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Homily Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time September 15, 2013
Saint Ignatius Church, Chestnut Hill MA
Joseph M. O’Keefe, S.J.
For the sin which we have committed before You by hard-heartedness.
For the sin which we have committed before You with an utterance of the
lips.
For the sin which we have committed before You with immorality.
For the sin which we have committed before You openly or secretly.
For the sin which we have committed before You with knowledge and with
deceit.
And on and on. This list is but a small portion of the Al Chet litany that our
Jewish friends and neighbors recited over and over again as they observed Yom
Kippur yesterday. They, like us, acknowledge that they have fallen short, they have
become forgetful of their blessings, they have allowed themselves to fall into a
pattern of pettiness and self-centeredness, they have broken the unity that God so
desires for all people. And they, like us, trust in the mercy of God.
In the 15th chapter of Luke's gospel we hear familiar stories of God’s mercy.
We hear anew that God cares for us, even and especially when we stray like lost
sheep. We hear a new that God spares no effort to seek us out even when we, like
the coin, get lost in the clutter. And lastly, we hear once again, the familiar and ever
poignant story of the prodigal son.
The first ones who heard the gospel just proclaimed would have been no
strangers to the reality of sin and the need for repentance. They would have
observed Yom Kippur, a holy day that goes back to the times of the Book of
Leviticus. The language of sin and redemption would not have been foreign to them.
The story of a wayward person returning to God would have felt very familiar.
What would have been foreign to them, however, is the lavish nature of the
father's forgiveness. I came across several insights that help can us appreciate the
magnanimity of the father. Remember that the Father runs out to meet the son.
Scripture scholar Matthew Williams notes that, in the first century, a Middle
Eastern man would never run. If he were to run, he would have to hitch up his
tunic so he would not trip. If he did this, it would show his bare legs. In that
culture, it was humiliating and shameful for a man to show his bare legs.”
Williams noted further, “If a Jewish son lost his inheritance among Gentiles, and
then returned home the community would perform a ceremony, called the
kezazah. They would break a large pot in front of him and yell, ‘You are now cut
off from your people!’ The community would totally reject him. “So, why did the
father run?. The father runs — and shames himself — in an effort to get to his son
before the community gets to him, so that his son does not experience the shame
and humiliation of their taunting and rejection. The village would have followed
the running father, would have witnessed what took place at the edge of the
village between father and son. After this emotional reuniting of the prodigal son
with his father, it was clear that their would be no kezazah ceremony; there
would be no rejecting this son — despite what he has done. The son had repented
and returned to the father.”
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We know that God is indeed merciful, and we believe that, through the
humiliation of the cross, God has taken on the shame and humiliation that is
rightly ours. In this simple story, we get an insight into the God whose goodness
is beyond what we can imagine.
Join me for a moment in a bit of speculation. We all know what a sequel is.
When considering the gospel stories that shape our religious imagination and
understanding, and have you ever thought about sequels? In healing stories,
people are sick and the restored to health. The son of the widow of Nain or
Lazarus, once dead, brought back to life. Zaccheus, filled with wild expectation of
meeting Jesus, meets him joyfully. But whatever happens to those Lazarus or
Zacchaeus, to Martha and Mary, to the rich young man? to the good Samaritan?
to the ten lepers who were healed? How did these stores end? There is a
temptation, I think, to assume that the characters in gospel stories, like those in
fairytales, live happily ever after. Maybe they do; but maybe they don't.
Imagine a sequel to the prodigal son story. Imagine that after this huge
scene of reconciliation, that the characters do not live happily ever after. Let's
give the prodigal son the name Samuel. After the grand welcome back as time
went on the father notice that all of the mother's jewels were gone. Yes, Samuel
stole from his mother to feed his habits. Samuel comes back, he is forgiven, and
he is restored to the family. Sometime later, Samuel is put in charge of the fields.
At a crucial point during the harvest, when the family’s subsistence is at stake,
Samuel is AWOL. He comes back, realizes once again his folly, is for given again,
and is restored to the family. Imagine the other brother: See, I told you what he's
like. You should have listened to me. Imagine the father, heartbroken, trying to
muster enough generosity to welcome Samuel back.
Sadly, it is often the case that when our loved ones hurt us, forgiving just
once is not enough. And all too frequently, we easily fall into forgiveness fatigue.
How often are you willing to forgive? How often are you able to be merciful? How
often are you able to put aside hurts and disappointments? How deep is your
reservoir of generosity? I fully understand that none of us should be codependent
when a loved one is making all kinds of bad choices. I fully understand that
tender love is sometimes tough love.
Maybe God is inviting us to consider sequels to the gospel stories: that
healing and forgiveness are not one-time events. Maybe God is asking to
remember that the true test of our holiness is not in the short run, but in the long
run. Maybe we are being reminded of Matthew 18, when Jesus is asked how often
we should forgive: seven times? No, 7×70 times. It's a lot easier the first time, it's
easy the first seven times, but when you get to number 469 it takes a lot of faith to
still say, "I forgive you and I love you."
But we do have a lot of faith, don’t we. And in a few moments, when we
say the prayer we have said thousands of times, we remember God's
unconditional love. And yet we dare to put a condition on God's forgiveness.
Forgive us our trespasses AS we forgive those who trespass against us. Forgive us
our trespasses once, seven times, 7×70 times. And so Lord, we, with your grace,
we will try to do the same, we will try to be as merciful as you are merciful, as
forgiving as you are forgiving, as loving as you are loving.