The fourth week of Lent--it's not too late to go to confession

 

“In those days, there was no king in Israel,

and everyone did what was right in his own eyes.”

--Judges 17:6

 

There are two excuses I hear Catholics use when it comes time to go to confession. First is the excuse that they cannot think of what to confess, as far as they can tell they haven’t committed any real sins; i.e. Nothing to see here, so what’s the point? This excuse implies either a willful blindness or a saint-like innocence.  Second is the somewhat more reasonable excuse: What’s the point? I’m just going to sin again.  I will go confess, get absolved, have a good day or two, then fall right back into my old habits. Again, what’s the point?

 

If you are like me and you find yourself falling into both of these camps, spend a little time this Lent reading the Book of Judges.  It is a book of sin and failing, a book of broken promises and wasted opportunities.  It is a book of God’s mercy and man’s repeated efforts to turn (even flee) from it. It is a disheartening book in many ways, but reading it in the midst of Lent it seems a bitter reminder that no matter how hard we try, we cannot escape the power of sin, the weakness of the flesh; that regardless of our efforts, and despite our best intentions, we will stumble and fall again, and again.

 

This is a truth sadly confirmed in my own life; blessed by the grace of God with friends, family, work that I love, a roof over my head, food on the table, a bed to sleep in, I still find myself envying others, still find my eye wandering, appraising, objectifying others—not only lusting in my heart, but envying their gifts, coveting their achievements, bearing false witness against them (at least in my imagination), desiring not only their homes and their lives but even their asses!! In general,  making of my own desires a false god and making of my own stomach an altar for his offerings... And sadly, this is on a good day!

 

Before lunch...

 

But the Book of Judges bears witness to the truth that this is part of the human condition. In Judges we get the story of how God’s chosen people kept straying from God’s will and losing the Promised Land. No matter how many times God rescued them, forgave them, brought them back... they kept turning away from the grace of God’s love and toward the desires of their hearts. We are a people born into a sinful world, and shaped by that world, even the best of us may find ourselves falling into the habit (the excuse) of “doing what is right in his own eyes.”

 

And that is the barrier behind that first excuse: nothing to confess. Many of us may feel we truly have nothing to confess, nothing to ask forgiveness for, because we were always only doing what seemed right at the time, at least in our eyes.  How often every day do we justify and rationalize our choices, for some of us we turn our every desire into a “need,” and our every need into a right. Until we find that we are owed everything we want. As a teenager, I stole a pair of sneakers from a store I worked at. I justified it by telling myself I wasn’t being paid enough. I wasn’t receiving a fair wage! They owed it to me. I convinced myself that stealing those shoes wasn’t a sin, it was my right.  I walked in those shoes for weeks thinking I had nothing to confess.  Because, in my eyes, I had only done what was right.  But clearly—I was wrong, and luckily when I bragged about it to a friend, he set me straight.

 

The other excuse, that going to confession could be pointless because regardless of my intentions ----I’m just going to sin again; that is the truth lurking beneath every chapter of Judges. No matter what God does for them, no matter how often God rescues them, the Israelites stumble into sin again and again.  They set up altars to false gods, they make alliances with pagan kings, they glorify themselves instead of God, celebrating their own power and cleverness and courage until something happens and they realize how helpless they are and once again cry out to God for mercy and help—for a savior.

 

They repent, they get saved, then—after a while—they fall back into their old ways, old habits, their sin.  For me, it is a quite familiar pattern, one I know all too well. And yes, there is some value in facing up to the truth of our story, patterns of behavior that seem to guide us through life—as if a kind of auto-pilot.  Yes, we should be honest about our habits and our weaknesses.  But we mustn’t let ourselves be discouraged. Though we stumble—again and again—we must never fall into despair. 

 

For me, going to confession, isn’t a quick-fix solution to a lifetime of bad habits and half-hearted struggles with sin; it is more like the forming of a new habit.  A habit that will—I hope—one day replace the old ones. A habit of contemplating my choices, my patterns of behavior not with judgment and finger waving, but with honesty and compassion.  Am I addicted to certain pleasures? Have I been self-centered or prideful? Mean-spirited or cold-hearted? How can I change those patterns? Well, the first thing I need to do, the first step in any twelve-step program, is admitting that I need help. And for me, that is what confession is—a chance to come before God and admit that I need help.  That the same sins of lust and avarice and envy and pride that I struggled with in college are still with me.  That fear of want still drives me to dreams of gluttony and greed... And those fears too often drive my every decision.  Bless me Father, for I have sinned... Hello, my name is Herman and I am a sinner...

 

One last word here: the other day, sitting in mass, I looked up for the first time and noticed that the pew we were in was right next to the sixth Station of the Cross: Jesus falls a second time.  Looking at that image, I realized something I had never noticed before: that He fell a second time.  Think of that:  Jesus on His way to the cross, stumbled and fell a second time.  That means He had already fallen once before.  And that He fell again.  And, He got back up again.  He took up His cross and continued on the way to Calvary.  And, I realized something else, that He would fall again. Tradition has it that Jesus fell three times on the way to His death.  Sitting there at the edge of the pew, looking up at that image, I had a kind of epiphany.  Jesus fell a second time. He had already fallen once before and He knew He would fall again.  But He still got back up, took up His cross and, even knowing how it would end, He kept going.

 

The next time you are thinking –what’s the point of going to confession? I’m just going to make the same mistakes, I’m just going to fall again.  Think about that image of Christ, falling under the weight of our sin, a second time... Meditate on that image, and ask yourself if it isn’t time to get back up and try again. 

 

Because we do have a King, a King who took the form of a slave and died on a cross--for us.  Confession is a way of asking myself: What do my choices look like through His eyes?

On becoming a star--It's in your job description--Just ask John the Baptist

 

Advent 2023

 

“A man named John was sent from God.
He came for testimony, to testify to the light,
so that all might believe through him. 
He was not the light, but came to testify to the light.”
–John 1: 6-8

 

 

Sitting on my front porch, reading the Gospel of John, I was struck by this familiar verse. I heard something new this morning hat I had not heard before: a job description!  This is John the Baptist’s job description.  His job was to testify to the light.  To tell the world what he knew to be true, so that all might believe. Very simple, very straightforward; no complex language about quotas or expectations, no official title, no qualifications, no list of duties—and no terms of severance.  Just the simple and straightforward, open-ended call to testify to the light, with the goal that “all” might believe.

 

Basically John’s job was to be a Burma-Shave sign (a Buc-ees sign for you youngsters out there). He was called to be a road sign pointing the way to The Light. That’s it.  And it occurred to me that his job description doesn’t just apply to John the Baptist.  Doesn’t it actually apply to all of us? Isn’t that the job description of every Christian? We are all called to be a testimony to the Light—to the love of God, to the saving grace of Christ. How we do it isn’t described, isn’t spelled out. Some people may do it through words, others through fasting and prayers, and still others through lives of sacrifice and service.  But the plain truth is we are all called to testify to the light—to live as a sign for others, that they might believe.

 

For most of us, our testimony may go unseen by the vast majority of the world around us.  Our testimony is one of patience and kindness to a stranger: standing in line at the pharmacy, we smile and speak a gentle word to the young mother struggling with her fussing child, or we speak a word of encouragement and cheer to the UPS delivery guy putting packages at our door. Maybe your testimony is to get up at 3 in the morning and walk with a crying baby so that your spouse can sleep. Maybe your testimony is not just to give a $20 bill to the homeless person asking for money, but to also ask his or her name, and to give them your name. Maybe even shake hands and let them know that you will pray for them.  Let them know they are seen, they matter.  

 

For so many of us, our testimony will never make it into a book or even be remembered much beyond the moment, but it will be a testimony, and it will plant a seed, and it may be that when we are all gathered together into that Light, into the Kingdom we call Heaven—you will be greeted by someone you don’t remember, but they will remember you, and that one little act of kindness that lit a spark in their soul... that testimony of love.

 

There is one more thing this little passage reminds me of, especially at Christmas time. And that is a certain star. We see it on so many Christmas cards, but do we ever ponder what it means? It is shining there, above a stable, above a manger, showing us the way.  For the wise-men, that star was a kind of testimony, a road sign, guiding them on their journey.  But even with all its splendor and glory, it wasn’t the actual goal, it was just a sign—a flashing neon testimony to something far greater: a homeless, cold, and exhausted child sleeping in a manger. As we unwrap presents and prepare our holiday tables, let us remember that; the true gift of Christmas is God come to us in the form of a helpless child. Remembering that, pondering it, living it... it will give your life a radiance that will shine for others. It may not get you mentioned at the next Academy Awards or Music Awards, but it can definitely make you a star.  Just ask John the Baptist.

Thoughts on the Gospel for the 25th Sunday of Ordinary Time: The fairness of Love

 

And on receiving it they grumbled against the landowner, saying,

'These last ones worked only one hour,

and you have made them equal to us,

who bore the day's burden and the heat.'

 

--Matthew 20: 1-16

 

 

There is something quite comforting in the argument for fairness.  It asserts an equilibrium in the world that often doesn’t appear to be there, but that we think should.  The argument for fairness in any situation implies that there is a minimum to what we deserve: at least what is fair.  And what we see in this week’s parable from Matthew 20, is a story of fairness turned on its head.  It is exactly the ones who are demanding it, who have already received fairness.  They received a fair day’s wages, mutually agreed upon before they went to work. And yet, when they see that others have received the same amount for less work, they feel cheated.  They –in a sense—regret their agreement, regret the terms of their contract—so to speak-- and allow themselves to hope for more; then, in their disappointment, they complain about “fairness.”

 

Why? Because none of us truly wants what is fair.  We want something more, we want abundance, we want something like grace.  Perhaps even charity.  But we hide behind a word like “fair,” because it seems safe.  It announces that we are only asking for what we think we deserve, what we feel we have earned—what is fair.

 

But the thing is, life isn’t fair.  And—my thought is: we should be grateful.  I remember a night back in 1981-82, when I was driving home from work late at night.  I think it was when I worked backstage at the Best Little Whorehouse in Texas.  (I like writing that.  Actually, I was working backstage at the Tower Theater, but that was the show they were putting on when I worked there.) Anyway, I was driving home about midnight on a Friday night after a long day at UST, and then a long night guarding the stage door at the Best Little Whorehouse… And as I drove down Memorial Drive in my old white Honda Civic (a stick shift, no AC, and only an AM radio), I remember stopping at the light at Memorial and Westcott.  I pulled up right next to a police car with 2 policemen already waiting at the light.  I looked over and nodded to them. One of them nodded back. I sat there for a bit, and then something happened, maybe I was changing the radio. KILT used to broadcast a concert from Gilley’s on the radio and maybe I had been listening to it and when it went off I probably started to change the channel, looking for something else. Anyway, clearly I got distracted and for some reason put the car in gear, let off the clutch and slowly and brainlessly drove right through the still red light --with a police car sitting right next to me. Very quickly I realized what I had done and slowed down as I expected the police car to flip on its lights and pull up beside me. But, instead after about 20-30 yards, the cruiser pulled beside me and one of the officers rolled down his window and gave me a tsk tsk gesture and a silly grin. Then, shaking their heads and laughing they drove on. Fair?  I should have been pulled over and given a ticket.  But, out of kindness, out of compassion, out of grace, the officers simply let me off with a very gentle warning.

 

None of us really wants what is fair. We want grace, we want compassion, we want love. We want to know that we were noticed and that we mattered.  We want to be appreciated so much that someone would give their life for us, if it came to that. We want the love of God to overwhelm us, because—and I think this might secretly be true of a great many of us—we don’t feel like we deserve it.

 

And so, in our insecurity, too many of us resent it when another person receives abundance and seemingly undeserved blessings. We resent the new employee who receives kudos and honors their first month on the job when we have done our job for years and never felt praised or even particularly noticed.

 

And yet, there is another element to this parable that might too easily be overlooked.  Like many parable, it begins with these words: The kingdom of Heaven is like…

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like this… It’s not a place of fairness.  It is a place of blessing.  It is a place wherein the first will be last and the last will be first. What we must learn to realize is this: if that is what the Kingdom of Heaven is like—then that is a good thing, and we must learn to see the world, through that lens, we must learn to see our own life through that lens.  We must learn from the parable to refocus our attention on the truth.  Grace isn’t about fairness, grace isn’t about getting what we deserve, our fair share; grace is about love and if we just look at the Cross, we will get a beautiful reminder of how much fairness matters to God. 

 

The Kingdom of Heaven is like… a place where everyone is welcome, no matter when or how they come, and all will receive the same thing, in the same amount: the Love of God, overflowing, more than we could have ever imagined, or even hoped for.  Because God isn’t fair, God is love.