How do we practice Christlike mercy in an unjust world? Today’s reflection challenges us to ground our work for justice in radical and extravagant love, creating a community where all can feast together.

March 30, 2025: Fourth Sunday of Lent, Year C
Joshua 5:9a, 10–12
Psalm 34:2–7
2 Corinthians 5:17–21
Luke 15:1–3, 11–32

Feasting on Mercy

A reflection by Jon Schum

The parable in today’s Gospel could be played out between any parent and child. Jesus frames the story about a father and a son because in his day only males could own and inherit property. The previous parable of the lost coin demonstrates the plight of women who had no wealth to rely on—when she finds her lost coin, she rejoices and invites her friends to a party. Jesus pictures God as both the persistent woman in search of her treasure and the forgiving father awaiting his son.

The father who watched his son leave home had many options when he saw him returning. Tell him he was no longer welcome? Let him stew in his shame? Demote him to house servant? No—the father is overjoyed to see his son coming down the road and immediately calls for a feast, insisting his child be garbed with the robes of inheritance, with a ring on the finger and sandals on the feet. “This son of mine was dead and has come back to life. He was lost and now he is found” (Lk. 15:24). Let the music and dancing commence. What a wild and astonishing image of divine mercy Jesus offers us!

The older son who remained at home is not excluded from the joyful feast; the father pleads with him to join the banquet. He assures him of his inheritance and shares everything with him. The father offers the older son a different homecoming: to come home to his truest and best self, to know he is deeply loved. We want to believe the son will put down his tools and walk back to the house to join the party. The story has no concise ending. This son is also offered another chance. Will he take the risk? Will we? Jesus leaves the outcome up to us.  

How do we practice mercy in our own lives? Often in the simple expression of an apology offered and an apology accepted we mirror God’s goodness to each other. Five weeks ago, Ron and I were traveling and we picked up the wrong suitcase at the baggage carousel. I know, there are constant reminders “that many bags look alike.” We were careless. Fortunately, the baggage agent called us on the phone and asked us to return to the terminal. I apologized profusely and returned the suitcase to its owner, who was very gracious and understanding, and left with a smile and a story about two guys who can’t read luggage tags. Apologies are a way of sending and receiving God’s goodness and provide everyday lessons about responsibility. We will be more vigilant next time we travel.

But what about more damaging and serious offenses that cannot be resolved with a simple apology? Victim-survivors of childhood sexual abuse spend a lifetime trying to manage the trauma that invades the body, the emotions, and the very soul. Forgiveness does not feel like an option.

We witness growing discrimination against transgender children and families enacted into law and public policy. From the highest levels of power, we see and hear ignorant and hateful rhetoric leveled against a vulnerable minority in need of supportive treatment and care. Catholic bishops give spoken or tacit approval. How can one even imagine forgiving such outrageous cruelty?

Jesus clearly proclaims the radical and extravagant love of a merciful God, forgiving all who come seeking mercy. Christ even drives out demons, stirring resentment among the religious leaders and teachers. But if there is one offense Jesus has little tolerance for, it’s hypocrisy. Later in this gospel (Lk. 11.37–54), Jesus castigates the hypocrisy of those who “impose on people burdens hard to carry, but… do not lift one finger to help them,” and denounces the scribes who seek places of honor at banquets yet devour the houses of widows (20.45–47). Jesus wept over the holy city and did not hesitate to drive the greedy merchants out of the temple (19.41–46). I don’t think Jesus was intending to hear or accept apologies. He was driven by a fierce love for the poor and a profound passion for justice in the reign of God.

In his own mind and ministry, Jesus had a way of reconciling the unconditional and welcoming love of the parent in the parable while leveling powerful judgments against the religious and political corruption of the day. Can we also hold this tension in prayerful and thoughtful balance, always mindful of our own temptation to hypocrisy and double standards? Can the truth we speak to power and the embrace we offer the neighbor be grounded in the same experience of divine love and our call to aspire to it? Prophetic witness expresses God’s deep care for suffering humanity. We can live by a justice that is ultimately grounded in the endlessly deep divine embrace of all creation. Mercy and justice walk arm-in-arm.

Today’s text from the Book of Joshua marks the forty-year journey of the Israelite people as they cross the Jordan—a second Exodus—and come into the Promised Land, where they eat of its bounty and, notably, observe Passover. The long painful period of reproach is over and they are finally freed of foreign tyranny. No more need for manna, in itself a divine gift that sustained the people in the long desert sojourn; now they feasted on the yield of the land of Canaan.

In biblical tradition, the image of feasting at a banquet is a rich one, expressing God’s wish for us: a common table, shared bounty, and a loving community. We celebrate that divine intention every time we gather at the Eucharistic table. We seek out open and affirming communities of faith. Our Dignity history is one of welcoming all who come to the table, especially those who have been turned away or turned off, or simply seeking a spiritual home. We may view this as a common courtesy or good manners. But when a place at the table is denied to so many in these turbulent and worrisome times, we should never take for granted the ordinary but radical act of loving welcome.

Jon Schum and his husband Ron Lacro are longtime Dignity Boston members. Jon has served on its board and liturgy committee and is one of the chapter's ordained presiders. For many years he supervised and provided arts-based therapeutic programming for an elder services agency in Boston. He is currently a co-facilitator of the Aging with Dignity caucus and board member at DignityUSA.

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