The Prodigal Son: He Made a Good Confession

 

(Twenty-fourth Sunday of the Year (C): This homily was given on September 11, 2022, at St. Pius X Church, Westerly, R.I., by Fr. Raymond Suriani.  Read Luke 15:1-32.)

[For the audio version of this homily, click here: Twenty-fourth Sunday 2022]

 

He made a good confession.

I’m talking here about the prodigal son.

The boy made a good confession—a very good confession.

Now I know that he never entered a reconciliation room like the ones we have here at St. Pius; nor did he use the traditional opening statement, “Bless me, Father, for I have sinned”; nor did he receive a formal penance from a validly ordained priest or say an act of contrition.

But he made a good confession nonetheless—because all the elements that the Church says are necessary for a good, valid confession were present in his story, either explicitly or implicitly.

Let me begin by asking you the question: What 4 elements are necessary for a good confession?  Do you know?  In other words, what 4 things are required for a person to be absolved of his sins in the sacrament of reconciliation?

Every Catholic should know these, for lots of reasons—not the least of which is that his eternal salvation might hang in the balance!  Think about it.  If a person has committed a mortal sin and he needs God’s forgiveness, he won’t know if he’s actually received that forgiveness, unless he knows what God requires of him, and what God requires of the priest! 

If he’s ignorant of those things, then all he can do is hope that he’s been forgiven.

Well, if you paid attention when you were in Catholic school or in Catechism class, you know the answer.  The four elements of a good confession are: contrition, confession, absolution and satisfaction.  Contrition, confession and satisfaction are acts of the penitent; absolution is, of course, the action of the priest.

Applying this, now, to the story of the prodigal son . . .

First of all, let me say that we know beyond a shadow of a doubt that this boy was in the state of mortal sin.  Many of our Protestant brothers and sisters say, “There is no such thing as mortal sin.  It’s not in the Bible.”

Oh yes it is!  St. John, in chapter 5 of his first letter speaks of it as “deadly sin” or “the sin unto death”—which he explicitly distinguishes from lesser sins (what we would call “venial sins”).

And mortal sin is present by implication in this story of the prodigal son—because what does the father say to his older son at the very end—after this boy gets all upset that his dad has thrown a big party for his wayward brother?

The father says, “We must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again.”

The older brother could have said at that point, “Now wait a minute, dad, bad-boy baby brother isn’t dead.  He’s very much alive and having a grand old time with his friends—which is precisely why I’m so upset!”

But the older brother understood: His father was speaking in spiritual terms, not in physical terms.  And from that perspective, the younger son had been dead!  He had cut himself off totally from his father and family through his materialism and fornication (and probably a lot of other things!).

So how did the reconciliation happen?

Well, first there was contrition.  The younger son experienced true sorrow for his sins.  But it’s very clear from the details of the story that his contrition was not what we would call perfect.  It was what we would call imperfect. 

Perfect contrition is being sorry for your sins because you love God deeply and are sorry that you’ve offended the Lord whom you love so much.  Imperfect contrition is being sorry because you’re afraid of going to hell!—you’re afraid of being punished for what you’ve done.

Now obviously it’s much better to have perfect contrition—but the really good news is that you only need to have imperfect contrition to receive God’s forgiveness in the sacrament of reconciliation.

Notice why the prodigal son finally made the decision to return to his dad.  It was not primarily because of love; it was first and foremost because of fear!  He was afraid that he was going to die! 

And he was right!  If he had kept hanging around with Porky Pig and Company, he probably would have died.  So he said to himself, in effect, “You know, I had it pretty good back home.  Even my father’s servants ate better than this!  Maybe if I go back my dad will take me in and make me one of his servants.  It’s worth a shot.  At least I’ll get a roof over my head and three square meals a day!”

Which brings us to confession—the second step in the reconciliation process.  When the prodigal son finally met his dad face to face, the first thing he did was to confess his guilt—clearly and honestly.  To his credit, he didn’t try to minimize what he had done.  He didn’t make any lame excuses for his behavior.  He called his sin “sin”—“Father I have sinned against heaven and against you.” 

One of the things I can relate to in this part of the story (perhaps you can, too) is “the rehearsal”.  He rehearses his confession before he makes it.

Have you ever done that?  I have—lots of times!

The father, of course, forgives immediately and welcomes his son back into the family.  And in the process, he doesn’t throw the boy’s sin back in his face.  That’s significant.  He reads his son’s heart; he hears the words of sorrow and repentance—and that’s enough.

Which is precisely the way it is with us after we go to confession.  God forgives and he also “forgets”—which means that the sin he’s forgiven never comes between us and him again.  He knows we did it (of course—God knows everything!), but he treats us as if we had never done it.

The absolution in the sacrament of reconciliation comes when the priest says, “I absolve you from your sins, in the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.” 

The absolution in this story is not as explicit.  But it’s there!  It’s implicit in the words and in the actions of the father.  It’s implicit in his joy, in his embrace, in his kiss—as well as in his gift of a new set of clothes, which are definitely the clothes of a son—a royal son!  They’re not the clothes of a servant.

This brings us, finally, to satisfaction (which, by the way, has nothing to do with the old rock song by the Rolling Stones!).   If we’re truly sorry for our sins, we will try to make amends for them—to make “satisfaction” for them.  In other words, we will try to undo whatever negative consequences our sins have caused in the lives of others.  This is, not surprisingly, the purpose of the “penance” the priest gives during a confession.

Now we can do this—we can make satisfaction for our sins—through words, through actions—and even through prayers.  If you’ve ever been to me for confession you know that when I give a penance of prayers I will almost always tell you to pray those prayers specifically for one or more of the people you’ve hurt by your sins. 

Praying for those we sin against is one way of undoing some of the consequences of our negative actions toward them.

This idea of satisfaction, like absolution, is not explicit in the story of the prodigal son.  But it can be reasonably presumed.  If this boy was truly sorry for how he had hurt his dad, then you can be certain that after he returned home he tried to be the best son he could possibly be from that moment onward.  And you can also be sure that he tried to reach out to his brother and smooth things over with him—because that relationship was also in need of some big-time repair.

If the prodigal son was not willing to do those things, I would question whether he was really sorry for his sins in the first place!  I would question his contrition.

Personally, I think he was so grateful to his dad—and so thankful to be home—that he happily spent the rest of his life making amends for the things he had done in his past.

So there you have it: the story of the prodigal son’s good confession.

It’s my prayer today that this story will provide some added incentive for us to make good confessions ourselves in the future, because the real reason that Jesus told this parable in the first place was to move us all to repentance—sincere, heartfelt, genuine repentance.

 

If Philemon had Written Back to St. Paul, What Would he Have Said?

 

(Twenty-third Sunday of the Year (C):  This homily was given on September 4, 2022 at St. Pius X Church, Westerly, R.I. by Fr. Raymond Suriani.  Read the Letter of St. Paul to Philemon.)

[For the audio version of this homily, click here: Twenty-third Sunday 2022]

Today’s second reading comes from one of the shortest books of the Bible: the Letter of St. Paul to Philemon.  (The entire work consists of only 25 verses.)  It concerns a runaway slave named Onesimus, who was owned by a wealthy Christian from the city of Colossae named Philemon.  Now one side note here before I go on: Human slavery was an accepted reality in the first century world.  It’s repulsive to us (as it should be); but back then (unfortunately) it was an accepted part of the culture.  

Now some people will ask: Why didn’t St. Paul and the other New Testament writers speak out more forcefully against slavery?  Well, lest we forget, at the time Christians were in no position politically or socially to change any of the laws of Rome.  In fact, after the Resurrection of Jesus, it was not long before Christians became outlaws in the empire and part of the luncheon menu for some hungry lions.  Furthermore, many of the first Christians (including St. Paul) believed that the second coming of Christ would probably take place within their generation.  Consequently, changing laws and social structures was not a big concern.  Their advice was for people to make the best of things as they were, since the world would probably end very soon.  But it’s interesting: in spite of the fact that slavery was socially accepted, good Christians like Paul did perceive the injustice of it.  That's easily discerned from what he says in this letter.  In fact, Paul’s whole purpose in writing to Philemon was to get him to treat his runaway slave with mercy and accept him back as a brother in Christ.  Some scholars even say that Paul was asking Philemon to set Onesimus free—a very radical request for the time.  Listen once again to what Paul says here.  After he tells Philemon that he had met Onesimus in prison and converted him to the faith, the apostle writes:

I should have liked to retain him for myself,
so that he might serve me on your behalf
in my imprisonment for the gospel,
but I did not want to do anything without your consent,
so that the good you do might not be forced but voluntary.
Perhaps this is why he was away from you for a while,
that you might have him back forever,
no longer as a slave
but more than a slave, a brother,
beloved especially to me, but even more so to you,
as a man and in the Lord.
So if you regard me as a partner, welcome him as you would me.

 

Now, if you’re incredibly curious like I am, you come to the end of this letter and you say: “What happened?  Did Philemon treat his runaway slave (who probably was also a thief) with mercy?  Did he accept Onesimus as a brother in Christ and eventually set him free?”  Well guess what.  We don't know the answers to any of those questions!  But we can certainly speculate on the matter.  The thought occurred to me in preparation for this homily: perhaps Philemon wrote back to St. Paul after Onesimus returned.  And perhaps Philemon had the attitude about law and morality that many contemporary Americans have.  If that was indeed the case, his return letter probably went something like this:

My dear brother Paul, may the grace and peace of Jesus Christ our Lord and Savior be with you.  I greatly appreciate your correspondence, and I thank you for sharing your opinions with me.  However, I have made the decision to keep my brother Onesimus in slavery and to discipline him severely.  I know that you will not agree with me about this, but I am for “choice”, and I have made the choice to be severe and to enslave him once again.  This, of course, is my legal right under the current laws of the Roman Empire, and in my mind whatever is legal is moral.  Consequently, since the laws of Rome permit the enslavement of human beings, in my mind this must be morally acceptable in the eyes of God.  And besides, my dear Paul, it would be very bad for me economically to let this man go.  He’s a very good worker, you know!  I lost a great deal of money during his absence.  Hopefully he’ll be able to make that up in the next several months of working 20 hours a day, 7 days a week.  I have a saying, and I believe it applies here: “Christianity is Christianity, but business is business!”  But don’t worry: I will certainly let Onesimus off for an hour each Sunday for Mass.  Peace be with you, Paul.  You are in my prayers.

 

That’s what Philemon would have said if he had the mindset that many contemporary Americans have: Americans who say it’s morally acceptable to attack innocent human life because the unjust laws of our country allow it (and they still do allow it, in spite of the overturning of Roe v. Wade); Americans who vote their wallets and their pocketbooks rather than their consciences; Americans who leave their Christianity in church, and who live the rest of their lives as if God didn't exist.  Dear Lord, my prayer today is that the real Philemon treated Onesimus with justice tempered with mercy, and that he eventually set his slave free because it was the right thing to do!  In other words, Lord, I pray that Philemon actually PRACTICED and LIVED the faith that he professed with his lips. 

And I pray for us and for all Americans who claim to be Christians in 2022—that we will do the very same thing.

The Irony of Humility

 

(Twenty-second Sunday of the Year (C): This homily was given on August 28,2022 at St. Pius X Church, Westerly, R.I., by Fr. Raymond Suriani.  Read Sirach 3:17-29; Psalm 68:4-11; Hebrews 5:18-24A; Luke 14:1, 7-14.)

[For the audio version of this homily, click here: Twenty-second Sunday 2022]

 

You could call it “the irony of humility” or “the irony about humility”.  The irony of humility is this:

      The more you consider yourself to be humble, the less humble you actually are. 

·       The more you think that you’ve mastered the virtue of humility in your life, the less humility you actually have in your heart.

Thinking that you’re humble, my brothers and sisters, is really a manifestation of pride (which, of course, is one of the seven deadly sins!).  You might say that the person who thinks he’s humble is merely proud of his humility—although he misunderstands what humility actually is.

Jesus makes the importance of humility crystal clear in this gospel text we just heard from Luke 14, as does Sirach in our first reading when he says, “My child, conduct your affairs with humility, and you will be loved more than a giver of gifts.  Humble yourself the more, the greater you are, and you will find favor with God.”

Now, contrary to popular belief, the genuinely humble person does not think less of himself than he should.  That’s a very common misunderstanding.  Thinking less of yourself than you should is called “having a poor self-image”—and that’s not what the Lord wants for us.  Quite oppositely, the genuinely humble person DOES think of himself as he should—because he knows and accepts the FULL TRUTH about himself!  The genuinely humble person knows, for example, that he’s created in the image and likeness of God, and as such has a dignity and value beyond anything else in the material universe.  He also understands that God loves him just as he is—but too much to let him stay that way!

The genuinely humble person knows that he’s been given gifts—that he’s been blessed in special and unique ways by God—and that everything that’s truly good in his life and in his heart comes ultimately from the Lord.  So he gives God (and not himself) the glory for all of it.  And, at the very same time, the genuinely humble person sees himself as a wretched sinner: a sinner who needs reconciliation with God every single day!  He knows that he can’t save himself by his good deeds; he knows that he can’t earn God’s forgiveness by his own power; and so every day he makes the tax collector’s prayer his own: “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.” 

Thus the truly humble person would never make the mistake of taking the place of prominence at the banquet table that Jesus talks about in this gospel text.  He’d know better.

Mother Teresa once said, “If you are humble nothing will touch you, neither praise nor disgrace, because you know what you are. If you are blamed you will not be discouraged. If they call you a saint you will not put yourself on a pedestal.”

Whenever I read a quote like that, I realize how far I have to go to achieve genuine humility in my own life.  But that’s to be expected, because growing in humility is a lifelong process: a process which will only stop when we go before the Lord at the end of our earthly lives and see ourselves in God’s perfect light. Then, and only then, will we see his greatness and our weakness with perfect clarity.

Now if ever, in the future, you are tempted to think otherwise; if ever, in the future, you are tempted to think that you no longer need to be part of this process—that you no longer need to grow in the virtue of humility in your life—my suggestion is to get yourself a copy of the Litany of Humility and read it.  Read it slowly; read it carefully; think about what you’re saying.  That should help to cure you of your pride very quickly.

Without a doubt, this is one of the most difficult and challenging prayers that’s ever been written.  In all honesty, because of my own pride, I have a very hard time praying it from my heart.  Interestingly enough, it was written in the early 20^th century by Cardinal Merry del Val—who was the Vatican Secretary of State under Pope St. Pius X.  I’ll conclude my homily today by reading the prayer to you.  Some of you know it, I’m sure.  By the way, if you do know it, I would respectfully ask you not to pray it out loud along with me today.  Just listen.  Just listen carefully to the words:

 O Jesus, meek and humble of heart, hear me.

 From the desire of being esteemed, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being loved, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being extolled, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being honored, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being praised, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being preferred to others, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being consulted, deliver me, Jesus.

From the desire of being approved, deliver me, Jesus.

 

From the fear of being humiliated, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being despised, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of suffering rebukes, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being calumniated, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being forgotten, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being ridiculed, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being wronged, deliver me, Jesus.

From the fear of being suspected, deliver me, Jesus.

 

That others may be loved more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be esteemed more than I, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That, in the opinion of the world, others may increase and I may decrease, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be chosen and I set aside, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be praised and I unnoticed, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may be preferred to me in everything, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

That others may become holier than I, provided that I may become as holy as I should, Jesus, grant me the grace to desire it.

If you can say that prayer—and truly mean it!—it’s a sign that you’re on the right road in your life.  And that’s great!  Praise God for his grace at work within you!  But then don’t make the mistake—the catastrophic mistake—of thinking you’ve reached the goal of becoming a genuinely humble person, because (as I said at the beginning of my homily) the minute—the second—you think you’re humble, you’re not!

That’s the irony of humility.  It’s also the truth.

The Reasonableness of Faith

Abraham and Sarah

(Nineteenth Sunday of the Year (C): This homily was given on August 7, 2022, at St. Pius X Church, Westerly, R.I., by Fr. Raymond Suriani.  Read Wisdom 18:6-9; Psalm 33:1-22; Hebrews 11; Luke 12:32-48.)

 [For the audio version of this homily, click here: Nineteenth Sunday 2022]

Faith or reason—which is it? 

Are you a person who lives by faith, or do you use your intellect and live by reason?

That’s the way the issue is typically framed in our modern culture.  And so people are either labeled “religious” or “scientific”—as if religious people don’t have intellects, and people of science never act on faith!

Wrong on both counts!  For example, every scientific, “rational” atheist has faith, whether he realizes it or not!  First of all, he has faith that God does not exist, because the existence of God is not something which can be proven or disproven by the scientific method!  

But he also has faith in lots of other things. 

If he’s married, ask him the question, “Does your spouse love you?”  If he says yes, then ask him how he knows that.  Has he demonstrated it scientifically?  Has he run a series of experiments to validate the hypothesis?  Of course not!  Because the existence of love is not something which can be proven by science!  Ultimately, it’s a matter of faith!  The married atheist, like the married believer, has faith that his spouse loves him.  Now I’m sure he has some good reasons for his belief—but it’s still belief!

Ask him if Abraham Lincoln or Julius Caesar or Aristotle ever existed.  If he says yes, then ask him once again how he knows this.  It’s not because he saw these people with his own eyes and verified their existence experientially!  No!  He has faith in the men and women who wrote the history books he read in school!  He has faith that they knew what they were talking about, and that they were telling him the truth!

Do you realize that every time you put a bite of prepared food into your mouth, you act on faith?  (And, of course, depending on who’s prepared the meal, there may be a lot of faith involved!)  I say this, because, unless you carry a “food testing machine” with you wherever you go, you don’t know with absolute certitude that the food you’re eating at a given meal isn’t spoiled or laced with poison!

I could go on with many other examples, but I think I’ve made my point.  Everyone, to some extent, lives by faith! 

That’s a fact.  Even the most “rational” person on the planet does things by faith each and every day!

So faith must be reasonable, since reasonable people have faith!

In today’s second reading, from Hebrews 11, we hear about the faith of some of the great figures of the Old Testament.  In this context, of course, the object of their faith wasn’t anything or anyone on this earth: it was almighty God himself.  Abraham, Sarah (and the other Old Testament figures mentioned in this chapter—Abel, Noah, Isaac, Moses, etc.), put their faith in God and were blessed by him in some tangible way. 

All of them believed—but not foolishly or blindly!  All of them had reasons for their belief, reasons for their faith!  A married man has reasons why he believes his wife loves him.  We all have reasons for believing what we read in history books.  We have reasons why we believe that the food we’re about to eat at a given meal is safe and healthy.

It says in this text that Abraham put his faith in God and was willing to offer up his son Isaac, because (and here I quote), “He reasoned that God was able to raise even from the dead . . . “

That was one reason for his faith.  I’m sure he had many others as well.

We should also have reasons—intelligent, rational reasons—why we believe in God, and why we believe in the teachings of his one, holy, catholic and apostolic Church!

So what are yours?

Why do you believe?

I’ll leave you to ponder that question.  Think about it during the coming week.  Ask yourself, “Why do I believe?” 

You might even consider writing down your answers and sharing them with a close Catholic friend.  Then challenge him as to why he believes!

And don’t be surprised if your faith grows a little stronger in the process.  Reflecting on the reasons for your faith, may actually help to deepen your faith.  And I think we’d all agree that, in these troubled times, a deeper personal faith is always a great blessing.