(1 Cor. 13:1–13; Luke 18:31–43)
As Holy Church leads us through the days of Quinquagesima, she places before our eyes two luminous yet searching texts: the hymn of charity from the Apostle and the healing of the blind man near Jericho. Together they form a single spiritual lesson: without charity we are blind, and only through humble, persevering faith does Christ open our eyes to the mystery of His Cross.
We stand on the threshold of Lent. The purple vestments already whisper of penance, yet the Alleluia has fallen silent. In this sacred hush, the Church teaches us what must animate all our fasting, prayer, and almsgiving: caritas—supernatural charity.
“If I Have Not Charity…”
St. Paul speaks with a clarity that pierces the soul:
“If I should speak with the tongues of men and of angels, and have not charity, I am become as sounding brass, or a tinkling cymbal.”
Here the Apostle strips away every illusion. Eloquence, prophecy, knowledge, even martyrdom—without charity, all is nothing. St. John Chrysostom comments that Paul “exalts charity by comparing it not with one or two gifts, but with all gifts together.” For what is the purpose of every charism, if not to build up the Body of Christ in love?
Charity is not mere sentiment, nor passing fervor. It is, as St. Thomas Aquinas would later echo from the Fathers, a participation in the very love of God. St. Augustine writes:
“Love, and do what thou wilt.”
(In Ep. Joannis ad Parthos)
This is no laxity; it is the highest demand. For true love seeks only God’s glory and the salvation of souls. Charity is patient, because God is patient. Charity is kind, because God is merciful. Charity does not seek its own, because Christ “pleased not Himself” (Rom. 15:3).
As we approach Lent, we must ask: Are our spiritual works animated by love of God and neighbor? Or are they tainted by vanity, irritation, or spiritual pride? Fasting without charity is hunger; almsgiving without charity is philanthropy; prayer without charity is self-seeking. But with charity, even the smallest act becomes radiant with eternity.
“Charity never falleth away.” Prophecies shall cease, tongues shall be stilled, knowledge shall pass—but charity alone endures into heaven. For, as St. Gregory the Great teaches, “All the virtues run their course in this life; charity alone accompanies the soul to the judgment seat of God.”
“Jesus, Son of David, Have Mercy on Me!”
In the Gospel, Our Lord foretells His Passion for the third time. Yet the Apostles “understood none of these things.” Their eyes, though open, remain veiled. Immediately thereafter, a blind beggar cries out with insight surpassing theirs:
“Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!”
St. Cyril of Alexandria sees in this blind man the image of fallen humanity—sitting by the wayside, unable to see the Light, yet stirred by faith. Though rebuked by the crowd, he cries out the more. This is the perseverance of prayer, especially fitting as we approach the penitential season.
Notice the order: the Lord predicts His humiliation, rejection, scourging, and death—and then gives sight. The Cross precedes illumination. So too in the spiritual life: only by embracing penance does the soul begin to see clearly.
St. Ambrose writes:
“Let no one be ashamed to confess his blindness; let him who cannot see ask that he may receive sight.”
The blind man does not pretend. He does not philosophize. He begs. And this humble supplication is already the beginning of charity—for to love God is to recognize our need of Him.
When Our Lord asks, “What wilt thou that I do to thee?” the man answers simply: “Lord, that I may see.” This must be our prayer in Quinquagesima. Not merely: “Lord, grant me success,” or “Lord, relieve my burdens,” but: “Lord, that I may see”—see my sins, see Thy mercy, see the Cross as love.
From Blindness to Love
The Epistle and Gospel illuminate each other. Charity is the true sight of the soul. Without it, we remain blind, even amid knowledge and religious activity. With it, we begin to see “face to face.”
St. Augustine beautifully connects sight and love:
“Where love is, there is the eye.”
The blind man, once healed, follows Christ, glorifying God. This is the fruit of grace: illumination leads to discipleship. And discipleship, if true, leads to Calvary.
As we enter the final days before Lent, the Church invites us to examine ourselves. Do we possess the charity that “beareth all things, believeth all things, hopeth all things, endureth all things”? Are we willing to follow Christ not only in His miracles, but in His Passion?
Let us take up the prayer of the blind man daily:
“Jesu, Fili David, miserere mei.”
May our fasting be filled with charity.
May our penance open our eyes.
May our love endure beyond prophecy and knowledge, into the everlasting vision where faith yields to sight and hope to possession.
For now we see “through a glass in a dark manner.” But if we persevere in humble, penitent love, the promise stands:
“Then shall I know even as I am known.”
Laus tibi, Christe.