4th Sunday of Lent – Laetare Sunday
1 Sam 16:1,6-7,10-13
Eph 5:8-14
Jn 9:1-41
“…God does not see as man sees…”
There are days when I realise how much of my life I spend seeing—and yet, not truly seeing.
In 1 Samuel 16, the prophet is sent to anoint a king. When Samuel looks at Eliab, tall and impressive, he thinks, “Surely the Lord’s anointed stands there before him.” But the Lord answers, “Take no notice of his appearance or his height… God does not see as man sees; man looks at appearances, but the Lord looks at the heart.” Those words unsettle me. How often do I live exactly the opposite way? I look at appearances. I measure worth by competence, charm, status, usefulness. I decide, quietly and quickly, who matters and who does not.
And in doing so, I reveal my blindness.
In the Gospel of John 9, the disciples see a man blind from birth and immediately ask, “Rabbi, who sinned, this man or his parents, for him to have been born blind?” They see a problem, a theological puzzle. Jesus sees a person. I recognise myself more in the disciples than I would like to admit. I pass by suffering and reduce it to categories: inconvenient, complicated, someone else’s responsibility. There are people I barely register — the elderly cleaner, the ministry member who fades into the background, the family member whose needs feel repetitive. To me, they are almost invisible. But they are not invisible to him.
God sees.
He sees the ways I hide in shadow. Ephesians 5 says plainly, “You were darkness once, but now you are light in the Lord; be like children of light.” It goes further: “Anything exposed by the light will be illuminated and anything illuminated turns into light.” That line pierces me. I prefer certain corners of my heart to remain dim — resentments I justify, habits I excuse, secret thoughts I would be ashamed to have known. It is easier to keep them behind closed doors, in the quiet privacy where no one else can see.
But God sees.
Not with the cold gaze of accusation, but with the steady gaze of a healer.
When Jesus approaches the blind man, he does something intimate and almost uncomfortable — he makes clay with his saliva, spreads it on the man’s eyes, and tells him to wash. It is messy. Healing often is. The man must consent; he must go and wash. And then comes that simple, triumphant testimony: “I was blind and now I can see.”
I long to say those words with the same clarity.
Yet the story does not end with physical sight. The deeper irony of John 9 is that the Pharisees, so certain of their religious vision, remain spiritually blind. They interrogate, argue, defend their position. Jesus finally tells them, “If you were blind, you would not be guilty, but since you say, ‘We see,’ your guilt remains.” That frightens me more than the idea of blindness itself. The real danger is not that I cannot see, but that I refuse to admit it.
Because transformation begins with confession: Lord, I do not see as you see.
There is a movement across these readings — from hidden shepherd boy to anointed king, from darkness to light, from blindness to sight. But it is not instantaneous. David is chosen while still young, overlooked by his own father. The blind man gradually comes to deeper faith, first calling Jesus “the man called Jesus”, then “a prophet”, and finally worshipping him as Lord. Light dawns progressively.
That gives me hope.
I am a work in progress. There are layers of blindness in me that are only slowly being peeled away. Sometimes, the light feels harsh, exposing things I would rather not face. Yet Ephesians insists: “Wake up from your sleep, rise from the dead, and Christ will shine on you.” The light is not meant to shame me, but to awaken me.
And what is the truth that the light ultimately reveals? Not merely my sin, but his love.
When God looks at David, the forgotten youngest son, he sees a heart. When Jesus looks at the blind beggar, he sees not punishment but possibility: “so that the works of God might be displayed in him.” When God looks at me, with all my contradictions and concealed faults, he does not turn away. He sees everything I try to hide — and he loves me still.
He longs to take the sordid shame of my darkest secrets and bring to light the deeper truth: that he first loved me. That before I could prove myself worthy, before I could clean myself up, before I could see clearly, he had already chosen me. His one desire is that I become what I truly am meant to be — a child of light.
To live as a child of light means allowing his radiance to pass through me. It means asking for the grace to see him in the unnoticed and inconvenient. It means letting his gaze reshape my own, so that I begin to look at others not by appearances but by the heart. It means daring to bring my hidden corners into confession, trusting that whatever is illuminated can “turn into light.”
The journey from darkness to light is a process. Some days, I stumble. Some days, I squint against the brightness. But the Almighty Healer is infinitely patient. He waits — not with irritation, but with hope — for the moment I will say with sincerity: “Yes, Lord, I want to see.”
And when I do, I believe I will discover that he has been seeing me all along.
(Today’s OXYGEN by Susanah Cheok)
Prayer: Lord Jesus, heal my blindness. Correct my self-righteous sight, my spiritual myopia. Help me to see as you see, by bringing me into your light. Amen.
Thanksgiving: Thank you, Lord, for your patience, love and mercy. Thank you for seeing potential in my problems, worthiness in my woundedness. I am broken. I can never earn your love, which you already give freely, abundantly and completely. Amen.
OXYGEN 
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