Sunday Readings


Mercy Made

Even though we sometimes have trouble getting around in it, you have to admit that a good snowfall can remake the world. City streets become lovely village lanes; barren trees become works of art. The human being is even more ambitious. Using bricks and stones, our cities and houses rise from nothing. Painters have tired to re-create the world in images of hue and contrast to show the possibilities. And from the word of God back in the Book of Genesis, we are able and are favored to do this.

But our best work, our most noble projects, are just not perfect enough. When we build, we also destroy. We sing for the moment and soon forget the tune. We choose wrongly and construct improperly. Such is the present state of things. As the alien in the movie Contact said of human beings: we are "an interesting mix. [we're] capable of such beautiful dreams, and such horrible nightmares." And if we spend just a moment reviewing our life, or even our day, we can say 'Amen!' to that evaluation. St. Paul noted that creation itself seems to crave an end to these imperfections. Like some one with a bad reputation, we want to start over and start new. It is a desire deep in the human heart, as deep as our unspoken longing for God.

Do you see what I just did? I made connection between the perfection of God and the imperfection of sin. I took two diametrically opposed realities and joined them. Leaving the philosophical and theological fallacies to the side, how can these two exist in the same heart?

The answer is mercy. It is the re-creative grace of God's mercy that permits the co-existence of vice and virtue, good and bad, in the same space. And given the sad history of human destruction, it is no wonder that mercy is so richly described as water in the desert or a path through the sea. As much as we can see the bad effects revealed in the natural world, we can also see the renovation of mercy in the same image.

Christ is rewriting the world. He draws upon the ground a new blueprint in the tired dirt of sin. He releases the contract and forms a covenant. In forgiving, He restores and rebuilds.

In Lent, we spend this brief time before Holy Week considering how the mystery of Christ's passion, death and resurrection have had an impact on all of us. In all the power of the resurrection, we posses a treasure in the role of the priest as the minister of God's forgiveness. These words of pardon, written so long ago, are spoken in every age as the Absolution is given. The priest is God's ghost-writer for His words of mercy.

Maybe that's why we priests are not always the most realistic bunch. Maybe that's why we hope when we have no reason to or champion the cause that will never happen. Maybe we see a world different and better because we know it can be even if it is not. We do not give up on those who have thrown away the future. We are unreasonable when the argument is so clear. And that's the way we like it. No, this is not some St. Jude Society looking only for the hopeless cases to prove our point. We're not like Rick in Casablanca, nobly supporting the doomed cause. We're silent and just offer words scribbled in the dust of a Temple courtyard.

These are words we cannot say too often. Repetition does not rob them of anything. Those who hear them rarely wish they hadn't. And in speaking them, the world is made new again. Forgiveness is a new Christmas - it is a moment when heaven and earth are joined in a new thing. It is an Easter event - as the natural is transformed into the supernatural. It is not a promise as much as it is a reality. We pronounce the words of absolution, not pray them. We state what it is and not hope it will happen. It is equally bold and humble. It refuses despair because it cannot accept anything but itself.

This is such a privilege. But there is a caution here as well. When faith becomes a matter of rules and customs, mercy finds no resting place. The sinner in today's Gospel was being treated in a religiously proper manner according to the word of God. That's the first thing we do when we jettison mercy from faith: we go straight to the rule book. Well, Christ has written the rule. Mercy is God's greatest attribute and no one and no system will contradict it. Mercy has triumphed over judgment and we carry the royal banner of the cross in that victory march through the ages.

Is He calling you to hand this mission on in your family or at the office? That's up to God and depends on our cooperation. But the mission of mercy is not merely a good deed like one preformed by the scouts for a badge. This mission is universal and long-lasting. It takes a world to remake the world in the new image of a world reborn. And like a corrected toddler, the world pouts at its own renewal.

Well, never you mind because mercy is a word that is here to stay in a world that is not.

Sunday Readings


Continued (?)

You are coming to the end of the hour and it is clear that this story has a long way to go. The picture fades, and the words appear on your screen: “to be continued…” A story needs a conclusion and you will just have to see what happens. Today we hear two readings that ask us this question: what happened next?

The manna from heaven stopped falling after 40 years as the people of Israel stood on the border of the Promised Land. What they had known, the way they lived, was all about to change. God would be good to them but not like He was in the desert. And to remind themselves, they even took a little of that bread and kept it enshrined next to the Ark of the Covenant. But the story had to continue and it did.

The Prodigal Son story is well known to most. It is a tender story of a naughty little boy and his loving father. It shows how nasty jealousy really is and how damaging our sins can be.

So what happened next? Did the elder son go into the feast? Did he reconcile with his selfish younger brother? After the party was over, were they able to celebrate the next family holiday at one table?

It’s fascinating to speculate like this. Since we are comfortable with things as they are right now, we allow ourselves only a limited peek into the way things could be. When we’re up and feeling positive, we see success. When we’re down and negative, we see disaster. Our imagination can do wild things with reality. Anticipation is an emotion that tells us we’re still alive. And these are part of the plan of God for His beloved children, prodigal and otherwise.

Jesus never answers our question for this parable. He doesn’t conclude this story. The manna has stopped and the reality is all that’s left. And we are left with one question: Is mercy for real?

And this is not a talking point for religious gatherings. It is not about theology or theory or speculation. The answer is not from above like bread from heaven. The answer is not found in some one else like a brother or a sister. It comes from within us. Do we – you and I – personally know mercy or not. Do we believe in a God who can not only forgive but also restore? Can we accept that things are not the same?

Right off the bat, most of us will automatically say ‘no’ to this. We’ve all studied history too much to pretend that ours is going to disappear. Yes, God is good, but I am not. My mistakes are just too big. “I am what I am and that’s all that I am.” This is not cynicism; this is what every priest hears in Confession. It’s the same old sins, same old situations and nothing ever changes. It’s like a problem with your car: you hear the same sound after you drive a certain distance. The car keeps going and you just get used to it. And we evaluate our lives, we see our faults, and we adjust. We’re so good at accommodation that we smooth out sin like a wrinkle in a bed-spread.

And then mercy makes its appearance. Some one like me, in a place like this, says that God has a different idea. Mercy is not just the legal pronouncement that we are ‘not guilty’; mercy says that we are loved. It tells us that our sins are forgiven as well as there is more. It not only cleans the window; it lets us see something wonderful.

And this vision is Part II of the Prodigal Son. Jesus does not say if the younger son was fully welcomed back or if the older brother went into the feast. That chapter is written by us. If we know mercy, we know that we are welcomed even with our selfish and wasteful sins. If we have had a taste of the Father’s embrace, we can see our self-righteous and jealous tantrums being redeemed. Neither son was really all that good but that is the way things are. Their faults are not even the issue. All that mattered, and all that matters, is the Father. And despite our pride, we are loved.

Imagine, as we are wont to do, that all our usual and boring sins just stopped. Imagine that God just wouldn’t look at them or even bring them up. That would be sweet. Well, if we took mercy seriously, why couldn’t we say that? If it was for real, isn’t that what God would do?

In a way, that is precisely what He does. Like the younger son, we rehearse and perform our repentance. God does not evaluate it or perform a point-by-point analyses. He sees the heart, even moved by selfishness or fear, and accepts it. He calls for the new robe and doesn’t recall our mistakes. He puts a ring on our finger and doesn’t point one at us. For that moment of mercy, we are home where we belong even if we are looking over His shoulder toward our next trip down that road. In the embrace of the Father, time stands still and we touch eternity.

The forgiveness of sins is a matter of faith. It is the absolute hope of the Christian religion that human beings, in our never-ending story of doing wrong, are embraced by the righteousness of God Himself. Sin is real and its damage incredible. But the Cross says that it is only human arrogance that would dare to say it is irreversible. If our sins are too big for God to forgive, we’ve added another one to our list: pride. Perhaps this is why we cannot forgive others. Maybe that’s why we cannot believe that God would forgive us.

Lent is about turning that dark page. It is going into the feast without fear and looking up from the desert into a promise we sometimes cannot hope to see. It is the time to know the Father’s embrace and beginning the next chapter. And if with all our sins and hurts we are to enter the promised land of that heavenly celebration, we simply cannot stay outside, refusing to go in.

Whether or not we do, well…to be continued…

Sunday Readings


Cease and Desist

I know a woman of caution who refuses to dismiss people I know I would. With the benefit of experience and time, she has the annoying tendency to show both interest and patience when the rest of us would not. And while I clearly admire this, you can imagine how annoying it can be. We all have met these types. They honestly believe that the underdog, the under-achiever and the scoundrel are worth their time and our efforts. We call them ‘do-gooders’ at best and ‘bleeding hearts’ at worst. And even if they are correct about some one who ‘lives a little left of living right’, they disturb us when we see the others who did not turn out so well.

The reason I bring her example up is because some one mentioned that God can be either the owner of the vineyard in today’s Gospel or the gardener. I never thought about God being the gardener even though Mary Magdalene thought the risen Jesus was one on Easter morning. Well, if God is the gardener trying to protect the unproductive fig tree, maybe we are the impatient owner. Maybe we are the ones who dismiss so quickly and eradicate so completely.

I know I have done it. I know I have written off people in my life and said that no good can come from them. I know people have done that with me. It’s all too human. We shut the door and throw away the key. We erase them from the phone book and consign them to a fading memory. We are not – by nature – merciful.

But God is. He burns with the fire of divinity but does not consume us. We pass through the waters safe in His care. We remain standing when we (and others) think we should be cut down. Yes, the natural course of life continues and the last day does come. Time will run out. But now is for now and mercy is eternal. God is not impatient or unrealistic. Given this tremendous mystery, we ultimately have no reason to withhold mercy. We have no good cause to dismiss each other.

Still, we do. We throw aside those who challenge us and annoy us. We isolate the unsuccessful and establish barriers to communion. We rely on reason, thought and so-called maturity to say that a person is unworthy. It’s more than being judgmental because it’s something we act upon. No, God is not asking us to get closer to people who will harm us or lead us astray. But our lack of mercy is not god-like, insuring our targets’ eternal woe. That’s one of our favorite illusions when we confuse our thinking with God’s will. But withholding mercy from each other harms not the offender, but our selves. From the two examples today, our condemnation of the other is really about our own destruction. Our lack of forgiveness becomes a testament to our lack of faith.

Some one hearing that can look at those hurtful relatives and friends and conclude they are practical heathens because they cannot forgive a long-ago and very real injury. Again, that’s chopping down the fig tree. And, again, the gardener says, “leave it for this year also.” We so often act like the owner of the vineyard and scurry around with our shears. We chop away at each other and even go after ourselves.

In Lent, we say, “stop it.” Like Brittany giving herself a haircut, we need to agree that this is a really bad idea. It’s true that we can dismiss those who may later surprise us. We can write off some one the world may one day write about. But it’s more than missing the other person; it’s losing our self in the process. God says to us that we should put away the scissors and refrain from cutting people down. Like the employer today learning from his employee, we need to hear the order to cease and desist. Nor should we tolerate being around social violence. We’re not members of that union. We are the people of mercy. We are the ones who worship a God who delivered us from the oppression of sin as much as He released the Israelites from the bondage of Egypt. We can pass on condemning others because we have passed through the waters of Baptism. We can no longer hold the past over ourselves because we are free to be fruitful in the future.

None of this is instant. It takes more than 40 days to get it right. But there is no expiration date on mercy, save for the day of our death. That being so, how dare we declare another person beyond hope? How presumptuous to dismiss a fellow employee as if we were the owner! And, thankfully, we don’t have to. Because we know God’s compassion, we can let that mode of life go. That is, of course, provided that we do in fact know it.

Which brings us back to the gardener. It brings us to the feet of Jesus. We bow before Him with the weight of our fruitless sins and still He looks for virtue. His patience is found in the words of absolution. His search for the possible is known in the forgiveness of Confession. Like that hopeful woman hanging on to the threads of possibility in others, Jesus keeps pruning and fussing over us to bring out the best in us. The grace of Confession becomes His tools and our honesty the fertile soil. Use this sacrament and grow.

We have no right to give up on ourselves and even less to give up on each other. We refuse to do this, not because we are better than that, but because God simply will not.

Sunday Readings


Amazing And Strange

As a computer user, a full-fledged member of the Digital Age, I understand the meaning of the word “new.” When something is ‘new’, it means that after finally working and integrating something into my life, they come and mess it all up. There is a company in Seattle I will not name for fear of being sued that has had a remarkable track record in this field. And they are legion in a world where something ‘new’ means an opportunity to bilk more money out of the masses.

So when we speak of ‘new things’ in religion, most hear that with a touch of this economic cynicism. And with good reason. Our fallen human nature is old. We are fairly simple in that we repeat the mistakes of the past as a given part of our future. We plod along using the operating system we’re used to and prefer that it stay that way. If faith calls us to account for our moral behavior, we can handle it as a ‘yes or no’ agreement to a command. But when it comes to transfiguration, we’re in a completely different reality.

And that is exactly what we have in the readings today. These are matters of altered states, parallel universes, and just plain weird visions.

Abram was caught up in this ancient and mystical covenant ceremony with God. Paul speaks of living in heaven while walking on earth. And Jesus is changed as no one had ever seen Him. All of these are perfect for CGI special effects and lend themselves to good drama. Religion is comfortable with these things because they first of all based in experience and secondly, because they are not our experience.

If we can believe, religion aside, that the right idea can change the world for the better, we can also say that vision can transform a life. But we treat vision like the morning train: if we are in the right place, at the right time looking the right way, we’ll get it. This is the grace of happenstance and the God of circumstance. And, yes, it does happen. It is what we call revelation or enlightenment. My grand-father called it ‘getting the message.’

But here’s the problem with it – we think we allow it and, thus, control it. This is the same issue Peter had when he wanted to set up a few shrines on the mountain. Like a camera, we capture it and record it for later reference. We play it among the other tunes on our playlist when we think we need it or are in the mood for it. And God allows us this illusion but is never subject to it. His grace is His, not ours. And it is so much more than a special effect.

Can you believe it? Can you seriously believe that the strange vision of mystical experience we proclaim in this Church can really have anything to do with your life? You might be tempted to think that if they do, you’re going to walk out of here in a sort of catatonic state. But that is not transfiguration.

Let me give you some glimpse of what this movement of God’ mysterious mercy seems to do. I have seen people transfigured from rambunctious teenagers into dutiful parents. I have seen folks weighed down by the sins of their parents transform into strong and effect adults. I have seen people others considered weak and frail become heroes and pillars of our communities. I have seen people hardened by their own past become hopeful and determined. In both the natural and the supernatural order, this is a wonder. Something is new in their life and it is good that we are here to see it. It too often takes something shocking to jar us into that, but God’s providence allows it.

So here in another Lent, we see the transfigured glory of Christ. We see the shocking role of God’s vision for us. And jaded by the continual series of novelty, we ask a question: is this for me? Can I see myself transfigured in a way I could never imagine or adequately describe? Is it really possible that this grace of God would do something truly new and totally wonderful in my life, with my situation, and with my inclinations to do anything else?

I believe the answer is ‘yes.’ This is not an affirmation of the unrealistic hopes of the un-dauntingly optimistic. This is a matter of faith, not wishful thinking. The saints we celebrate and live with are the witnesses to this hope. The walking miracles of transfiguration move among us. No one is excluded from the light of this amazing grace except by their own darkness.

The command of the Father from the mountain is to listen to the Son. It is not a threat but a promise. Hear the truth of the Gospel, pay heed to wisdom, allow the message of hope to do its work. Lent is about rebooting the system and installing the new operating system. It is about seeing it differently and letting this wonder open us to new vistas of hope. Let it happen, especially when it is dark and unknown. That is when the light is seen and the Voice is heard. And the transfigured One will speak the word to your entire life saying, “Behold, I make all things new.”