Overview:

Friday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time

A Reflection for Friday of the Twenty-third Week in Ordinary Time

Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?

Find today’s readings here.

“I think there’s an assumption that, if any blind person were asked the open-ended question, ‘What do you want?’ they would, of course, say they want to see.” This is what Moira Egan told me when we discussed the Gospel story of the blind beggar outside Jericho—who called out to Jesus for mercy and sight—on the “Preach” podcast, which I host, last year. “And I think it’s hard for people to believe that isn’t true.”

Her observation left me cold—and honestly, ashamed. Moira has been blind since birth. I realized then that I, too, had been one of those who presumed to know the blind man’s wishes, and I told her so on the podcast: “There is a notion that having all five senses is somehow perfect, or the Platonic ideal. You’re making it clear for us that God’s creation is beautiful—whether blind, deaf or mute; Black, white or brown; gay or straight.”

This wasn’t the first conversation I’d had with Moira. Over years of ministry through Ability Xavier, the disability justice ministry at St. Francis Xavier, a Jesuit parish in Manhattan, N.Y., we’ve shared moments—sometimes frank, sometimes painful—that have stretched me, challenged my assumptions and changed the way I hear Scripture.

So when I hear Jesus ask in today’s Gospel, “Can a blind person guide a blind person? Will not both fall into a pit?” it unsettles me in a way it never did before. Until I started ministering alongside people living with disabilities, I hadn’t thought about how those words might sound to someone who is blind. On one level, Jesus is astute: Someone who can’t physically see might miss the ditch ahead and could be helped by another. But falling into a ditch isn’t limited to the physically blind. Even those of us with sight stumble—sometimes literally, stepping into a hole in the street while looking at our phones, or distracted by a billboard promising the latest must-have, life-changing innovation.

I became even more aware of the limits of relying solely on any one person’s perspective when I first joined a nonprofit board. I was recruited for my communication skills, but when I opened the financial reports and the discussion turned to finances and compliance—the talk of “operating reserves,” “cash flow projections,” and fiduciary responsibilities—I felt lost and largely incompetent. I wasn’t sure I had much to contribute and I silently hoped someone else would notice if the numbers spelled trouble—or if we were heading toward bankruptcy.

Over time, I’ve come to see that my lack of knowledge in every conceivable area of business operations is part of my gift. By asking questions for clarity, I not only learn what I don’t know but also challenge assumptions—drawing out insights that colleagues steeped in fiduciary, financial or legal expertise might take for granted or overlook. When it comes time to communicate with donors, my storytelling skills translate complex numbers into narratives that resonate. Neither perspective alone reveals the full picture, but together our combined expertise helps the organization navigate challenges and flourish.

I think that’s what Jesus is pointing to with this hard parable. None of us sees everything. Real vision starts with humility—admitting our limits and allowing others to help us perceive more clearly. Moira put it to me like this:

“One of the things I find very difficult is the result of Jesus’ encounter with people with disabilities, which is that the person is changed—no longer blind, or deaf, or paralyzed. But the community doesn’t change. The community doesn’t learn anything. In a sense, their exclusion is reinforced, because the person can only be fully integrated into the community once they no longer have the disability.”

The church, at its best, is called to model the inclusion that Moira has long advocated for. Parish councils that include elders and young adults, longtime parishioners and newcomers, professionals and parents, trans and straight folks see more clearly than any single group could alone. Pope Francis reminds us that synodality is walking together—bishops and priests, cardinals and laypeople, women and men, young and older—listening to one another and to the Spirit who speaks through the whole people of God. Pope Leo XIV has signaled continuity in this direction, urging the church to embrace diversity of perspective.

In the end, Jesus is the only teacher who sees everything clearly. The rest of us stumble toward that sight together—with humility, humor and respect for what each person brings. There is no single perfect vision. Perhaps God designed us this way—each with a limited perception of the whole—so that we would need one another to see the truth more fully. The Gospel calls us to notice the specks and logs, the ditches and pitfalls, and the grace and presence of Christ we would surely miss on our own. In our parishes, families and communities, we are called to guide one another—not despite our limitations, but because of them. To see clearly is to see together.

Ricardo da Silva, S.J., is an associate editor of America Media and the host of the podcast “Preach.”