Holy Cross Monastery, West Park, NY
Br. Aidan Owen, OHC
Lent 4 C - March 27, 2022
In the name of the One God, who is Lover, Beloved, and Love Overflowing. Amen.
One of the great gifts of monastic life is being able to see God’s mercy at work in your brothers. It’s very easy to see other people’s faults. They have a way of glaring at us. But to see their virtues—and more, to see those virtues grow slowly and eventually flower—that takes time, patience, and an attentiveness borne of selfless love and gratitude. Michael Casey, one of the great contemporary commentators on Benedictine spirituality, writes that one of the chief goals of monastic life is to teach us monks mercy. But in order for the monastery to be a school of mercy, there have to be folks around us who need mercy shown to them. Sometimes—actually, quite often, I’m afraid—I'm the one who needs to be shown mercy. That flow of mercy back and forth is one of the forces that binds the monastic community together in the bonds of love.
This morning’s gospel reading invites us to explore God’s mercy—and our own—from at least three different angles. First we have the younger son, the eponymous prodigal. Conversion is relatively simple for this brother. For all his maddening irresponsibility, he is so loveable. That doesn’t mean it’s easy. I’m sure, like all conversion, it hurts like hell. But his life is so out of control that it presents him with countless opportunities to wake up. When he comes to himself and makes the journey home to his father, we get a scene that can soften the stoniest heart. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Before the son can get out the speech he has prepared, the father puts a robe around him and orders a feast. For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!
Then we have the older son, who gets less time on the page. Of course he does—his father never gives him anything! He is the dutiful one. The A-student, who goes to law school or medical school or founds a non-profit. He's the one who never makes a mistake, who follows the rules, who takes care of his parents as they age, who does everything right. He’s the good one. He’s also full of anger, resentment, and self-righteousness.
It’s so easy to dismiss him, as we usually dismiss the Pharisees, whom he represents. What’s wrong with him? Doesn’t he get it? Doesn’t he realize that God’s love flows abundantly? That grace isn’t a zero-sum game? Doesn’t he see that everyone wins in God’s economy? Well, no, he doesn’t see that. And really, do we? Do we live as if God’s mercy were earth’s most plentiful resource? Or do we try to hoard it up, and parcel it out to those we think deserve it, when we think they deserve it, and only as much as we think they deserve it?
Or maybe I’m drawn to this son because I relate to him. I know this person. I have been this person, and sometimes I still am. Perhaps you are, too. For all his goodness, he is trapped in the prison of himself. Never having left home, he does not know the first thing about conversion, compunction, or return. Because he has remained at home, he denies himself the possibility of forgiveness and embrace, which comes through our failures, not our righteousness. Here we find him standing outside the party, refusing to go in and celebrate, because he would rather be alone and right than to be like everyone else and to dance. Deep joy requires surrender, and surrender is near impossible for those of us who think we’re good.
Don Bisson says that so-called good people avoid the need for conversion, because we think it means more work. Like Martha, we’re already working so hard that we can’t imagine doing more for God, our communities, our families, or our workplaces. It’s extremely difficult for us so-called good people to become aware of our deep need of God’s mercy. Unlike the younger son, the older could live quite comfortably the rest of his life without seeking his father’s love and forgiveness. After all, he has the entire property now, and with it the cold illusion of self-sufficiency. Until he can see that he, too, is starving in the wilderness, he will never find the road back home. He will remain forever trapped outside the party, because he can’t surrender enough to laugh or to cry, much less to dance.
I think that’s why we don’t get the end of this brother’s story. We don’t know whether he goes into the party or not. I’ll confess that even though I wish he would relent and embrace his brother, I find it hard to believe he allows himself that freedom. In my difficulty seeing the possibility of conversion for this older brother, I see reflected my own doubts of God’s grace and mercy and my own need of further and deeper conversion. O Lord, I believe; help thou my unbelief.
I notice, too, the compassion I feel for this older brother and my deepest wish that he would allow his father to love him and, in so doing, allow his own heart to turn from stone to flesh. Here we stumble on the deeper invitation of this text, which is not only to see and perhaps identify with two different roads to conversion and surrender, but also to notice and accept the invitation to love as God loves, to show mercy as we are continually shown mercy.
A few days ago, Br. Robert left for me the Lenten Prayer of St. Ephrem, which goes like this: O Lord and Master of my life, take from me the spirit of indifference, discouragement, and despair, the lust for power and empty speech. Rather, grant to me, your servant, the spirit of purity of heart, humility, patience, and love. O my God and King, grant me grace to see my own sins and not judge what others say or do. For You are blessed unto the ages of ages. Amen.
I particularly resonate with that last line: grant me grace to see my own sins and not to judge what others say or do. It anticipates Julian of Norwich, who encourages us not even to notice the sins of others, unless we do so with deep compassion and love for the suffering which their sins cause them. This is the movement of the prodigal father, who sees the hurt of his sons, who grieves for their hurt, who loves them deeply, and who is filled with joy beyond measure at their return.
This is how we are called to love one another: deeply, without reservation or judgment, and with joy at the rebirth of our brothers and sisters in Christ. Mercy is something we have to learn, but we can learn it. As we ourselves follow the journey of either or both of these sons, as we surrender and return and repent—and more importantly, as we allow God’s love and mercy to flow into us and to soften our hearts, to celebrate that we were dead and are now alive again—we can learn to allow God’s love and mercy to flow through us to our brothers and sisters who are hurting, trapped in their own prisons of sin or despair, and also to the world crumbling around us.
Mercy is not a private gift, given for us to hoard or to cherish for ourselves alone, much less to hand out only to those we think worthy of it. It is food to strengthen us so that, in imitation of Christ, we can lay down our lives for one another, without reservation. Having returned home ourselves, we are called to run out into the fields to welcome others back. Even more, we are to be like the watchman watching for the tiniest hint of the morning’s light, raising the call of celebration that one of God’s children—our very own brother or sister—was dead and is alive again, was lost and is found.
None of us will be saved in isolation. And to the extent that any of us is in bondage, none of us is truly free. The good news is that God waits for all of us to return, no matter how slowly or imperfectly. We will have to make the journey home again and again and again, because we are a forgetful lot. But, each time we do, God is already there waiting for us before we’ve taken the second step, running out to meet us with a robe—the best one!—and a ring and a party to welcome us home.
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