Sorry this homily is so...umm..."crappy."
Third Sunday of Lent C
President
Harry S. Truman was once invited
to
give a speech to the Washington Garden Club
during
which he praised these high society ladies
for
the good “manure” they must have been using
to
make their beautiful gardens grow.
One
of the members—a bit offended—
asked
the First Lady if she might get her husband
to
say “fertilizer” instead of “manure.”
“Heavens,”
she replied,
“it’s
taken me 25 years to get him to say ‘manure’!”
Well,
the Catholic Church sure has been getting
a
lot of attention in recent days, hasn’t it?
And
the eyes of the world
will
be on her for a little while longer yet.
It’s
kind of nice, in a way,
to
have everybody looking in our direction—
at
least fascinated by who we are and how we do things,
even
if not always taking us quite as seriously as we’d like.
But
with all that attention comes an awful lot of scrutiny, too,
and
that’s not always very comfortable.
Following
nearly every feel-good story
about
the Church or the Pope,
there
has also been heavy reporting on a whole string of scandals—
some
of them accurate, others merely hearsay—
along
with the usual parade of hot-button issues
facing
the Church in the modern world.
This
sort of close scrutiny tends to stir up a whole lot of…
…well,
to quote Mr. Truman: manure.
In
a tradition going back to the early Church,
the
Sundays of Lent are set aside
as
a particular time for careful scrutiny.
During
this season,
those
preparing for Baptism at Easter
were
given their “final exams,” you might say.
Yes,
they were examined on how well they’d learned
the
essentials of the Christian faith,
such
as the Creed and the Lord’s Prayer.
about
the progress of their conversion:
whether
they’d really turned away from their former way of life;
whether
they’d really broken with the sins of their past;
whether
they’d really made a meaningful change.
While
in their modern form the
scrutinies of Lent
are
more about self-searching than a public examination,
they
nonetheless have the same purpose as in days of old:
to
uncover then to heal
all
that is weak, defective, or sinful in the heart,
and
to bring out then to strengthen
all
that is upright, strong, and good.
(cf.
R.C.I.A., #141)
Clearly,
the self-searching expected of those soon to be baptized
can
only be of great benefit, too,
for
those of us who were baptized some time ago.
The
work of our conversion,
of
turning from sin and turning toward God,
is
one that is never done—
not
this side of the grave, anyway.
But
like the close scrutiny
the
Church is lately enduring in the press,
this
sort of careful examination is rather uncomfortable.
It
tends to bring to light
things
we’d previously swept deep under the rug.
With
all the stink and mess implied,
it’s
likely to shovel up a whole heap of manure.
In
this Sunday’s gospel,
the
urgency of our repentance, the urgency of our conversion,
is
clearly on the mind of Jesus.
Contemporary
stories from his time—
much
like those from our own—
about
people dying completely unexpectedly
in
tragic accidents or because of human cruelty
make
it rather plain:
saints
and sinners alike, we are all going to die,
and
we know not when.
Thus,
when it comes to making necessary changes in our lives,
why
take any chance in waiting,
in
case we happen to wait until it’s too late?
So
Jesus tells us the parable of the fig tree.
You,
me: we’re fig trees.
God
owns the orchard,
and Jesus is the gardener.
God
comes looking for fruit:
God
has expectations of us—
expectations we often fail to meet;
expectations
which, if we’re honest,
are
not only pretty reasonable
but also for our own good.
God
is patient with us—very, very patient—
but
we won’t have forever.
Not
even his Son—
who’s
come to know
our weak human nature from the inside—
can
gain us unlimited opportunities to produce.
The
Lord is kind and merciful,
but he isn’t wishy-washy!
So,
knowing that the clock is ticking, what can be done?
Our
gardener, Jesus, first proposes that he cultivate the ground.
We
have to let Jesus scrutinize us.
We
must allow him to dig around in our hearts—
not
just in the pretty and presentable places,
but
down deep, where things get dark and scary.
We
can keep no secrets hidden away from these eyes,
and
neither must we shield our own—in fear or shame—
from
whatever he brings to the surface.
After
all, it would have been downright impossible
for
the God of our fathers to lead his people out of slavery
if
they didn’t first recognize the heavy chains which held them bound.
Jesus
then proposes that he fertilize us—
or,
as it literally says in the Greek, to
throw manure at us.
(Those
high society ladies wouldn’t have liked him, either!)
All
that stinky, messy stuff which Jesus digs out of our hearts
mustn’t
be wasted.
You
don’t have to grow up on a farm to know
that
manure is a valuable commodity.
As
one of our spiritual directors in the seminary used to say,
“God
is the great recycler;
he
never wastes any of our experiences.”
(cf. Fr.
T. Radloff, SJ)
If
God could take the horror of the Cross
and
turn it into the source of the world’s salvation,
then
God can certainly convert
whatever
is weak, defective, or sinful in our hearts
into
good fertilizer for our growth…
…but
only if we first let Jesus dig it up—and dig it all up.
As catechumens preparing for Baptism,
as
individual Catholics, as the Church as a whole,
are
we ready to be examined, to be carefully scrutinized,
about
whether we’ve really turned away from our former way of life;
whether
we’ve really broken with the sins of our past;
whether
we’ve really made a meaningful change?
Admittedly,
this conversion—this repentance—
isn’t
exactly a comfortable process.
But
Jesus has made the dead-end alternative perfectly clear.
Manure
is a renewable resource that
surely will never be lacking.
And
Jesus is always standing by ready, with
shovel in hand.
We
know not when God will come looking for fruit.
So just
what are we waiting for?
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