Homily for the 24th Sunday in Ordinary Time (A)
The giant saguaro, found in southern Arizona and northern Mexico, is the largest cactus in the world, growing up to forty feet tall. Saguaros are covered in spines almost three inches long, spines almost as strong as steel needles, so sharp, in fact, that they have been known to puncture the skull of bighorn sheep that run into the cactus. From this, two conclusions are clear. First, sheep probably do deserve their dim reputation for intelligence, and, second, you really don’t want to hug a saguaro.
Now you may be thinking, “Thank you, Father Obvious, for that really helpful advice.” Probably we don’t need to be told what a bad idea it is to hug a cactus. And yet, in the Book of Sirach we read about people doing something that is potentially just as painful and damaging. “Wrath and anger are hateful things,” Sirach says, “yet the sinner hugs them tight.” And we have probably had the experience of tightly hugging our anger, of nurturing a grudge with more fertilizer than we give to our gardens. The leaves and flowers fall off a grudge very quickly and leave us with nothing else but spikes.
In last Sunday’s Gospel reading Jesus gave us some practical advice for dealing with conflict between Christians, and this Sunday we have readings on the related theme of forgiveness. I think we can identify two levels of meaning when Jesus teaches about forgiveness. The first is practical—how do I do it? Part of the reason forgiveness is such a frequent theme in the Gospel, I suspect, is that it is often so hard to do. Even if we get to the point of forsaking revenge, of no longer trying to hurt someone who has hurt us, even if we say the words “I forgive you,” the gnawing wound sometimes still remains. We can remove the spike, but the sting is inside. How do we let go?
That practical question is what I want to focus on today but there is another, deeper level we should think about too, the question: what does forgiveness teach us about God?
But first the practical. Often, we want to forgive. We know that as Christians, we are supposed to be generous with our forgiveness—not seven times but seventy-seven times. And when we’ve held onto grudges, we’ve learned from experience the sad truth that holding a grudge always hurts us more than the person who wronged us. Very often the other person may have forgotten about what he did while we’re still playing it over and over in our minds, like a recording of nails on a chalkboard that we just can’t stop listening to. Even though we know it only hurts us, we hug the cactus tighter. Here’s a secret. Actually, it’s not really a secret, but just something we human beings have trouble learning: when we refuse to forgive, God doesn’t actually have to add on any extra punishment. The psychological condition of grasping our anger is in itself a punishment. In the Our Father we make a dangerous request: Forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who trespass against us. It’s dangerous because, if we don’t forgive, we’re asking to be treated just like the servant in today’s Gospel. But as much as this prayer is a request, it’s also simply a description of reality. We can’t really be free, we can’t experience true peace, while grasping past wrongs.
But even when we know this, forgiveness is a hard thing to do. Once we hit play on that recording, it just plays over and over again, even when we try to hit stop. The desire to forgive but the difficulty of actually doing so comes up fairly often in confession and spiritual direction, and I have to admit I’ve discovered a few cacti growing in that very complicated terrain which is my own heart. So I want to offer some practical suggestions. This summer on my retreat I read a book about forgiveness by a Jesuit who is both a priest and a psychologist.* And one of his observations was that, from a psychological point of view, forgiveness, genuinely letting go, is a process. It takes time, and it’s not easy. But he noted that psychologists have found two personality traits that make it easier for someone to forgive. I mentioned these last week as a vaccine that helps to protect our hearts from bitterness. These two characteristics are gratitude and empathy. People who are grateful and empathetic find it easier to forgive.
So one thing we can do to ensure we don’t end up like the wicked servant in the Gospel is try to cultivate gratitude and empathy in our daily lives. We should take time to remember God’s blessings and thank him. We’re quick to ask him for help when things go wrong, and that’s OK, but we tend to be a little forgetful of God when things are going well. So we need to remind ourselves to say thank you. We should do this with other people too. We quickly notice when others do things wrong. But do we notice when they’ve done something right? Or do we take them for granted? Training ourselves to be grateful is, I’ve found, a pretty good vaccine against sin, which thrives in the soil of self-pity.
In addition to gratitude, empathy also makes forgiving others easier. This can take some work—listening helps—and sometimes even some imagination. The book I mentioned suggests a thought exercise that may be helpful if we can’t talk to the person directly. The book suggests imagining the other person in a chair sitting across from you and telling him everything you want to say. But then, after you have let it all out, to think of everything you know about that other person, and imagine how he would respond. You can’t interrupt. You have to let the other person say everything he has to say. And if you’re really honest when you do this, it can take the edge off the bitterness.
The Lord also tells us to pray for those who wrong us. Now often when we pray for difficult people, we pray that they will change. We pray that they will become more like us, easier to deal with, that they will see things our way. Praying this way isn’t wrong. But it doesn’t help us develop empathy. A priest once gave me some useful advice about praying for difficult people. “Don’t pray that they change, Tony,” he said, “pray simply for their unrestricted good.” Pray for their unrestricted good. Praying this way helps us to see the world with eyes much closer to the eyes of Christ. It can be humbling. And you don’t have to restrict yourself to difficult people. Sometimes when I pray for others, I try to imagine what it is they are praying for. What is it they need, they want, they hope for? What are they asking the Lord? And then I try to pray for the same thing.
Of course, I do still find myself praying, “Lord, please bless this difficult person with the beautiful gift of seeing things my way.” And forgiveness is still tough. It is a process and an imperfect process. The practical things I’ve suggested today are helps, but, like flu shots, they aren’t 100% effective. To forgive as God asks us to forgive requires grace. And this brings us to the second, deeper level of Jesus’ teaching about forgiveness: what it tells us about God. Imagine how strong you have to be to forgive not seven, but seventy-seven times. For most of us, like the disciples, seven seems a lot. We were sort of hoping Jesus would come back with, “How about just four? One big thing, two or three little things.” But that’s not how God forgives. So imagine God’s goodness when forgiving seventy-seven times is just his nature. Imagine the goodness of Jesus, who isn’t tempted to negotiate. That goodness is something God invites us to share. The strength to forgive, which is a function of his infinite power, is a gift he wants us to possess as well. Imagine the divine peace we will feel when we let go of all wrongs, when the wound is truly healed. Just as hugging the cactus is its own punishment, the freedom of forgiving is its own reward. When we forgive others their trespasses, God’s kingdom truly comes.
Readings: Sir 27:30-28:7; Rm 14:7-9; Mt 18:21-35
St. Isaac Jogues Catholic Church
Rapid City, South Dakota
2020
*Giovanni Cucci, P come perdono (Assisi: Citadella 2011).
Tony Lusvardi, S.J. 