god, and this man fits in that view. The crowds may even be willing to listen to Jesus all the way to the boundaries of their own expectations. But if he were to step out of place and break from their expectations, they would surely reject him in the name of the god whom they expect.8 What the crowds expect, they worship.
Journeys of penance, such as the ones we undergo on a pilgrimage, including during the season of Lent, are in part about being cured of our idolatrous views of God. We are to be loosened from the god of our own expectations so as to receive the God who says “I am.” Jesus reveals the God who creates us and redeems us and invites our worship for our own good. He reveals God not just by what he says or by what he does, but rather by who he is. Receiving Jesus rightly is how we receive who God is. We may want to say this and that about who Jesus is so we can put him into context, but we only receive him as he truly is when we allow him to provide his own context. His prayer is his context, because that is where he is at home in his Father’s love — not merely as a prophet but as the Son.
It is a curious thing that, at the beginning of this passage, Jesus is “praying alone,” and the “disciples were with him.” The other voices are not there; the crowds have been left behind.9 The disciples are gathered into Jesus’ solitude. Here the disciples hear the Father’s singular voice and the Son’s singular response. The disciples listen, and when Peter speaks, he speaks in truth.
We often say too much and listen too little. But the spiritual life — life in Christ, as Saint Paul says10 — is born in the valley of humility, a place where we must first learn how to receive, being schooled in the dialogue of prayer between the Father and the Son that is free of “what the crowds say.” That dialogue unfolds in Jesus’ solitude; only when we are silent can he welcome us in. Away from the crowds, we learn how to cease making gods who fit our image and conform to our likeness — the gods we expect. Within this sacred space God creates, remaking us in his image, conforming us to the likeness of the beloved Son.
By the end of Luke’s Gospel, the addiction to the savior we expect on our own terms seems to be the very reason the first witnesses to his resurrection cannot recognize the Risen Christ. Those two downtrodden disciples on the way to Emmaus say of Jesus, “We had hoped that he was the one to redeem Israel” (Lk 24:21). Jesus did redeem Israel, but not as they expected. Their expectations had blinded them.11
What blinds us to really seeing Jesus? At times, it might be overpromising, prepackaged spirituality exercises, like overhyped Lenten programs that end up hooking us on slightly deviant images of God. The traditional practices of the Church, such as the instruction to fast, pray, and give alms in Lent, are comparatively underhyped. Might these, however, actually be remedies for our hidden idolatries and unperceived blindness? We might like to try to be creative and trendy by choosing to “do something” rather than “give up things,” so we can be nicer or the best versions of ourselves. But that is sometimes just another form of giving in to what “the crowds say,” where we worship what we think is best.
Maybe fasting, prayer, and almsgiving really are forms of denial and are meant to be so. Fasting from food, praying away from the constant noise of everyday life, sharing in the poverty of the poor by giving alms — these restore us to the place of solitude in Christ. We silence our expectations and our urges so as to receive more than we can grasp. By practices such as these, the Church guides us into the valley of humility, where we learn how to listen and ultimately be prepared to answer the key question in truth: “But who do you say that I am?”
He is not our guru for enlightenment, nor the prophet of our own agendas, nor our on-call therapist, but “the Christ of God.”
Prayer Lord, help me listen.
Chapter 4
Do you see anything?
And they came to Bethsaida. And some people brought to him a blind man, and begged him to touch him. And he took the blind man by the hand, and led him out of the village; and when he had spit on his eyes and laid his hands upon him, he asked him, “Do you see anything?” And he looked up and said, “I see men; but they look like trees, walking.” Then again he laid his hands upon his eyes; and he looked intently and was restored, and saw everything clearly.
And he sent him away to his home, saying,
“Do not even enter the village.”
— Mark 8:22–26
Right before this peculiar miracle of Jesus healing the man in stages, Jesus chides his disciples for having eyes but not seeing, and having ears but not hearing (cf. Mk 8:18). They have followed, watched, and heard him, but they see and hear only obscurely, not yet trusting him with all their heart, not yet hoping in him beyond expectation, not yet loving him completely. “Do you not yet understand?” (Mk 8:21) is the last thing he says before they witness this peculiar miracle.
In and through his spittle and with his own hands, Jesus works on the blind man. He touches the man’s sick eyes directly, and the cure sets in. Watching this, the disciples see the power of Jesus’ body, perceiving how his touch brings about healing. But they do not see the healing happen all at once; they see it occur in stages. And so by watching this gradual miracle, the disciples gaze upon a mirror of themselves: seeing, but not clearly, hearing, but not well.
Right afterward, Peter sees what he did not see before — “You are the Christ” (Mk 8:29) — but he immediately reveals just how blurry his vision still is. “And Peter took him, and began to rebuke him” (Mk 8:32). He has seen, but he still does not really see; he has heard but has not listened — not with all his heart, all his mind, all his strength. He and the other disciples are being cured, in stages, to the extent that they are able, or, rather, willing.
For those of us who have become blind and deaf to the Messiah who suffers in the flesh for us, moving out of our old ways, customs and preconceived notions is never immediate. We are healed in stages. We must first be separated from what we have clung to; then, we must learn what is true; and then, we shall come to delight in this new gift. In the mystical tradition, these are called the stages of ascent: purgation, illumination, and perfection. Ultimately, this is how we grow accustomed to Jesus’ touch, for the power of God is communicated to us in and through his body.
We resist that power because it changes us, and change is difficult, just like being healed is often difficult and tiring. But once the cure has set in, we start to see something new, and hope grows. The path to fullness of health opens wider, and yet it requires more change, and that can also be daunting.
It is tempting to turn back, as Peter did, to the old ways. Jesus knows this, which is why I think he commands that once-blind man: “Do not even enter the village” (Mk 8:26). The disciples hear this, too. They know something of their own bad habits: the things they watch, the things they hear, and the things they do that make them sick, leaving them blind and deaf and unreceptive to this new gift in Jesus, whom they trust and follow and love, but not yet all the way. So Jesus tells them to stay away from what made them sick in the first place. He tells them to cling to him instead.
It turns out that being healed of blindness is not a one-time thing — at least not the deep healing that only Jesus can do. The ability to see clearly is a gift, and it demands discipline in order to continue seeing aright. We have a remarkable capacity to blind ourselves, running toward those things that ail us. The deepest healing here does not stop with the eyes, but reaches all the way to the deepest part of the will. Just like the blind man, the disciples themselves must not only feel Jesus’ touch, but also heed his words. For their own good he tells them, “Do not even enter the village,” but stay close to me and all will be well.
