the abstraction that words provide. Instead of describing in detail the fusion of materials that is supporting me while I take a break from standing to write this, I can just tell you that I’m sitting in a “chair.”
But there is a great consolation in being loved distinctly. And this love extends to the world around us: You may know the sound of a door opening, but there is love in knowing what exact sound the garage door makes at your grandparents’ house. To know exactly how runny your spouse likes their scrambled eggs.
What if today is not just another Wednesday in February, with the usual tasks to do and people to see? What if it is Wednesday, February 19, 2025—the only such day that will ever exist. What and who can you love on this day, distinctly?
Jesus is asking us: Do you see anything? He’s waiting, spittle in his hand, for your answer.
