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Twenty Sixth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Many of you will probably know the comic book character Hellboy. Now, if ever there was a walking contradiction, it would be him. He's a demon, but one of the good guys. According to the story, he was summoned by the Nazis during the final days of the Second World War in the hope that he would help them conquer the world. But things did not go according to plan. The ritual was interrupted, the infant demon was rescued, and he was adopted by Professor Trevor Bruttenholm, who raised him as his own son. The story strongly hints that Hellboy was brought up within the Catholic faith. The Christian symbolism throughout the story is difficult to miss.
Near the climax of the film, Hellboy stands at a crossroads. He is tempted to embrace his dark origins and fulfil the destiny for which he was supposedly created. At that critical moment, someone throws him the rosary that belonged to his adoptive father. As he catches it, the crucifix burns into his hand. The image is powerful. It is a reminder of who he is, whom he belongs to, and what he has chosen to become. The symbolism is unmistakably Christian - sacramentally Catholic. The Cross marks him. The Cross saves him. The Cross enables him to reject evil and choose the good. The one who was sent to destroy the world ends up saving it.
Now that may sound absurd. But that is precisely what redemption is all about. The central question raised in the movie is this: What makes a man a man? Is it his origins? Is it his past? Is it the circumstances of his birth? The answer comes only at the end of the story: "It’s the choices he makes; not how he starts things but how he decides to end."
That is also the lesson of today's Gospel. Repentance is the key to redemption. In the parable, the first son is shockingly disrespectful. When his father asks him to work in the vineyard, he bluntly replies, "I will not go." Sounds familiar. Many of you may recall your own bouts of youthful rebelliousness. To Our Lord's audience, it would have been scandalous. A son simply did not speak to his father that way. Yet something extraordinary happens. The son changes his mind. He thinks better of it. He goes. That change is what repentance looks like.
In the New Testament there are different words associated with repentance. One is metanoia, a conversion of heart and mind, a turning away from sin and toward God. Another word, reflected in this parable, describes deep remorse, a painful recognition that one has been wrong. It is not merely feeling sorry. It is a change so profound that it alters the direction of one’s life. True repentance produces action. The son does not merely regret his refusal. He goes to the vineyard.
Both the first son and the character of Hellboy illustrate a profoundly Christian truth: no one is beyond redemption. No one. And therefore, no one can be ultimately written off before their story ends. The Gospel, which literally means the good news, is not a story about people who never failed. It is a story about sinners who allowed God's grace to change them. I’m most fond of this saying and often repeat it: “Every saint has a past. Every sinner has a future.”
Many people carry heavy baggage. Regrets. Failures. Broken relationships. Poor choices. Embarrassing chapters they would rather forget. The world often tells us that we are prisoners of our past. The Gospel tells us otherwise. We are not trapped by our beginnings. We are not defined by our worst mistakes. We don’t have to live in the shadow of our parents or teachers, no matter how flawed they have proven to be. God's mercy can rewrite the ending.
Let us not forget that parable is not only about the first son. There is also the second son. When his father asks him to work in the vineyard, he gives all the right answers. He sounds obedient. He sounds respectful. He sounds willing. But the truth is that he never goes. This son represents the danger of empty promises.
The contrast is striking. The first son says "No" but eventually does the Father's will. The second son says "Yes" but never follows through. And that should make us uncomfortable. How many young people stood before the bishop at Confirmation and said "Yes" to Christ, yet no longer practise the faith? How many parents promised at their child's baptism to raise them in the faith, yet never brought them back to church? How many couples vowed lifelong fidelity before God and His Church, only to abandon those promises when difficulties arose? Good intentions are not enough. Fine words are not enough. It’s not how you start things but you decide to end.
The parable therefore offers both hope and warning. Hope for sinners. Warning for the self-righteous. Those burdened by sin should never despair. As long as there is repentance, there is hope. But those who consider themselves upright should never become complacent. A good beginning is no guarantee of a good ending. Heaven is not guaranteed. That is the sin of presumption. That is precisely the message of the prophet Ezekiel in today's First Reading. The sinner who turns away from sin will live. The righteous person who abandons righteousness places himself in danger.
So, the Church cautions us and teaches us to avoid both despair and presumption, both being sins against the virtue of hope. Instead, she invites us to persevere. If you don’t get it right at the start, don’t despair, give up and walk away. The ending can turn out differently if we accept the opportunity granted by God to repent.
And finally, there is a Third Son hidden within the story. Unlike the two sons in the parable, this Son always says "Yes" to the Father and always does the Father's will. This Son is Jesus Christ. He is the eternal Son who never rebelled. He is the obedient Son who said “Yes” to the Father and entered our history through the Incarnation, took upon Himself our burdens. He did not merely speak about obedience. He lived it. He did not merely promise salvation. He accomplished it through His Cross. He said "Yes" to the Father in Gethsemane. He said "Yes" to the Father on Calvary. He said "Yes" all the way to the empty tomb. Through His death and resurrection, He has made all things new. And because of Him, our failures do not have the final word.
We fail. We fall. We stumble. We sin. Yet never forget that our Heavenly Father never ceases to call us back. Whenever we repent, whenever we turn once more toward Him, He gives us another chance. Repentance moves us beyond good intentions. Repentance liberates us from the tyranny of our past. Repentance opens us to the transforming power of God's grace. With God, even the most broken story can have a beautiful ending. For in the end, what matters most is not how we started. It is how, by the grace of God, we choose to finish.
Twenty Fifth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Many of you will know Victor Hugo’s Les Misérables. An embittered ex-convict, Jean Valjean, is imprisoned for the “piddling” crime of stealing bread for his starving family. After his release he steals again—this time from a bishop—yet is met not with condemnation but with extraordinary forgiveness. In fact, the bishop generously adds to the loot which Jean Valjean had just stolen from him. One immediately sees the vast difference in the way the civil authorities and the Church mete out justice. The bishop’s mercy transforms this man, hardened by the harsh penitentiary system of the state. Jean Valjean spends the rest of his life serving God and neighbour, demonstrating extraordinary mercy where he had been shown the same by the kindly bishop. Arrayed against him is Inspector Javert, the relentless embodiment of rigid justice, who pursues Valjean without rest, unable to conceive that a man once condemned might ever be more than his crime.
The dramatic tension in the tale is clear: mercy versus justice. Bishop Myriel (and later Valjean) personifies a mercy ready to give second chances, to treat persons according to their concrete situations rather than abstract rules. Javert, on the other hand, personifies a justice that is inflexible, harsh, and blind to conversion. Justice, in Javert’s hands, becomes something that looks distinctly less just. One looks to a future of possibilities, what a person can become with repentance and conversion, while the other only looks to the past, incapable of seeing a path out of an irredeemable situation. It is not Jean Valjean who is trapped in his past, the past littered with mistakes, but it is Inspector Javert who is the one who is truly trapped in his inability to forgive and see beyond his prejudices.
Today’s familiar parable of the labourers in the vineyard evokes a similar tension and the same mixed reactions. To those who identify with the latecomers it is pure good news: God’s mercy is so boundless that even those who respond at the eleventh hour are not excluded from the reward of the Kingdom. But I don’t think our Lord was giving permission to those of you who come late for Mass and excusing such behaviour.
Yet the full-day workers feel the sting of injustice. They have borne the heat of the day, put in the greater effort and time, and still receive the same denarius as those who arrived almost at the close of business. From their perspective the landowner—God—appears neither generous nor just, but a capricious taskmaster who fails to honour merit. So, the question arises, as it does in Les Misérables: Is God unjust in seeming to favour the undeserving? Or is this simply mercy at work? How can we speak of a God who is both just and merciful?
The apparent incompatibility dissolves once we clarify what “justice” means. To do justice is to give a person at least what is due. That is precisely what the landowner does. Every worker had agreed to a denarius for the day’s labour. Those hired first received exactly what was promised; they were not short-changed. Justice is satisfied. Mercy, however, goes further: it gives more than is strictly due. The landowner’s generosity to the latecomers does not violate justice; it exceeds it. As St Thomas Aquinas observes, “God acts mercifully, not indeed by going against His justice, but by doing something more than justice; thus a man who pays another two hundred pieces of money, though owing him only one hundred, does nothing against justice, but acts liberally or mercifully… Hence it is clear that mercy does not destroy justice, but in a sense is the fullness thereof” (Summa Theologiae I, q. 21, a. 3). The Apostle James also reminds us that “Mercy exalts itself above judgment” (Jas 2:13).
What most unsettles us is that the parable seems to contradict a hallmark of human justice: impartiality. “Justice is blind,” we say. We cannot play favourites. Our sense of unfairness arises not from any breach of contract between the landowner and the early workers, but from the comparison we ourselves make between the pay and the hours worked. We assume, with the arrogance of our limited perspective, that remuneration must be based on merit, that it should be strictly proportional to effort, and that God must conform to our measures of fairness. We forget that the landowner is free to do what he wills with what is His.
We mortals in our hubris often forget that God is not bound by our human limitations. His justice and His charity coincide. There is no just action that is not also merciful, and no merciful action that is not perfectly just. He is not a detached, blind judge. He is a Father personally invested in each of His children. Love is not blind; love is bound. He gives not merely what we deserve, but what we need. So, the parable should not be interpreted as an indictment of God’s unfairness but rather of us in being envious. We can’t stand it to see others being better off, more successful, experiencing good fortune. The problem is not God’s partiality but rather our jealousy.
As long as we equate fairness with strict equality of outcome, God’s generosity will never make sense. We must move beyond the reflex that interprets another’s gain as our loss. The plain truth is that none of us—early or late, Valjean or Javert—can earn God’s love or salvation by our own efforts. We would be fools to presume that we come anywhere near deserving the generous payment of eternal life offered by the Eternal Landowner. Can we fault Him for lovingly, freely, and mercifully offering the gift of salvation which none of us deserved?
That should be good news rather than an occasion for envy or complaint. The next time we feel God has been unfair or has overlooked us, let us look to the saints who lived the principle that the last shall be first. They were too gratefully occupied in the vineyard to waste energy calculating who received how much for what. They lived for only one purpose: to love and serve God by loving and serving others. Put others ahead of yourself. Rejoice in their good fortune. Give thanks for the abundant generosity and mercy of God, who continues to invite both the Valjeans—and yes, even the Javerts—into His Kingdom, awaiting only our repentance and conversion of heart.
Twenty Fourth Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
Peter’s suggestion of forgiveness being offered seven times would have already been regarded as generous by any standard. In most of our own experiences, twice is the limit. You may recall the proverb, “fool me once, shame on you; fool me twice, shame on me.” Forgiving the same offence twice only exposes my gullibility and foolishness. But then our Lord issues an answer that takes it beyond Peter’s magnanimity: “Not seven, I tell you, but seventy-seven times.”
The number seven, as many of you know, symbolises completeness. For the Jews, the seventh day was the Sabbath day when they ceased from menial work and recalled what the Lord had done for them in creation and in rescuing them from slavery. The seventh year was a special year of favour to the Lord and the seventh multiple of this period, served as the great jubilee where debts were forgiven, slaves were released and property which were taken were returned. But how about seventy times seven? Was it just merely repeating the above theme and giving it a superlative twist by multiplying it even further?
We turn to Chapter 9 in the Book of Daniel for an answer. The context of this book is the period of Babylonian captivity and exile. Daniel was studying the book of Jeremiah’s prophecies when he came upon the prophecy that Israel would be released from captivity after 70 years. The 70th year of exile was coming, and so Daniel began fasting in sackcloth and ashes, and he began confessing the sins of Israel and pleading with the Lord to hear and restore Israel. While he was praying, the angel Gabriel appeared and told him that the Lord had decreed “70 weeks.” Another period of 70 was going to follow the 70 years of exile in Babylon, and, Gabriel told Daniel, at the end of that 70-week period, that period of 70 x 7, the Lord would finally take care of sin. After 70 x 7, the Lord would “finish transgression, make an end of sin, make atonement for iniquity, bring in everlasting righteousness, seal of vision and prophecy, anoint the most holy” (v. 24). You could just imagine Daniel’s disappointment when nothing happened at the end of this period.
By the time of our Lord Jesus, this prophecy was an obsession for many Jews. From weeks, the fulfilment of the prophecy stretched on for years, and then decades and thereafter, centuries. From the time of Daniel to the Messiah, there would be 70 x 7, not weeks but years, to the Messiah was predicted to come after 490 years. The anticipation of the arrival of the Messiah was heightened by what he was expected to do - he would deal with Israel’s transgressions once and for all. At the end of the 70 x 7 period, there would be a great Jubilee, a release from debt, a manumission of slaves, a return to the land. This would be the fulfillment of the hopes of all faithful Israelites.
Forgiveness often seems … often “feels” … impossible to most of us, especially when we equate forgiveness as no longer remembering the hurt or feeling the sting of the offence. We often feel that if we still feel hurt or upset about an offence that perhaps we haven’t forgiven the offender. Or, that it is somehow unforgiving to hold the offender responsible for healing the wound they caused or fixing the damage they have done. We feel that unless we are ready to give them a free pass and choose to never bring up the issue again, we haven’t really forgiven them. But is this what real forgiveness looks like? You may be surprised to know, happily surprised, I may add, that forgiveness isn’t as hard or as impossible as you think. All of these mistaken beliefs and unreasonable expectations placed on us actually make forgiveness feel like a bigger burden than it’s meant to be.
St Augustine taught that forgiveness simply involved the willingness to surrender one’s natural right to revenge. When you stop wanting to hurt someone for having hurt you, when you choose not to strike back when you are struck or don’t want bad things to happen to them because they hurt you, you have forgiven them. That’s really all forgiveness requires. Easy right? Some of you may protest - easier said than done. Granted, sometimes, that’s hard enough. But the truth is that God doesn’t expect the impossible from us unless He chooses to give us the grace to do what is impossible. You may think that requires a miracle. The good news is that you don’t need a miracle to forgive. The Catechism of the Catholic Church teaches, “It is not in our power to not feel or to forget an offence; but the heart that offers itself to the Holy Spirit turns injury into compassion and purifies the memory in transforming hurt into intercession” (No. 2843).
It is possible to forgive someone — that is, to refuse to wish or inflict pain or insult on them for having hurt you — and still feel pain or anger, or a host of other feelings. It is likewise possible to forgive the offender but still need them to make things right in some way. Forgiveness is a function of love. To love someone is to work for their good. Letting people do bad things without requiring them to learn from their mistakes and heal the damage they have done is not working for their good. It is not love. It is aiding and abetting the offence, the sin. It is keeping the person locked in his or her sin.
Alright, now that you understand that forgiveness is possible, how about reconciliation? The truth is that reconciliation can only happen when there is mutual commitment on the parts of both the injured party and the offender to make things right again. Forgiveness is always possible, but reconciliation is never guaranteed. You need both hands to clap. Forgiveness allows the offended person to extend the invitation to reconciliation, but it is up to the offender whether they are willing to accept that invitation or not. Reconciliation is a gift two people give to each other by committing to the process of healing the damage that was done and for reconciliation to occur, the offender needs to be able to do three things: feel it, own it, fix it. So, even if the other person doesn’t feel your hurt, or refuses to admit his or her fault and therefore, see no obligation in fixing the issue, you can still offer forgiveness to that person which is ironically a gift to yourself because you can now move on in freedom.
Ultimately, forgiveness is not just making things right with our neighbour. It is also making things right with God. Pope Benedict XIV reminds us that “We cannot communicate with the Lord if we do not communicate with one another. If we want to present ourselves to him, we must also take a step towards meeting one another. To do this we must learn the great lesson of forgiveness: We must not let the gnawing of resentment work in our soul, but must open our hearts to the magnanimity of listening to others, open our hearts to understanding them, eventually accepting their apologies, to generously offering our own.”
Twenty Third Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A
One of the main complaints about the Church community life is that there are so much politics and drama. If only everyone, especially fellow Christians, could just learn to get along rather than get into each other’s hair. I would often remind people that the word “politics” comes from the Greek “polis” which means “people.” The reality is that “where two or three are gathered, there is bound to be politics and where there is politics, there are bound to be fights!” But our Lord also assures us that not everything is dark and glum about community life: “where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them.”
One may be scandalised to note that conflict takes place within the Church too. Aren’t Christians supposed to be peacemakers? Perhaps, but the truth is that conflict crosses all boundaries of religions, traditions, cultures and time. Even in the early Church, even in her earliest days there was conflict. The New Testament attests to this. The trouble is that most of us have difficulty dealing with conflict. Yes, there are a few among us that like to stir things up and then, either watch from the sidelines as others battle it out or else, jump right into the drama. However, most of us find conflict uncomfortable. I’m one of them. A parishioner once told me that I have a personality of a “pigeon.” I think she meant “dove.” That is why many think they can avoid conflict by choosing not to correct others.
Our desire to avoid conflict, our refusal to correct, may have less to do with charity than it has to do with a self-serving motive. In all honesty, it’s always difficult to correct because we don’t want to appear as the bad guy. We don’t want to sour existing bonds or ruin friendships. But silence and inaction are never the solution, and they both definitely do not flow from the well-spring of love. St Paul, in the second reading, writes, “Love is the one thing that cannot hurt your neighbour; that is why it is the answer to every one of the commandments.” Almost everyone would agree that love is the answer but to interpret love as inaction and silence is ludicrous. Love, in fact, places a duty on us to confront the evil. Ultimately, if we truly love them, we must always work for their salvation, which includes correcting them.
In today’s first reading, the prophet Ezekiel’s perception of his vocation as a prophet is more aptly described as that of a concerned brother watching out for his brothers and sisters in the faith. A prophet was considered to be the conscience of the nation, and we know from experience that the conscience often pricks and convicts. Ezekiel, therefore, compared his role to that of a sentinel or watchman who searches the moral horizon for impending disaster and then sounds the warning so that others take heed. He did not relish being thought of as a busy body who waits to pounce on every fault of his wayward brethren. His vocation flowed from his love of God and his love for his people. He was willing to be the voice of reason and Truth and even be at the receiving end of hostility and misunderstanding, if only he could convince his brethren to cease following the route to self-destruction.
In this Sunday’s Gospel, our Lord provides us with a concrete illustration of how love is translated into fraternal correction. He indicates the three escalating levels of fraternal correction. First, we are to correct the sinner privately. Then, if he refuses to listen, we bring one or two others. Finally, if necessary, the sinner must be brought to the Church. If he refuses even the correction of the Church, and if the matter is serious, he is to be excommunicated. This is what we have witnessed with the recent saga concerning the illicit ordination of bishops by the Society of St Pius X which led to the excommunication of all those involved in it. The last stage seems harsh and even at odds with the first two, but a careful reading would reveal that all three stages serve one single purpose. In the verses immediately preceding today’s text, our Lord speaks of searching for the one lost sheep. In a sense, brotherly and sisterly correction should follow the same idea. Therefore, correction’s goal is not retaliation but reconciliation, that is to lead back into the sheepfold the one who has gone astray and who has gotten lost along the way. St Thomas Aquinas teaches us, “fraternal correction is a work of mercy” and he cheekily adds, “Therefore even prelates ought to be corrected.”
Love isn’t something that makes us feel good. There are times when we are asked to love at a great cost. Pope Benedict XVI had always emphasised the intimate connection between charity and the Truth. Charity is always at service to the Truth, it can never be a cover up for a lie. In one of his homilies, the erudite Pope refers to an important part of the regalia of the bishop, his pastoral staff, and uses this to speak of the Church’s authority to correct – the crosier now seen as a disciplinary rod. “The Church too must use the shepherd’s rod, the rod with which he protects the faith against those who falsify it, against currents which lead the flock astray.” One can imagine the Pope reminding us of that age old adage, “Spare the rod and spoil the child.”
When the Church seeks to correct us, it is only because she wishes to inspire us to greater fidelity, not less. And when the Church extends the rod of authority, it is not to beat us into submission, but to gather us into the safety of the sheepfold. If the Church seeks to impose its sanction on us, it is only because she wishes to provide the moral parameters for our actions so that we may be guided back to the path of salvation. And that is why we should always be grateful that the Church continues to speak with the prophetic voice of Christ. For her motivation is never spite or meanness, but Love.
Walking the path of love is never easy. The other path which is filled with bickering and jealousy, violence and revenge, hate and fear is often crowded, broad and smoothly paved. Few would always choose to walk the more difficult path of love. Although few may choose to walk this path, let us be assured once again, “for where two or three meet in my name, I shall be there with them.” Yes, we never walk the path of love by ourselves. We are never alone. The One who loves us beyond all telling, the One who ate with sinners, pagans and tax collectors, the One who offers His enemies forgiveness on the cross, walks along with us. And as He walks along with us and ahead of us, He continues to guide and correct us through the voice of the Church, His Body. We should expect no less from Him.
