Homily: Weakness.

Deacon Tony Cecil Homily—4th Sunday of Lent, Year C, 31 March 2019

Epiphany Catholic Church, Louisville, Kentucky

Well—I have good news, and I have bad news.

The good news is that we’re about halfway through Lent.

The bad news is that we’re only halfway through Lent.

I have to be honest; I’m not the biggest fan of the Lenten season. Don’t get me wrong—I like the practices that come with Lent—spending more time in prayer, fasting from something so that I can grow closer to God, and giving up stuff that I want so that I can give to others who are in need.

So, maybe I should be more precise—I don’t really like the part of the Lenten season that we’re in now.

We’re at the halfway point—in fact, a bit past it. We’re at the point in the season where, at least for me, I’m tired of doing all of those extra prayers that I promised I would—I’m tired of keeping up with those practices that I adopted on Ash Wednesday.

I’m at that point in Lent where I’m starting to hit a wall—where I’m starting to slack, and even starting to fail.

And that’s what I don’t like.

I don’t like hitting that wall—I don’t like slacking—I don’t like failing.

I don’t like any of it, because it makes me realize something that I’d rather not acknowledge—that I am—weak.

I don’t like feeling weak—I don’t imagine that anyone enjoys it.

Personally, I don’t like it, because of all the silly outside pressure and ideology—that as a man, I cannot appear to others as anything but strong, whatever that means—that as a public person active in ministry, I must appear to have it together at all times, and that to be perceived as weak is to be a screw-up, a failure.

I imagine the same is true for you, too.

I imagine that for many of you, this point in the Lenten season could be one that is difficult—that feeling weak is something you don’t enjoy, and that you, too, face pressure from the outside to appear strong and put together all the time—from your family, or your job, or your school, or your friends.

Feeling weak—well, it just sucks.

And here, a bit past the halfway point of Lent, I’m feeling pretty weak.

But the truth is, I am weak.

I can be impatient—I can put myself before others, or even before God—I can be irritable—I can be lazy—I can be forgetful—I can talk more than I listen—I can be—I am—a sinner.

I am weak.

Looking just at that reality—that we are weak—can seem hopeless.

Let’s turn to the scriptures the Church gives us this weekend.

We hear in our Gospel a story that is all too familiar—we’ve heard it and homilies on it over and over again—the story of the prodigal son.

We hear the story of an unnamed young man who, on the outside, was quite strong. He came from an evidently wealthy family, and he appeared to have it all together for himself, so much so that he felt bold enough and strong enough to go to his father and ask for his share of the inheritance that would come to him, so that he could go ahead and start life on his own.

While we may not be as bold as this young man, I think that there are many times when we share his attitudes. How many times in our careers or in our family lives do we believe, or have been told we must believe, that we must do everything on our own for ourselves? How many times have we heard the adage that to get anywhere in life, we have to depend on no one but us?

This young man takes his money and spends it freely—he travels to another country, he lives luxuriously, and he probably had a really good time. Caught up in the midst of living such a happy, carefree life, I imagine it didn’t really worry him that much when the money ran out. I imagine he just thought that his new friends would support him, or that he could charm people into helping him.

But then a famine struck.

And suddenly, his so-called friends were gone.

And suddenly, there was no one to support him.

There was no one he could charm into giving him money or food,

And he found himself starving, and poor, and having to hire himself out for work.

And it is here that the young man comes to the same realization that I come to at this point in the Lenten season—that we all come to at some point in our lives.

He realizes that he’s weak.

He realizes that the idea that he had to depend on no one was nothing but a lie.

And here, he has an option.

His first option is to stay where he’s at, and to live miserably.

His second option is to run back to his father, and beg for mercy.

When faced with our own weakness, we too have a similar option. We can either stay in our weakness, in misery, in loneliness. Or, we, too, have the option of running back to our Father and begging for mercy.

The young man who is the focus of today’s Gospel chooses the second option.

In his weakness, he discovers that the only way to better his life, to better himself, is to run back to his father, to seek his forgiveness, to beg for mercy.

So he does. He goes back home, and he confesses his wrongdoing. He even goes so far as to say that he doesn’t even deserve to be called his father’s son, and begs his father to at least let him come home as a servant, so that he will have a place to stay and food to eat.

And what is the father’s response?

The father sees his son, runs out to him, and welcomes him with open arms. The son confesses his wrongdoing, but before he can even finish, the father tells the servants to bring him a robe, a ring, and sandals—because his son who was lost was found, he who was dead has come back to life—his son had come home, and so they had cause for celebration.

It is important for all of us to realize who Jesus told this story to. Saint Luke tells us, ‘tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to listen to Jesus.’

Tax collectors and sinners were drawing near to listen to Jesus.

It was to tax collectors and sinners that Jesus told this story—it was to the weak that Jesus told this story.

There are a lot of things that make me feel weak—but among the strongest is my own sin. Every time I sin, and I realize that I sin, and I acknowledge that I chose evil over good, my own interests over God’s will—I feel terrible. I feel empty. I feel alone. I feel utterly and indescribably—weak.

And I imagine that all of you do, as well. This is what sin does to us. Sin is our thinking that something will make us strong, but is in reality nothing more than the evil one’s trick to further weaken us. We can tell ourselves that we don’t sin because we’re good people—but we know that’s not entirely true. All of us, myself included, are sinners in need of redemption—in need of forgiveness—forgiveness like the Prodigal Son received from his father.

And that is why Jesus told this parable to the weak people that surrounded him. He was telling them, and is so telling us, to take that second option. That when we realize our weakness, when we see our need for mercy—when we see that we can rely on nothing and no one other than God, we need to run not walk to our Father, our God, who waits for us at every single turn with open arms—ready with a robe, and a ring, and sandals, and a feast—a feast—a meal of His very presence in this Eucharist—ready to welcome us home, to celebrate our return to Him.

Now, it all seems to make sense. Hitting the wall makes sense—slacking and failing and being frustrated makes sense—feeling weak in this season of Lent makes so much sense.

Because we are weak.

And we are in need of strength, in need of mercy—strength and mercy that can only come if we return to the Father who loves us.

Saint Paul tells the Corinthians in our second reading today, We implore you on behalf of Christ, be reconciled to God. He tells the Corinthians, and he tells us: see that you are weak, and run to the one who makes you strong.

Brothers and sisters, we have almost half of Lent left, and we have a choice.

We can either sit in the misery and boredom with this season that we may feel—and dwell on our weakness.

Or, we can run back to God in our weakness, and be renewed and strengthened in our faith.

He is always waiting—he is always waiting with open arms for his sons and daughters to come running back to him.

To come running back to him through the sacraments—through reconciliation, through the Eucharist.

Brothers and sisters, Lent is only halfway over, and that is very good news.

There’s still a chance.

There’s always a chance.

What will you choose?

To view this weekend's readings, please click here.