This summer, I began taking Daisy (my dog) on daily walk in Macken Park in North Kansas City.  We typically do a mile, but sometimes two if I really want to wear her out.  One of the unexpected blessings of these walks has been the gift of seeing the heart of my community outdoors.  Families gather for reunions and celebrations, musicians share their skill to passersby, children learn to run for the first time, young and old alike try their hands at pickle ball, the joy of community, of hope, of being a good neighbor, is all around and just waiting to be seen.  Somedays, it's more challenging than others to see Christ in our midst, but once we begin to open the eyes of our heart, it's difficult not to see. 

Speaking of seeing, there's something striking about the way today’s Gospel begins. Not with a dramatic miracle, not with a bold proclamation, but with two blind men stumbling after Jesus, guided by nothing more than a growing conviction that He might be the answer to the ache in their lives. They can’t see Him, but they follow anyway. It’s as though grace has already started its quiet work within them, long before their eyes ever open.

Jesus finally turns and asks them, “Do you believe that I can do this?” It’s a simple question, yet it reaches into the heart of the Christian life. Faith is never just a vague optimism. It’s a decision, a reordering of the whole self toward God. It’s the willingness to stake your life on the truth that Christ can actually do something—heal, restore, forgive, transform.

And that’s where this Gospel presses on us.

We live in a culture of constant motion. The noise, the obligations, the steady pull of screens and schedules—they all conspire to keep our hearts unfocused. We become spiritually nearsighted, tracking a hundred small tasks while losing sight of the One who gives those tasks meaning. Today’s Gospel offers its counterimage: men who direct their entire desire toward Christ even before they understand Him fully.

Their steps—tentative, imperfect, determined—are a kind of Advent spirituality. This season is not about frantic preparation but about reorientation. It invites us to ask: What am I actually pursuing? Where is my life aimed? Do the things I choose each day pull me toward Christ, or do they slowly, quietly, pull me away?

When the men answer, “Yes, Lord,” Jesus doesn’t simply applaud their sincerity; He acts. Their faith becomes the opening through which divine power enters. God does not force Himself upon them—He responds to their desire. And He still works that way. When we intentionally direct our time, our habits, our attention toward Him, we create the conditions for grace to flourish.

So perhaps today, we can take a cue from those two blind men: move toward Christ even if the path isn’t perfectly clear. Shape your day around the practices that anchor the soul—prayer, service, silence, compassion. Choose the relationships and responsibilities that lift you toward love rather than scatter you into distraction. Let your longing for God become the compass of your life.

Because the promise of the Gospel is not simply that Jesus can open blind eyes—but that He can set our whole lives back on the firm, steady ground of truth. And once our hearts are turned toward Him, once we say our own quiet “Yes, Lord,” we begin to see everything differently.