Say You're Sorry

“Can you say, ‘I’m sorry’?”

My sister has been asking that question recently of her kids. At 8, 6, and 3, my niece and my two nephews can all say, “I’m sorry”, but her question has a deeper meaning than just knowing how to literally say the words. She’s teaching them the lesson of how to take ownership for their mistakes, and of recognizing the harm, whether intentional or unintentional, that they sometimes cause each other.

Talking with my sister, it struck me how important it is to learn this lesson at a young age – to be able to say “I’m sorry” and to do it well. Too often, we are more inclined to respond in some way that justifies ourselves or avoids responsibility: “Sorry you misunderstood me,” or “You’re overreacting,” or “I did that because you did this.” My niece and nephews aren’t bad kids, not by any means, but if they learn how to simply say, “I’m sorry,” and mean it, they’ll be much better off, not only in their sibling squabbles, but in the deeper wounds that they will inevitably give and receive in various relationships as they mature.

In today’s Gospel, Jesus is also aiming to help his listeners to recognize their faults. The evangelist St. Luke tells us that the parable we hear about the Pharisee and the tax collector is specifically intended for “those who were convinced of their own righteousness and despised everyone else.” Jesus must have known that there were some among his followers who also had trouble owning up to their mistakes, who were quick to explain away the harm they caused or to put the blame on somebody else. Maybe Jesus was especially concerned with the implicit judgmentalism that can creep into our dealings with others, when we are quick to latch on to the faults of others and ignore our own, assuming the worst about others’ intentions and only the best of ourselves.

As Jesus’s parable shows us, this kind of spiritual egotism can have serious consequences for our relationship with God. The Pharisee goes to the Temple, as he must have done frequently, perhaps every day. And yet, his prayer is not heard; God does not accept what he offers. As a Pharisee, he probably lived an upright life; he would have followed the commandments of the Law very faithfully, and probably was a paragon of virtue to those who knew him. But all of his good works were corrupted by his interior sense of self-righteousness. And we are told he went away unjustified, which means not at peace with God. Compare that to the tax collector, a man who was in league with the Roman occupiers and who had probably cheated his countrymen and women out of their money. Most people would have thought him pretty despicable, but because he recognizes his fault, and begs God for mercy, his prayer is heard. He leaves the temple in God's good graces.

Julius Schnoor von Carolsfeld, The Publican and the Pharisee (c. 1860)

This Gospel passage is an excellent examination of conscience for us about the proper way to approach the Lord. I have sometimes used it at the beginning of a penance service, the kind we have usually in Lent or Advent. Even the best of us – the most considerate and self-aware among us – fall far short of the righteousness of God, who is perfectly good, holy, and just. In light of that disparity, it’s ridiculous to try to justify ourselves to him, to boast to him about our own qualities or merits, as if they were not his free gifts to us. If we come into God’s house – whether for a penance service, or to attend Sunday Mass, or even to just spend some time in prayer – it’s kind of pointless to approach the Lord and say, “See all of these great things I have done, God, and all of these bad things I haven’t done!” The Lord can’t do anything with that kind of self-satisfied attitude, and with those words, it’s likely that we’re falling into the spiritual vanity that corrupts our very desire to be good.

In contrast, the Lord always hears the one who approaches him as the tax collector does, with recognition of his own unworthiness and need for mercy. Even the most hardened sinner, if he approaches the Lord in humility, confessing his faults, and seeking to do better, will be quickly and easily forgiven by God. To use an image from the writings of St. Faustina, such a person is like a grimy seashell washed in the ocean; the Lord’s mercy overwhelms us, removing our stains as if they had never been there.

Friends, let’s hear the Lord speaking to us today. As we seek to mature in our discipleship of Jesus, let’s learn anew the importance of being able to say, “I’m sorry,” – to others, certainly, but especially to the Lord himself. It’s not by self-righteousness that we earn his favor, but rather by our humility, and we have the opportunity to practice that every day in our prayer, especially here at Mass. As we prepare for this Eucharist, may we be convinced not of our own worthiness, but of our need for his mercy, so that by humbling ourselves us in this life he may exalt us in the next.

Raise Your Voice

There’s an old adage: “Pride comes before the fall.” The Book of Proverbs, specifically the 16th chapter, is the source of that saying, although these days it is also mentioned in non-religious contexts, like sports or politics or even daily life. “Pride comes before the fall” means, in effect, that overconfidence and ego often prevent a person from seeing some coming failure or defeat. Pride blinds them to what they could have avoided.

If pride comes before the fall, then we might say the opposite is also true: humility comes before ascendance. Or, said another way, humility helps us to see with new eyes, not only the situation before us, but especially ourselves. And in so doing, humility opens the way to growth and transformation.

Today’s Gospel gives us a clear example of just how this works. Jesus is making his way to Jerusalem, where he has told the disciples he must go to suffer, die, and then rise again. And on the way, he meets ten people afflicted with leprosy. Lepers were the lowliest group of the ancient world; their disease not only prevented them from engaging in normal human society, but it was seen as a stigma and a sign of God’s disfavor. In this condition, it would have been no small thing for them to approach Jesus, the famous rabbi and miracle-worker. Yet, they see in him someone who can alleviate their plight. And so they have the humility to ask for help, crying out, though also standing at a distance out of respect and caution. And it’s only by having the humility to get Jesus’s attention that they are transformed by his power and healed of their leprosy.

I’d wager that none of us ever have been or ever will be afflicted with leprosy. If we were, modern medicine could help us. But while we may not have that terrible disease, we do have other needs – needs that we should recognize in honesty and humility. Maybe we have another physical illness or malady that burdens us. Maybe we are plagued by spiritual afflictions, like addiction, mental health issues, or emotional trauma. Maybe we have suffered damaged relationships, or spiritual doubts or dryness, or fatigue in our vocational duties or in the responsibilities of daily life. Whatever it is, surely all of us can think of some malady that plagues us, that we wish to be rid of, that we know we can’t fix ourselves.

Christ and the Lepers (c. 1920) by Gebhard Fugel

Jesus can help us, just like he helped the lepers in today’s Gospel. But first we must recognize our need for his aid. Like them, we must raise our voice to him – not to catch his attention, since he is already always focused upon us, but to humble ourselves, to recognize in humility that he can provide what we cannot. It’s that kind of trust in the Lord that is pleasing to him, that not only helps us to move toward the transformation that we desire, but that also deepens our relationship with him. Spiritual growth isn’t about mastering certain abilities or acquiring certain attributes on our own; rather, it comes from learning to rely ever more deeply on the Lord, he who loves us and who wants to give us the good things we need, if only we open ourselves to him.

Of course, humbly asking the Lord for what we need is just the first step. We must be prepared for the fact that he may not grant what we need right away. Sometimes he asks us to wait a bit, to deepen our trust in him even more and to expand our capacity to receive. Sometimes he asks us to suffer a little – to walk with him on the path to Jerusalem – for our good and the good of all the world. Sometimes the true gift is not the answer to our prayers, but the spirit of thanksgiving that the Lord also gives us; like the leper who returns in gratitude, we are truly healed and transformed only when we praise the One who has helped us.

But it’s important not to get too far ahead of ourselves. Today’s Gospel reminds us that the most significant step is the first one: recognizing our need in humility and asking the Lord for his help. Brothers and sisters, in all of the individual ways that perhaps we have reflected upon, and for all the needs we have collectively – the needs of this parish, the needs of our Church, the needs of our society, the needs of all the world – let us raise our voices and lift up our hearts anew to the Lord. Let us humbly call upon him, and say with great faith, “Jesus, Master! Have pity on us!” And may our faith in him be our salvation.