Fifth Sunday of Lent (C)

Go and Sin No More 

Isaiah 43: 16-2; Philippians 3: 8-14; John 8: 1-1

The usual name for the story we have just heard is “The Woman Caught in Adultery” or “The Adulterous Woman.” It is certainly understandable why it would be called this; after all, she is a major player in the story.

Yet, while she is A major player in the story, she is not THE major player in the story. Jesus is THE central player of this story, for, without him, the story would have simply been a story of a stoning.

Ultimately, it’s about Jesus, who seeks reconciliation . . .
- not judgment,
- not punishment,
- not condemnation,
- not even-ing the score,
- but one thing, and one thing only: reconciliation.

And what exactly is reconciliation? Reconciliation is where forgiveness and sorrow meet. It’s easy to confuse reconciliation with forgiveness. Forgiveness is an intrinsic part of reconciliation, but it’s not all there is to it. Reconciliation also involves true sorrow – true contrition, which is not just an emotion, but also a resolution to not offend again - never!

Reconciliation can only occur when two parties come together in self-giving . . .
- the self-giving of love outpoured in forgiving
- the self-giving of humility outpoured in apology
- and the resolution not to hurt again.

This is very important. It’s easy for us to see in today’s gospel that Jesus forgives this woman at the hands of death; and it can be easy for us to know that he forgives us the same. The danger is overlooking that what Jesus is seeking to accomplish is not just that woman know she is forgiven, but rather, that she be reconciled with God. And that reconciliation can only occur when she chooses “to sin no more.”

You see, the forgiveness of God is, in itself, not the whole story of our salvation. Because we have been made as persons with the freedom to choose, to act, God does not foist his mercy on us - God offers it to us so that we may freely respond. Yet, freedom always has consequences. And the consequence of opting out of reconciliation with God is that life here and now can continue as it has been . . .
- no interruptions in the flow of life,
- no transformation of attitudes,
- no conversion of behaviors,
- no struggles with what is good or what is evil.

Of course, the other consequences are . . .
- no growth as a human person,
- no assuming of the dignity of a child of God,
- no citizenship in heaven,
- no eternal life.

The consequence of embracing God’s forgiveness through sorrow and conversion brings with it the struggle with good and evil, the exertion to transform behaviors, and the endeavor to convert attitudes to those of Christ’s own attitudes. This is not an option for the faint of heart, but it is a choice that carries with it the realization of our human dignity as we live more fully in the image of God, the growth into full stature in Christ, and the eternal life in the presence of our Messiah, who will embrace us, saying, “Well done, good and faithful servant; come, share your Master’s joy.”

Recently, a good friend sent me this poem by Maya Angelou.  It's called "I'm A Christian" and I think it fits very well with the theme of today's gospel:

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not shouting "I'm clean livin."

I'm whispering "I was lost,"

Now I'm found and forgiven.

When I say..."I am a Christian"

I don't speak of this with pride.

I'm confessing that I stumble

and need CHRIST to be my guide.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not trying to be strong.

I'm professing that I'm weak

and need HIS strength to carry on.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not bragging of success.

I'm admitting I have failed

and need God to clean my mess.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not claiming to be perfect,

My flaws are far too visible

but, God believes I am worth it.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I still feel the sting of pain,

I have my share of heartaches

So I call upon His name.

When I say... "I am a Christian"

I'm not holier than thou,

I'm just a simple sinner

who received God's good grace, somehow.

We're nearing the end of our Lenten journey. Yet, there's still time of us, two more weeks, to examine our Lenten practices (or lack thereof). Has this journey been one of moving towards reconciliation or has it been one of just doing or not doing certain things for forty days? Has this journey been oriented towards some sort of permanent change for the better in my life, or has it been one of whiling away the time until Easter?

For most of us, we have been on this journey with its ups and downs. Once again, God offers us forgiveness; and once again, the choice is ours. All we have to do is accept that forgiveness and all it entails, and eternal life is ours. That’s what today’s passage from Scripture is all about. And, if you think about it, it’s what the reality that we will be celebrating in two weeks is all about, as well.

Fourth Sunday of Lent (Cycle C)

The Truly Prodigal One 

Joshua 5:9a, 10-12; 2 Corinthians 5:17-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11-32 

It feels as if we're dropping in on old friends in our Gospel today, doesn’t it? We have visited with them many times-this Father and his two sons. This story is considered the pearl of the parables. Charles Dickens, the great English author, has called it “the greatest story ever told.” Some hail it is the finest short story in literature. Poet, Robert Bridges, has judged it as a “flawless piece of art.” Small wonder that through the centuries, this story has inspired the artwork of Rembrandt, the music of DeBussey, and the poetry of John Masefield. One theologian has said that the story of the prodigal son captures “the essence of the Christian faith.” It is the gospel in a nutshell. If you truly understand this story…of the father, the prodigal, and the older brother, you will begin to grasp the central thrust of Jesus and the core message of the whole New Testament.

What image of God do you best relate to? Some people relate best to the God of Genesis 1 and 2 - the great creative power, full of awe, wonder and strength. Some have found God in the justice discourses of the prophets Amos, Isaiah, Jeremiah and Micah. Some have found God in the imagery and mysticism of Revelation. And I have found God in all of those places as well. But when I close my eyes and picture God, invariably, I come back to the story of the Extravagant Father that we hear about in today’s parable. This is the God I believe in. This, for me, sums up God's nature.

Even when I am most absurd or even mean-spirited, God lets me be who I am at the moment. He knows my character and he knows that I will act outside of that character when I forget that I’ve been created in his image and likeness on occasion. And his love and trust in me is so great that he will allow me to distort my character, distort his image within me, and wallow in self-centeredness.

And he waits for me. He sends little reminders now and again, but mostly he waits. He knows me well enough to know that when I get tired of my self-imposed exile from him, I'll come home. He loves me enough to let me exercise my free will even when it is opposed to his will and law. He simply waits for me to come to myself.

And when I do, he rushes out to meet me. He doesn't let me offer to be a slave. He doesn't seem to care about the long-winded speeches of apology I've prepared in my mind as a guilt offering for my disobedience. He cares about me. He rejoices, he celebrates when I come home to him. He wraps me in the robe of forgiveness. He adorns me with the jewels of his eternal presence. He feeds me with foods I could only have dreamed of while traveling distances alienated from him.

That's God, for me. He is always waiting by the door for me, me as wretched and low as I might become. He's waiting for me. And he rushes out to meet me as I make my first step toward him. Oh to feel those arms around my neck. To feel the hot and sweet breath of his kisses on my neck. Abba, Daddy. I'm home.

Have you ever placed a very young child in front of a mirror? Children enjoy seeing a face looking back at them as they enjoy seeing all faces, but they don't realize that the face they see is them. Then, all of a sudden, they begin to note the connection between their motions and the motions reflected in the mirror. And their expression changes, as if to say: "Hey, that's me!" The same thing happens to us when we hear this story. We hear it at first as an interesting tale with wonderfully drawn characters, but the more we listen the more we realize, "Hey, that's me."

We have all been the younger son. We've all forgotten who we are and whose we are. We've all distorted our characters, distorted the image of God within us, and wallowed in self centeredness. That's part of our brokenness.

And we have all been the older brother - self righteous, judgmental. We've looked at the wretched masses and turned our faces away from them. We've refused to forgive. We've placed our lives on the pedestal to be the example for all to see, not realizing that we're as distorted and broken as our brother.

And, we've all experienced the love of the Extravagant Father. Maybe in different ways. And maybe some of us are still in the process of turning, of returning to ourselves. It's not a one time deal. Our extravagant father runs out to us time and time again. He's there for us whenever we fall into sin and repent and return to the Lord.

But here's the challenge. After we've come home. After we've experienced the embrace of extravagance. After we've been robed with forgiveness. After we've tasted that roasted calf at the table of acceptance. After we've been the younger son. After we've been the older son. Can we become the Extravagant Father? After finding out what it means to be loved by God, the very essence of what it means to be an extravagant Father - can we be the image of that Extravagance here in our lives?

The image of the Father that Jesus presents to us in this parable can be a little bit unsettling. It is an image of God to whom punishment, vengeance, recrimination are empty words, a God who asks of us that we simply accept the totally unconditional, loving forgiveness he offers us, and who asks that we offer the same to one another.

That is our journey. A journey through being Prodigal children, self-righteous siblings and on into becoming the Extravagant parent. Do we love as he does? Can we rush out to meet those that have hurt us? Do we truly forgive even the mean spiritedness that the Extravagant Father forgave? He is the Abba – Daddy who rushes out, throws down his cane and dances in the streets as he sees the lost return. Can we do the same?

According to the Complete Oxford Dictionary, the word prodigal was not applied to the parable until the 15th century. But according to that dictionary, “prodigal” means "wastefully or recklessly extravagant;" "giving or yielding profusely;" "lavishly abundant." You know something, for five hundred years now, we’ve gotten it wrong! Because, in a real sense, the most “prodigal” person in the parable is the father! He not only gives his property over to his sons – he lavishes love, forgiveness and acceptance on both of his children. You and are called to do the same. You and I are called to be chips off the old block. You and I are called to be true prodigal sons and daughters of a most Extravagant Father.

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 3

The Prodigal's Brother

I don’t understand! It isn’t fair! I was there when he asked my father for his inheritance. He so much as disowned himself from us. He no longer wanted to be called son. All he cared about were the riches my father worked so hard to gain.

I saw the tears in my father’s eyes when he took those riches and started out the gate. I felt the pain in his heart as he watched him continue down the path. He never once turned and looked back! He was proud of the dishonor he bestowed upon my father’s house.

This thoughtless son humiliated our good name. The embarrassment I felt when I went back into the fields with the other workers! They knew what happened. I had to endure their stares and gossip; and I had done nothing wrong! There I would sweat under the burning sun from morning till night, listening to the workers tell me stories of my brother’s sins in faraway towns. The mockery continued until I pretended I no longer cared.

And that was hard in the beginning, because I did care. I hoped then that my brother would come to his senses and return to us. But each time I heard another story about his life of scandal, I began to care less and less. Finally, my pain turned to anger, and my anger to disgust. In my mind, he was gone forever, and no longer my brother – just as he wanted. I could bear no longer to hear the stories about him and demanded the workers keep quiet about such things. In time, my brother became a distant memory, one I had hoped to forget about once and for all.

And then today, after breaking my back in the field, my hands and fingers ingrained with the very soil this lost son had spat upon, instead of coming home to find rest, I find singing and dancing, for the sinner had returned!

I don’t understand it. He dishonored my father. He lived an adulterous life. He gave his money to gambling, and drink, and sin. I was the one who stayed behind! I did everything that was asked of me! I did what was right and noble and good! Yet my brother receives the reward. Everything has been restored to him!

There is something that I do understand, though. My father has compassion, forgiveness and love far greater than mine. And it was he who suffered the greater pain, yet he still forgives. I have respected my father for all he has taught me, and I respect him now. I will surrender my pride and bury my anger. And, while I don’t fully understand, for my father’s sake, I will show my brother compassion. For my father has taught me how to forgive, and so . . . I too will forgive.

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 2

The Forgiving Father 

What would you have done? Perhaps you think me foolish. Perhaps I am, but they say love makes fools of us all. And I do love my two sons more than anything else in the world.

A great fortune I intended to leave him. Everything that I had worked so hard for I wanted to be his so that his future would be secure. In life I shared with him all that I was; in death I wanted to share all that I had. What a legacy I had hoped to bequeath him! My fortune, yes, but more . . . a family name: honored and respected. A name that stood for something. And values . . . like kindness and generosity, a love of what is right and good and decent, and a wisdom that finds its origin more in the heart than in the mind. All this I had hoped he would be heir to. I prayed that these things would have an even greater value to him than gold and silver.

Sure I was devastated that day when he came to me and demanded his share of the inheritance. It wasn’t so much the money, but the fact that he wanted to leave, to separate himself from me . . . that’s what hurt the most. He was going to get the money eventually anyway; couldn’t he wait? It was as if he were saying that my fortune was more important to him than I was to him. Since he was going to inherit it at my death anyway, it was as if he was telling me that my life and my love did not have value to him, only my money.

I guess I could have said no. I could have refused to give him the inheritance. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t quite ready for the responsibility that comes with such great wealth. But how could I hold him back? Sometimes you just have to let go. My heart was to the point of breaking as I saw him pass from my sight as he went off to pursue his own pleasure. As he left, my prayer was with him: “May you be as rich in virtue and wisdom, my son, as you are in gold and silver. And when there is nothing else, know that you will always be rich in my love.”

Oh I heard the reports: the gambling . . . the drinking . . . the prostitutes. I heard it all. It wasn’t so much the squandering of his life’s fortune that hurt so much, it was the absolute rejection of everything I hold dear, the values that I tried to impart to him throughout his life. How could he reject everything I have stood for all my life? I was so deeply hurt, but I thought how much he must be hurting now after hitting rock bottom. How humiliating it must have been for him to be tending swine on that farm, an animal considered so low, so dirty, so despicable by my people that, under our law, we are forbidden to eat of its flesh.

What should I do, I wondered. Should I forget him as if he were dead to me? Should I perhaps go to him and force him to come home? No, I believed in him. All I could do was hope that he believed in me. I had faith in him that he would somehow see the error of his ways and would reject the sinful lifestyle that he had taken on. At the same time, I prayed that he would feel secure enough in my love for him to know that my forgiveness was his for the asking. And so, I climbed a high hill top every evening. With every sunset, I hoped to catch a glimpse of my returning son. I waited. And I waited. And I waited.

Nothing could have prepared me for our reunion. I had played the scene over and over in my mind. What would he say? What would I say? Although I had played the scene over and over, time and time again in my imagination, I never imagined I would react as I actually did. When I caught sight of him a long way off, I was so overcome with emotion that I totally lost myself and ran to him. I was moved to tears when I drew closer. Words choked in my throat and I could say nothing. The well-rehearsed speeches were gone from my mind. Nothing I could possible say to him anyway could possibly convey my joy. And so, I let my tears and my embrace do the talking for me.

Finally, he broke from my embrace and through his tears said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. O no longer deserve to be called your son. Treat me as you would one of your servants.” How difficult it must have been for him to admit to himself he was wrong – how much harder it must have been for him to admit it to me! It must have been difficult for him to say, “I’m sorry.” How much easier for me to say, “You’re forgiven.” As my riches were his, so too my love and my forgiveness was his.

I called to one of my servants, “Sandals on his feet!” – only slaves are barefoot and he is not my slave but my son! . . . “A ring for his finger!” - a signet ring with the family seal, for he has come home and is once again a member of my family! . . . “Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him! Take the fatted calf and slaughter it! Let us celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead, and has back to life; he was lost and now he has been found!”

Perhaps you think me foolish . . . perhaps just a sentimental old man. Perhaps you think I should have reacted differently . . . with anger . . . with resentment? Should I have held back my love and forgiveness till I had made him sweat a little? Forgive, you say . . . but never forget. I am who I am, and I must be true to myself. And so, my forgiveness is not halfhearted; it is total . . . complete . . . unconditional. After all, he is my son and I love him. What else could I do? What would you do?

Parable of the Prodigal Son - Meditation 1

The Prodigal

The call me the “prodigal,” and I guess that name suits me better than any other, for indeed that’s what I am: reckless . . . wasteful. And I guess there are a few other names you could add to the list, like black sheep of the family . . . ingrate . . . drunkard . . . sinner. But there is one name, though, that I never appreciated and one I fear I’ve lost forever. That name is “son.” 

I’m not going to bore you with all the sordid details; I’m sure you're familiar with them all too well. I guess that comes with the territory when your life is as infamous as mine.

I’ll admit to you that I’ve always been headstrong. I’ve always been selfish and self-centered. That always seems to be the root of it, doesn’t it? I’ve always had to have things go my own way. I’ve always had to have what I wanted, when I wanted it, in the way I wanted it. So I guess it’s not all too surprising that I did what I did. A lot of people in my predicament would point a finger, blame others. But I have no one to blame but myself. I've been travelling a road toward self-destruction practically my whole life.

I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. There’s nothing much else to do while tending swine all day but think. There’s nothing like rolling around in the mud with a bunch of pigs to set your priorities right. The thing is, I had it all and now I have nothing. I've sunk about as low as one person can sink. But it’s not the money. And it’s not that I’m hungry. It’s a lot more. For you see, I didn’t just squander my inheritance, I squandered my father’s love and trust. Money somehow I can recoup; food I can always scrounge for. But my father’s love . . . I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get that back.

Yes, I hunger. I do long to fill my stomach with the pods on which the swine are fed. But I hunger much more for my father . . . for his love and forgiveness . . . for him to make things right again like he used to when I was young. Yet I know that I am the one that has to make things right this time.

And so, I go back to my father. Perhaps I have a chance at his forgiveness. If he won’t take me back as his son, perhaps at least he’ll have me as his servant. I know that my father is tender and compassionate. He is slow to anger and rich in kindness and faithfulness. He is known to forgive faults and transgressions and sins. Today I will test where my father’s real wealth lies. Today I will see just how rich my father truly is!

Believe me, I’m not here looking for your sympathy, but neither do I want your judgment. For look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you’ll find a little bit of the prodigal there too. Some of you out there, are you really so much different from me? Yes, I squandered my inheritance, but are there gifts that you too waste? Gifts misused? Gifts unused? Gifts not even recognized? Yes, I was a drunk. But are some of you perhaps inebriated with a sense of your own self-importance or with power? Yes, I went to prostitutes. But what are the false loves that you chase after? . . . Money? Possessions? Prestige? Look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you will find a bit of me. Perhaps the road home is a journey we both need to take.

And so, I’m off. Wish me luck. I don’t know how all of this is going to turn out. The journey is a long one. But it’s worth it when you have a father like mine!

Third Sunday of Lent (Cycle C)

Of Tragedies, Fig Trees and Vine Dressers 

Exodus 3:1-8A,13-15; 1 Corinthians 10:1-6, 10-12; Luke 13:1-9 

If you use Twitter you know there are certain hot topics and personalities about which people tweet. They send out text messages composed of 140 characters or less expressing their opinions, comments, and views. Other folks who want to say more publish online blogs filled with their thoughts and musings and with news and commentary that they want to share with the digital world.

Topics that have recently trended on Twitter and on many blogs include the Academy Awards, the resignation of Pope Benedict, and the arrest of Oscar Pistorius for murder.

If there were digital sources of news and commentary at the time of Jesus, I am sure the two incidents that Jesus speaks about in today’s Gospel would have trended to the top. The first was the killing of certain people in Galilee at the order of Pilate, the Roman Governor. Apparently, Pilate had them killed while they were offering animal sacrifices and then had their blood mingled with that of the animals. The second incident was the death of 18 people in the area of Siloam in Jerusalem. Their lives were suddenly taken as they were crushed to death by a falling tower.

Both incidents got people talking. They were the hot topics of the day. People were asking if those murdered by Pilate and those killed by the tower were in some way deserving of their fate because of their sins. You see, the Jews at the time believed that if something bad happened to someone, it was God’s Will, and that person must have sinned, and what he or she suffered was a deserved punishment from God.

The fact is, even in our contemporary world, we sometimes think the same way, don’t we? When a meteor exploded near Chelyabinsk, Russia, right after Pope Benedict XVI announced he was resigning from the papacy, immediately people start saying, “God is angry.” The same was said when Hurricane Sandy devastated the New York tri-state area. We deserved it, of course; New York City being the modern equivalent of Sodom and Gomorrah. AIDS is the punishment from God for sexual immorality. And the reason I suffer from cancer is because of the sins of my past life.

When I was growing up on Long Island and a parishioner at St. Raphael’s in East Meadow, there was an endearing elderly couple, Charlie and Grace McNally, who attended the 7:00am mass every day. Charlie and Grace were former school teachers and never had any children. One Lenten season, Grace fell down the front steps of the church one morning as she was leaving mass and broke her hip during the fall.

She had immediate surgery, but something went wrong and within a few days, she died. Our parish priest, Fr. Whelan, stood by her husband Charlie’s side during the entire wake and was amazed at what he heard as people passed by to offer their sympathy.

One person told the grieving widower, "God must have had a plan for this, so you have to simply accept it." Another said, "It was God's will and we must live by it." Still another said, "Somehow God planned this to test your faith!!" And another said, "There is a sliver lining in every cloud. You will find God's reason behind this eventually."

Clearly, these were people struggling to deal with their pain and wanting to offer the husband some sense of hope in the face of his loss, but Fr. Whelan left the funeral home filled with a very strong sense of anger at what he called the "babbling" he heard that evening.

So he went back to the rectory and rewrote the beginning of his funeral homily. Now it started with these words, "My God does not push old ladies down church steps!!!"

He then went on to explain that God is not responsible for all the brokenness of this world, adding that if God is the author of death, how can he be at the same time the author of life as shown through the resurrection? Fr. Whelan said that either God is the God of the living or the God of the dead. You can't have it both ways.

In today’s gospel, Jesus refuses to get drawn into the “blame game debate.” As to if the tragedies that concerned the people were the result of personal sinfulness, Jesus says, “You are horribly mistaken.” Or as verses 3 and 5 put it, “By no means.” Instead, he moves the conversation in another direction. He says that both incidents – one of horrible human cruelty and the other a random accident – remind us of the fragile nature of life and the uncertainty of our having a tomorrow. Since that is the case, we need to focus on our own sins and our own need for change and repentance. We need to use the time we have to turn from sin. If we do not, Jesus says, “You will all perish as they did.” Eternal death awaits the sinner.

To emphasize his point, Jesus tells the parable about a fig tree that hasn't borne any fruit for three years. The owner wants it destroyed. But the man in charge of cultivating and cutting and pruning appeals to the owner to spare the tree: "Sir, leave it one more year," he says, "and give me time to dig around it and manure it. It may bear fruit next year; if not, then you can cut it down.”

Repentance is what today’s gospel is all about. As a matter of fact, in a passage of only nine verses, Jesus says it twice: “Repent!” Do we think he was kidding? I don’t think so, because he goes on to tell us the consequences if we don’t. In the matter of repentance, it's so easy sometimes to find ways of avoiding responsibility. But, clever as we may be at covering up and rationalizing our misdeeds, the consequences are merely postponed -- never avoided. No amount of covering up can free us from the consequences of our actions.

Repentance begins deep within and turns life upside-down for us, and right side up for God. Repentance reverses our priorities, upsets our values, turns our pockets inside-out. Repentance shatters our systems of security and hangs us on the thin thread we call the "Will of God." Repentance revolts against the sin we have loved and reconciles us to God, whom we have not loved.

As dark as today’s gospel seems, there is good news in all of this. In the "Parable of the Fig Tree," Jesus seems to be assuring us that while repentance is a matter of spiritual life and death, nevertheless God is patient. We have a Father who is the Good Vine dresser. He is the God of second chances. He helps us to meet the conditions required for a return to Grace. Like the attentive vinedresser, He provides us with the nourishment we need for spiritual growth.

This Lent, the Lord grants us another opportunity to turn away from the sin and selfishness that infects our life and to bear fruit – to live as those good, generous, forgiving, compassionate people that God expects us to be and that we promised to be at our baptism.

Lent is a time to repent of our own sins, not the sins of others. Lent is a time to plow up the ground, prepare the soil, heap fertilizer onto our souls, seek the Lord's will and way, and trust in the Lord's love and forgiveness.

This is the only day, the only Lent, we have to do what God expects. The future is not certain for any of us. Just ask the victims of Pilate or those killed by the falling tower. Now that's a message worth tweeting!