Behold, New Things Have Come

The 4th Sunday of Lent
Today’s Readings: Jos 5:9-12; Ps 34; 2 Cor 5:17-21; Lk 15:1-3, 11-32

Our first reading today from the Book of Joshua talks about the people of Israel celebrating the Passover. The Passover seder is an occasion to thank and bless God for liberating the Hebrew people from their bondage in Egypt. This was a life-changing event in the history of the Jewish race. Once they were slaves, and now they were free. As St. Paul put it so succinctly in Second Corinthians: The old things have passed away; behold, new things have come (2 Cor 5:17).

Having grown up in a Jewish family, we celebrated the Passover at my grandparents’ home every year, with seders on two consecutive nights. In fact, my mother went into labor with me on the second night many moons ago. She and my Dad had to leave the family in Brooklyn and drive to the hospital in the city—where I graciously arrived at 11:07 pm.

As most new parents will tell you, having a child is definitely a life-altering event. The old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.

I know that I absolutely turned my parents’ lives upside-down. I kept them up with my bouts of colic. Then my crazy Uncle Louie who babysat for me and didn’t know what to do with the dirty diapers—so he tossed them out of the 14th floor window. Who says New York isn’t a friendly town? As I continued to grow up, there were the trips to the emergency room to set various broken bones. The complaints from the next-door neighbors when I turned the garden hose on them. The non-stop expenses of food and clothes and school and toys and travel. And much more. Much more. I know my parents were proud of me in many ways… but I also know that I caused them a lot of heartache for things that I just don’t know you well enough yet to confess publicly! But no matter how you slice it, it was abundantly clear that with my arrival, the old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.

If you think about it, it’s pretty evident that life for each and every one of us is filled with endless twists and turns and decision points. Some of these junctures can be pretty radical: to take one path over another means an end to your old life. Behold, new things have come.

Maybe it’s choosing a career option that eliminates all others. Or choosing a spouse that commits you forevermore to just one person. Or having or adopting a child.

Maybe this momentous point in time comes not with something you’ve chosen, but with something that’s thrust upon you: like having a stroke or heart attack, or winding up in a bad accident, or losing a parent or dear friend—or on a happier note, winning the lottery. Life can be forever changed.

Our faith celebrates these key moments as new beginnings. The passage in Joshua tells us that after the Passover, the manna stopped—after 40 years. Why? Because the children of Israel finally crossed over into the Promised Land—and now they could feast off the bounty of this land of milk and honey, just as God promised.

Now that I’m Catholic, I no longer celebrate the Passover. Why? Because it has been supplanted by the mass. Instead of eating mere symbols, now I actually receive the body and blood of the Lord. In fact, the sacred elements are sacramental signs of a more profound reality yet to come: sharing a proverbial seder with Christ himself in heaven, face to face.

As creatures of genuinely free will and choice, it is up to us how to respond to opportunities that present themselves, and how to respond to whatever life deals us. We can see the glass as half-empty or half-full.

The beautiful gospel story of the prodigal son describes how a young man who made some poor choices came to his senses and decided to come home. His dad was overjoyed beyond words to have his beloved boy back. His older brother, though, was angry and ticked off that their father was so quick to forgive him and celebrate his return. In this fellow’s mind, his younger brother was bad news and a sinner.

At this point in Lent, we’ve got to make a choice. Will we be like the father: merciful and forgiving—or like the brother: harsh and unmoved and holding a grudge?

Before you cast your vote, I urge you to consider that the word “sinner” is a terrible social label. It’s a means of excluding some people by marking them as deviant or morally inferior. Isn’t this just what big brother did? Listen again: But when your son returns who swallowed up your property with prostitutes, for him you slaughter the fattened calf (Lk 15:30).

You know, so-called sinners don’t have to actually be morally inferior. To earn their label, all they have to do is be queer in particular ways. Single mothers, homeless people, the mentally ill, the disabled, gay people who want to be soldiers—all carry social stigma, regardless of their piety or moral heroism. But St. Paul tells us clearly today to get rid of these labels, and more importantly, these attitudes: God was reconciling the world to himself in Christ, not counting their trespasses against them and entrusting to us the message of reconciliation. So we are ambassadors for Christ, as if God were appealing through us (2 Cor 5:19-20).

You may be surprised that all the “sinner” stories in the gospel of Luke have one thing in common: in none of them does Jesus correct the sinners or call them to change their behavior. Rather, Jesus simply enters company with them.

We, too, have to sit with sinners and learn to identify as one. Why? Because every one of us desperately needs God’s mercy, too. Do you want to be judged as God judges… or as you judge? For me, the answer is very, very clear!

Let us stop being condescending friends or intolerant relatives or unforgiving critics of other people because of who they are or what they’ve done. Instead, let us just sit with them—exactly the way Jesus did.

For most of us, to stop judging takes a pretty radical change in who we are and how we view the world. But that’s how we stretch and grow in our faith.

The old things have passed away; behold, new things have come.