Life-giving Love: Loving First, Loving Well - Redux



Prodigal Son by Pompeo Batoni (1773)



Life-giving Love
Loving First, Loving Well - Redux

Twenty-Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C

[Ex 32:7–11, 13–14.  Ps 51:3–4, 12–13, 17, 19.  1 Tm 1:12–17.  Lk 15:1–32.]   

The Gospel today is a long one, but it is necessary to hear it in its entirety if we are to hear the message well.

And one of the first things we have to keep in mind is that all three stories: lost sheep, lost coin, lost son, are preceded by this very important line, said by the Pharisees and scribes who were complaining:

"This man welcomes sinners and eats with them." 

In the original Greek of Luke’s Gospel, the word used for “welcome” is a very positive word: prosdechomai (pros DECH om aye), and it means welcome in this sense: to wait for anxiously, to cherish. 

This man welcomes sinners - he actually cherishes them - and he even eats with them! 

Jesus cherishes and waits anxiously for the sinners who come to Him – both then and now! (Imagine that!)  These sinners, these unclean ones, were becoming a part of Jesus’ following. How that must have put off the Pharisees and scribes!

The three “Parables of Lost and Found” that Jesus tells are His response to the grumbling Pharisees. And to understand just how these sounded to the Jews of Jesus' day, we have to understand a bit about the cultural context.

The shepherd that we hear about is so concerned about one lost sheep that he leaves ninety-nine sheep in the desert – unprotected!  The woman who loses one coin – then finds it and throws a party that probably costs ten times the worth of the coin!

Jesus actually puts these as hypothetical questions. He isn't really looking for a response: "What man among you?.... or What woman?....  These questions are metaphorical, to help us consider the abundant love of God.

What we do need to note is the joy of the shepherd and the woman. "Rejoice with me,"  they say. 
And then there is the prodigal son – Jesus changes his tone here to tell us a story. We all know this as a story of wandering away and being welcomed back.

But this story is really much, much more to the people who heard it from Jesus– it was even perhaps outrageous to the people who heard it from Jesus!

It is about possessions and power; anger, shame, and repentance; death, and new life. This is about radical behavior.

Listen carefully to what the son asks of the father:
     “give me the share of your estate that should come to me.”

When are estates divided up? At the death of the father!

The son isn’t saying, “Hey, Dad: I’m headed out for an adventure.”

He is saying, in essence, “Father, I am disowning you, you are as good as dead to me. Give me what is mine under the Law, and I’m out of here.”

Those are tough words! In the culture of the time, no child would dare to say such things to his father. They are words that could literally cost him his neck! He could have been taken to the gate and stoned for such disrespect. That is by Mosaic Law: we read it in Deuteronomy.
But there is no punishment. Instead, there is probably just the father’s heartbreak – and he goes ahead and distributes the wealth.  He must distribute it according to the Law, so the matter becomes public knowledge. The whole village knows that the son has challenged the father; they know about this fracture in the family’s life.

Imagine what that father must have overheard – the buzz of the neighbors, the whispered conversations at the gate. 

And yet, it is not the father who is the dead man, but rather the prodigal son. He goes off on the wide road to dissipation – to the excesses of a different life that are literally going to scatter him.

And we see where the son ends up – in a distant country, and in dire need. He is so badly in need that he ends up hired out to feed pigs!

Here is the Prodigal: he has squandered all his assets, he no longer has any heritage on the land, he is in a foreign land, among the unclean; and while he feeds the swine, he isn’t even permitted to eat what he feeds them!

And yet, he “comes to himself” –he recovers his senses. He begins a process of healing, because he can never be happy unless he comes to really understand who he is and just where he stands.

He decides to go back to his father –he knows that he doesn’t deserve to be called his father’s son; that in these outrageous circumstances there is no way he could even hope to reclaim his sonship.

But he still wants something: to be treated as one of his father’s slaves – that, at least, will give him some kind of security.

He also knows that going back will be a painfully public act. The community will see him and mock him, and maybe even beat him up or kill him!

And the father – his love for his son has never ended, despite being so thoroughly dishonored by his son. He waits, he hopes with anxious anticipation. He cherishes his son, even through all this!

And when the son comes into view, the father runs to him!

This broken-hearted father is filled with joy, he welcomes the son.

And what is scandalous about that?

He does this without any kind of an intermediary: back then, a “reconciler” would have acted as an agent so that the injured party doesn’t lose face.

And if the father had seen the son from a distance, you can bet that others in the village had seen him, too.

But before there can be any kind of confrontation, the father races past the villagers and offers his son protection, compassion, understanding, and affection beyond what the son might ever have imagined.
And the father's love takes all of the son’s bartering power away from the son by loving him well.
The father interrupts his son before the son can even ask, to be a slave.  The father reclaims him as his son - he transforms the son! That is a self-empting love at work here!

Open arms! Robe on his shoulders, ring on his finger, sandals on his feet! Slaughter the fattened calf – have a feast!

And the father says: “This son of mine was dead, and has come to life again.”  He has come to new life as a son!

A feast commences. Certainly it is not a feast to honor the son’s return. It is a feast of the father’s joy!
"Let us celebrate," says the father.


But then there is the older brother out in the field, who learns about all this from a servant. And anger flares. Probably this anger has been simmering since the day that the prodigal son rebelled.

Now his anger boils over: the older son refuses to enter the house, and the father is thrown into another situation of public humiliation.

Now it is the older son who is publically disrespectful of the father. And in his anger, this older brother has disowned his brother: it is no longer his brother, it is “this son of yours…”

Can you imagine what the older brother might have said about his father next? Maybe he turned to the people and said something like,
     “This man, my father, welcomes sinners, and even eats with them!”

And the father’s answer? Put away your anger: "You are with me always. Everything that I have is yours!"

How that must have rung inside the minds and hearts of the people gathered around Jesus for this story! How the Pharisees probably craned their necks and said:
     “What? No Law? No punishment?”
No: mercy instead – radical, life-giving, and all-embracing love!

Imagine a father whose love is greater than death. Imagine a love that actually brings back to life!  Imagine a love that loves first, loves always,  loves best!

And yet, there is the thought that the parable hasn’t resolved. It has just stopped.

We don’t know what the older son did. Did he swallow his anger? Did he allow himself to accept his father’s love? Did he go in to the feast?

Or maybe he is still outside, where the darkness now gathers? Is he still out of touch and still very much a slave of his own pride, his own anger, his own sense of injustice?

Has it dawned on him that his father’s love transcends all brokenness, all emptiness, all anger?

If there is one thing that we might well think about and pray about, it is this: If you were the older brother, would you go in?

These three parables: lost sheep, lost coin, lost son have one thing in common. It is in one phrase for the shepherd, the woman, and the father:

Rejoice with me! I have found what is lost! What was dead has come to life again!

And what does Jesus say at the end of each but just this:

“there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance."

This Jesus – God’s Son – he welcomes sinners, and even eats with them!

So, will we go in to the feast with God our Father? Everything he has, he has offered to us!

The Jar of Precious Treasure

The Jar of Precious Treasure
Eleventh Sunday in Ordinary Time, Year C
[2 Sm 12:7-10, 13. Ps 32:1-2, 5, 7, 11. Gal 2:16, 19-21. Lk 7:36-8:3.]

Today we hear Luke’s beautiful story of the power of forgiveness and love,  and the story has actually been prepared for us today by all of the readings:

In Second Samuel, King David is brought to see his sinfulness, and when he declares that sinfulness, he is told that God has forgiven him.

The Responsorial Psalm sings of the joy of the person who confesses fault to the Lord and receives forgiveness.

And Paul tells us in the reading from Galatians of the power of faith in God – a justification that comes to the believer apart from works of the Mosaic law.

Justification that is God’s gracious gift.

All of these prepare and help us to understand something of Luke’s beautiful Gospel story.

In all four Gospels there is a story about a woman who anoints Jesus with oil. Each time someone rebukes the woman. And in all four gospels, the woman says nothing;  she never speaks back – she is an “object”—people talk about her, and they judge her.

But Luke’s report tells us more – he tells us what she accomplishes in silence – without words.

And that silence calls to us over the centuries. It yells at us: see what power there is in a pure heart – see what Jesus can do with those who come to Him in freedom.

So, what about this woman in the Gospel?  “She is a sinner,” they say. Luke's Gospel specifically calls her a “sinful woman,” and that brings to mind all kinds of speculation – what was her sin?

We are never told, but it is one of those things that invites us to “fill in the blanks,” so to speak.

Yet, it is important for us today – it is imperative for us today, not to fill in those blanks – not to judge this women beyond what Luke tells us.

We simply don’t know what she has done. But whatever that was, it was something that was known: The Pharisee who was Jesus’ host at dinner knew about it. Listen to what he says to himself:

     “If this man were a prophet, he would know who and what sort of woman this is who is touching him,
     that she is a sinner.”

And did Jesus know? I think: of course! We have so many instances in the Gospels where Jesus touches sinners young and old, rich or poor, man or woman. Jesus never hinders them from coming to Him.

Too often, I think, we hear this story and gospel stories like it, and we only think about the moment of the gospel encounter. But maybe we should wonder a few things:

Who was this woman?

What was her life like?

Who or what caused the occasion – or occasions – of sin?

Was she a victim of circumstance? A victim of her own powerlessness in a society that hardly upheld the rights and dignity of women?  Women were considered as property back then. 

Maybe….  And maybe it was just this kind of background that led the woman to think that she had to come to Jesus that night. That He would understand. That He was her last hope. 

Had this woman seen Jesus before? Perhaps… Jesus was very much in the public eye by the time of this dinner.

She could well have been in the crowd when he gave the beatitudes:
     How blessed are the poor in spirit.
     How blessed are you who are weeping…. Jesus says.

The poor, the sick, the sinner, the misunderstood and the marginalized… Jesus had turned the world upside down in favor of the lowly!

Had this woman heard these words? Had Jesus brought her hope?

Had His eyes met hers somewhere on the road? Had his glance – just a moment’s meeting of the eyes, told her:  “You don’t have to live like this.”

Had Jesus spoken heart to heart to her in silence?

We don’t know.

We do know that she wasn’t invited to the party, it is safe to say.  We don’t even know how she got into the dinner.

But something must have told her, something must have drawn her to seek out the Lord in that time and place.

And she came with gifts.

The gifts of precious treasure in that alabaster jar.

That alabaster jar – we all have one – a vessel that we use to store up our precious treasures. And I don’t mean material treasures.

I mean the treasures of hearts that beat not alone, but in relationship to all those we encounter: hearts that beat like parents; like sons and daughters, brothers and sisters, friends – and enemies.

Hearts that beat right along with those things and persons who have hurt us, and who we have hurt. With those who cause us sadness – and who we have caused sadness.

This treasure in our alabaster jars is the oil of our lives.

And now this sinful woman comes and she reaches out to Jesus.

And the weight of her sin, the weight of her sorrow, the weight of her shame – all these weigh her down.

She is so far down, that when she reaches up for Jesus, she reaches up only to His feet!

And yet she works within her reach.

And what does she offer Jesus? The gift of her tears – tears from eyes that stream the sorrow of a humble heart.

The gift of her hair – she dries his feet with her own hair.

And her costly perfumed oil – the treasure of her very life she pours out at Jesus’ feet in silence.

Jesus turns, and speaks to her. He tells her that her sin is forgiven – that her faith has saved her.

Faith – that is what has saved her!...

And now she rises and walks in the new dignity of a daughter of God.

Maybe she sang softly to herself as she went from the Psalms: “You are my shelter; from distress you will preserve me; with glad cries of freedom you will ring me round.”

But we don't know that, either.  The Gospel never tells us that. It only gives us the silence of her action.

We hear at the end of today’s Gospel that Jesus continues on His journey from one town to another, and that his disciples accompany him.

And also, the Gospel is certain to tell us that some women are with Him. Luke even names three of them:
Mary Magdeline, Joanna, and Susanna….

and, this is important for us today: “many others…”

Could this now forgiven silent woman one be one of the nameless ones in the group that travelled with Jesus? Or did she simply go in the peace that Jesus had granted her and try to make new life where she was?

We don’t know, but part of our prayer in meditating on this Gospel can be in wondering about this woman – and the life that brought her to Jesus’ feet.

The life that was transformed in her encounter. And the new life that Jesus has granted her – that gracious gift he may grant to us, too.

The Gospel today teaches us that we don’t necessarily need words…

It tells us that the treasures we have are nothing if they are not poured out in love.

It tells us that the powers and the oppressions of the world are as nothing before the mercy and love of Jesus, who loved us first.

It tells us not to be fearful, even if we are so bogged down that when we reach up to Jesus, we can only reach for His feet.

Today’s Gospel tells us to come to Him. We can bring him our faith, our sorrow, our humble contrition.

We all in need to know that we, too, can cry at the feet of Jesus.

And when we look up, we, too, can hope to see Him smiling at us and hope to hear His words – words that I am certain gave such great joy to the silent woman’s heart:

“Your faith has saved you.”

The Right Little Thing

"The Right Little Thing"
Fifth Sunday in Lent, Year C
[Is 43:16-21. Ps 126: 1-2, 2-3, 4-5, 6. Phil 3:8-14. Jn 8:1-11.]

There was an English professor at Glassboro State College, now Rowan University, who was a real stickler for clear thinking and clear speech.
His name was Richard Mitchell, and he was one of the most incredible minds of his time.  For many years he put out a publication titled The Underground Grammarian.
He skewered his fellow professors and others for their awful linguistic gaffes – mistakes that betrayed them as people who really don’t think too clearly!

Many feared him; but near the end, he was so admired and respected even by those he took to task – that many of his colleagues took offense if he neglected to chastise them for lapses in writing and speech!

Well, to many of us, Richard Mitchell was a hero! We, who aspired to be teachers – probably most of us without having read the Letter of James chapter 3 – tried to learn from this genius.

For Richard Mitchell, today’s Gospel was a beautiful lesson in education.

We have the Scribes and Pharisees bringing a woman before Jesus who was caught in adultery. It is important that we see what is going on here.
They bring the woman before Jesus, and they tell him what Moses has prescribed in the law – death by stoning for this act!

Well, these Scribes and Pharisees are right – in a way; and they are wrong in a way!
They don’t seem to care about that, though. We hear this in the gospel: “They said this to test him – to tempt him.”

And Jesus knew, it!
Jesus knows the Law – after all, from our standpoint, we know that he is indeed God!
But the Scribes and Pharisees don’t know this.

Let’s look at what the law says about this, and the Law is actually elegant!
It says that when adultery is committed, both the adulterer and the adulteress are to be put to death.
And the stoning?
Well, that is only in the case of a betrothed maiden, not one who is fully married (Dt. 22:24).
There is another problem:
The guilt of a party is to be established on the testimony of at least two witnesses, and we have this directly from the Law:
“At the execution, the witnesses are to be the first to raise their hands against him; afterward all the people are to join in.” (Dt. 17:7).

So who here in this Gospel are the actual witnesses? No one specifically is named.

And Jesus, who has bent down to write in the dirt straightens up and gives a beautiful and elegant little sentence of direction – so unique, so evident of the law.
Here it is in all its simplicity:

“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Silence.
Jesus bends down again to write in the sand.

What he wrote is really unimportant. We are never told by the Gospel writer what this may have been.
But what is truly important is that Jesus bends down. He turns away from them.
He doesn’t gaze upon them.

Jesus bends down to give the accurers time to think about his elegant little sentence:

“Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Now, do the accusers really want to take up that challenge? Do the sinful accusers really want to show that they are hypocrites and worse by taking up the first stones?

Did Jesus change the law? No. He upheld the law.

But Jesus did something so very elegant that it might pass us by here.

It didn’t pass by the attention of Richard Mitchell, the Underground Grammarian. Mitchell uses this elegant phrase of Jesus as a prime example of how a master teacher can say what Mitchell calls
“The right little thing.”

"The right little thing" – nothing changed in the law – there is no new spin on Torah here. If you want, you can check in out in the books of Deuteronomy and Leviticus.

But the “right little thing” has penetrated bone and marrow and sinew and gone both to the mind and the heart of the matter.
Jesus is teaching them to think!

And yet, we can see that the “they,” the group – doesn’t really think – there is no “groupthink” here. Individual persons think.
Each one hears the “right little thing.”
Each one begins to mind his own business.
Mitchell would tell us that each one begins to seek his own betterment.
And each one finds it.

Mother Angelica of EWTN fame has another take on this, and not with specific reference to this gospel. She has said: “Mind your own business. If you really minded your own business, you’d be surprised at how little business you really have.”

Now back to the gospel: One by one – the oldest first, the gospel tells us – each went away.
One by one, each one becomes better because of the “right little thing” said by Jesus.

Here is kind of a legalistic interpretation of what Jesus told them: If you do not have equal guilt in this case, you can begin the execution. That’s the law!

Yes, there was a conspiracy here – they were doing this to “test him.”
So there was a bit of complicity in all of them. All were guilty in this particular case in one way or another, because they don’t really have a case about adultery here without bringing both the man and the woman before Jesus.

And the one who could truly be said to be without sin – Jesus Himself – even he couldn’t participate. According to the Law, he was not an accuser, not an eyewitness, and under the law, he is simply unable to prosecute her, so to speak.

And yet there is something more here: Jesus doesn’t accept any apology from the woman – she doesn’t offer one!
He doesn’t tell her she isn’t responsible – he tells her to sin no more from now on.

He does say “Neither do I condemn you.”
And what does that mean? It means that Jesus issues divine forgiveness.

How can he do this? Does this fly in the face of all of the law we’ve just heard about?

In a way, we are all like the woman in today’s gospel – caught up in our own sinfulness. And we are all hoping for forgiveness.

As our Lenten journey continues, we will come to hear that Jesus pays the penalty for her sins – and for ours. We will hear about this on Palm Sunday and on Good Friday.
Look at the tree of life: Jesus Himself becomes a curse for us!

And for us – we need to hear the “right little thing” that Jesus says to the accusers.
We need to hear the “right little thing” that Jesus says as he hangs between life and death on the cross. On Good Friday, that “right little thing” is Jesus’’ last sentence: “It is finished.”

The price is paid.

My friends, he calls all of us to respond in the right little way. Accept His invitation.