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.