“Jesus, Son of David, have pity on me!” the blind man of Jericho calls out when he hears the commotion of Jesus coming near. What exactly is he asking? The dictionary says “pity” is a sympathetic sorrow for someone in distress. Is he asking Jesus to feel sorry for him? I don’t think so, and based on Jesus’ response, I don’t think Jesus thought so either. “What do you want me to do for you?” That is more of a response to “Jesus, help me.” Luke tells us the blind man’s reply: “Lord, please let me see.”
Those five little words pack a powerful statement. First, an affirmation of faith: “Lord.” Jesus isn’t just some popular guy with a crowd of fans, the blind man has decided. He is Lord, which is the word Jews used for God instead of His unspeakable name.
“Please.” The blind man humbles himself; he comes from a place of humility. It is not a prideful demand or an act of self-importance. It is, indeed, a plea.
“Let me.” The blind man acknowledges that what he asks is Jesus’ choice. He can do it or not. But it’s also a statement of faith that what he asks, Jesus can, in fact, do. The blind man does not doubt.
“See.” As readers of the Gospel we might assume that since the man is blind, he is asking for his vision to be restored. But, if we go back to the dictionary, we find that vision is just one definition of seeing. It also means knowing, understanding, or figuring it out.
In that light, the blind man’s reply is more like, “Jesus, truly sent from God, I beg you, if you would, allow me to understand.” Jesus grants him his request, but notice the wording: “Have sight; your faith has saved you.” Jesus doesn’t say vision either.
Perhaps Jesus is talking about the same kind of sight mentioned in today’s first reading from Revelation. The Church in Ephesus is acknowledged for its ability to tell right from wrong, apostles from impostors. The faithful are commended for their works, their endurance, and their suffering. They see clearly the path they should be on.
Ah, but that is only part of the story. “I hold this against you: you have lost the love you had at first.” They are admonished for how far they have fallen and urged to repent and love the way they first loved. Again, think of the blind man: He gained his sight, became a follower of Jesus, and gave glory to God.
This gift of sight is given to us, too. We can see — that is, we can figure out or understand — that Jesus is the son of God, we can choose to follow Him and give glory to God. And we can remember, too, that following and giving glory means that we can love with the love we had at first. And of course, the love we had at first was — and is — that glorious love that God has had for us since the beginning.
“¡Jesús, Hijo de David, ten compasión de mí!” grita el ciego de Jericó cuando oye el alboroto de Jesús acercándose. ¿Qué está pidiendo precisamente? El diccionario dice que “compasión” es un dolor compasivo por alguien que está afligido. ¿Le está pidiendo a Jesús que sienta pena por él? No creo, y basándome en la respuesta de Jesús, no creo que Él lo vio de esa forma tampoco. “¿Qué quieres que haga por ti?” Eso es más bien una respuesta a “Jesús, ayúdame”. Lucas nos cuenta la respuesta del ciego: “Señor, por favor, déjame ver”.
Esas cinco palabras encierran una declaración poderosa. Primero, una afirmación de fe: “Señor”. El ciego ha decidido que Jesús no es solo un hombre popular con una multitud de hinchas. Es el Señor, la palabra que los judíos utilizaban para Dios en lugar de Su nombre indecible.
“Por favor”. El ciego se humilla; viene de un lugar de humildad. No es una exigencia orgullosa ni un acto de presunción. Es, en efecto, una súplica.
“Déjame”. El ciego reconoce que lo que pide es decisión de Jesús. Puede hacerlo o no. Pero también es una declaración de fe. Sabe que Jesús puede, de hecho, hacer lo que le pide. El ciego no duda.
“Ver”. Como lectores del Evangelio, podríamos suponer que, dado que el hombre es ciego, está pidiendo que se le reponga la visión. Pero, si volvemos al diccionario, encontramos que la visión es solo una definición de ver. También significa saber, entender o descifrar.
Desde esa perspectiva, la respuesta del ciego es más bien: “Jesús, verdaderamente enviado de Dios, te ruego que me dejes entender”. Jesús le concede su petición, pero fíjate en las palabras: “Recobra la vista; tu fe te ha curado”. Jesús tampoco dice visión.
Tal vez Jesús esté hablando del mismo tipo de vista que se menciona en la primera lectura de hoy del Apocalipsis. La Iglesia de Éfeso es reconocida por su capacidad de distinguir el bien del mal, a los apóstoles de los impostores. Los fieles son elogiados por sus obras, su resistencia y su sufrimiento. Ven claramente el camino que deben seguir.
Ah, pero eso es sólo una parte de la historia. “Pero tengo en contra tuya que ya no tienes el mismo amor que al principio.” Se les amonesta por lo lejos que han caído y se les insta a arrepentirse y amar como amaron al principio. De nuevo, pensemos en el ciego: recuperó la vista, se convirtió en seguidor de Jesús y dio gloria a Dios.
Este don de la vista también se nos da a nosotros. Podemos ver, es decir, podemos averiguar o entender, que Jesús es el hijo de Dios, podemos elegir seguirlo y dar gloria a Dios. Y podemos recordar, también, que seguirlo y dar gloria significa que podemos amar con el amor que teníamos al principio. Y, por supuesto, el amor que teníamos al principio era, y es, ese amor glorioso que Dios ha tenido por nosotros desde el principio.
Mike Karpus is a regular guy. He grew up in Michigan’s Upper Peninsula, graduated from Michigan State University and works as an editor. He is married to a Catholic school principal, raised two daughters who became Catholic school teachers at points in their careers, and now relishes his two grandchildren, including the older one who is fascinated with learning about his faith. He also has served on a Catholic school board, a pastoral council and a parish stewardship committee. He currently is a lector at Mass, a Knight of Columbus, Adult Faith Formation Committee member and a board member of the local Habitat for Humanity organization. But mostly he’s a regular guy.
Feature Image Credit: Dom Aguiar, unsplash.com/photos/woman-looking-towards-left-S5qnIk98CWk

Tami Urcia grew up in Western Michigan, a middle child in a large Catholic family. She spent early young adulthood as a missionary in Mexico, studying theology and philosophy, then worked and traveled extensively before finishing her Bachelor’s Degree in Western Kentucky. She loves tackling projects, finding fun ways to keep her little ones occupied, quiet conversation with the hubby and finding unique ways to love. She works full time at Diocesan, is a guest blogger on
Kate Taliaferro is an Air Force wife and mother. She is blessed to be able to homeschool, bake bread and fold endless piles of laundry. When not planning a school day, writing a blog post or cooking pasta, Kate can be found curled up with a book or working with some kind of fiber craft. Kate blogs at

Emily Jaminet is a Catholic author, speaker, radio personality, wife, and mother of seven children. She earned a bachelor’s degree in mental health and human services from the Franciscan University of Steubenville. She is the co-founder of
David Dashiell is a freelance author and editor in the Nashville, Tennessee area. He has three children, a degree in theology, and enjoys writing about philosophy, theology, culture, music, and comedy. You can find his personal blog, Serious Daydreams, on

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