Author: admin

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On March 20, 2015, a young woman named Farkhunda was accused of burning a copy of the Quran outside of a popular mosque in Kabul, Afghanistan.

It was an offense punishable by death.

Word of the accusation spread quickly as an angry mob started beating her with sticks and stones.

Eventually they threw her bruised body over a bridge into a river below.

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What makes this story more sickening is the fact that these men thought their actions were pleasing to God.

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Isn’t this what we’ve just heard in the Gospel?

A woman is caught in the act of adultery, an offense punishable by death.

Enraged, the scribes and Pharisees drag her before Jesus, ready to stone her. But before they do, they put him to the test. They want Jesus to consent to her death.

But he’ll have nothing of it.

Jesus kneels down and begins twirling his finger in the sand, instead.

Some say he was actually writing down an account of the scribes and Pharisees’ sins, reminding them that they, too, are guilty.

Perhaps even more guilty than the woman caught in adultery.

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Imagine this brood of vipers staring at the ground in amazement, seeing a list of their own sins made public by the twirl of Christ’s finger.

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Maybe they, too, had committed adultery.

According to Jesus, any man who looks at a woman lustfully has already committed adultery with her in his heart.

And so Jesus looks them intently, saying, “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.”

Furious and frustrated, they walk away for a time. But they’ll back.

They’re out for blood.

In less than two weeks on Good Friday, they’ll be dragging Jesus before Pontius Pilate, demanding that he – like the woman caught in adultery – be put to death.

Only his offense is claiming to be God.

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Let’s return for a moment to the story of Farkhunda, the woman from Afghanistan accused of burning the Quran.

As it turns out, she was innocent.

She stumbled upon men selling drugs outside her local mosque and rebuked them for it. Fearing for their own safety, they turned on her, accusing her of a worse offense.

Like a swarm of bees, they attacked her, taking the life of an innocent person simply to protect the lives of the guilty.

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I can’t help but see something of Christ’s own story in that.

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Jesus was innocent.

But he freely gave his life in exchange for ours, the innocent for the guilty. He died to ransom each of us.

As Saint Paul says, “There is no condemnation now for those who are in Christ Jesus.”

Our sins are forgiven!

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But the other side of the coin is this: We must work to forgive each other.

We must drop our stones.

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As a country, have we not developed a culture of stone throwing, rejoicing in the sins of others?

For example, we throw stones of judgment at people who illegally get their kids into elite colleges…We throw stones at Jessie Smollett for whatever he has or has not done…We throw stones at politicians who never seem to get the message right.

Though I’m making no excuse for evil, for cheating, or for wrongdoing, what I am suggesting is that we’re living in a stone throwing society, a society, which too often looks for the next victim.

Yet we’re all guilty of something.

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Where have I picked up stones to throw at others?

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Like the scribes and Pharisees, Jesus challenges us to drop these stones, because he came to bring peace.

As his disciples, we must work to make his vision a reality.

Deliver us, Lord, from a stone throwing culture. Make us, instead, your instruments of forgiveness and peace.

 

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How many of us have dealt with family drama, from fights in the car to severed relationships?

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Perhaps that’s why the parable of the prodigal son is one of the most popular stories in the bible.

It’s paints a pretty complete picture of the human experience, ranging from greed, jealousy, and anger…to love, mercy, and forgiveness.

Though we’ve heard it many times, this parable should still thoroughly flush our conscience.

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It begins with tragedy.

An immature, selfish son tears himself away from his family. He leaves the security of his home, demanding his share of his father’s inheritance only so he can waste it in the world.

Imagine this heartbroken father trembling with concern as he watches his youngest son disappear.

Any parent can imagine the type of questions racing through this dad’s mind:

Where will my son go? What will happen to him? Will he waste all of his inheritance? Will he ever come back alive?

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There were no guarantees.

But that’s a risk this father was willing to take.

He was not a dictator. He would not force his son to stay at home.

He was a free boy, who had the power to squander his inheritance if he wanted. The father could only hope that his son would come to his senses, returning home some day.

We know what happens.

His son chases every whim of his flesh, but ends up sleeping with pigs.

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That’s where a life of sin leads us – rock bottom. Emptiness. A life without meaning.

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Though the prodigal son returns to his father some years later penniless, he’s also a humbler, even wiser man.

He’s seen enough of the world to know that it cannot satisfy his deepest desires for love, security, and belonging.

Only his father can.

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That’s a lesson we all must learn.

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There’s a God-shaped hole inside all of us that God alone can satisfy. Nothing else can take his place.

But like the prodigal son, we can ignore that truth and try to satisfy our deepest hunger with more– more money, more power, more friends, more clothes, more food, more drink, another vacation, another home.

But it never works. We always want more. More will never be enough.

Countless studies have shown that the happiest people on earth are not the ones with the biggest homes or the largest inheritance; they’re the ones with the best relationships.

And what better relationship is there than a true friendship with God?

As Saint Augustine once wrote, “Our hearts are restless, O LORD, until they rest in you.”

How many of us are restless within?

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Like the prodigal son, where have I been selfish or tried to fill that God-shaped hole with things other than God? Have I placed an unhealthy emphasis on image, popularity, acceptance, or material things?

Where do I need to return to my Father?

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Then there’s the older brother.

He’s a sour, judgmental man who also needs to be reconciled with his family. How many of us have needed to do the same?

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Notice his reaction to his brother’s return. He’s livid! He won’t even refer to him as “brother.”

He’s so angry that he starts spewing accusations against him, saying he must have spent his money lying with prostitutes!

But the Gospel never reveals how the younger brother spent his inheritance, only that he squandered it.

Still, the older brother is certain that he’s a lustful spendthrift.

A Freudian slip, perhaps.

In reality, he, too, has desired to leave his father and spend his inheritance on himself. The only difference is he was driven by obligation, feeling like he needed to earn it.

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How many of us have found something of the older brother in ourselves?

It’s that ability to sour the relationships that matter most, to feel entitled, to hold a grudge against our own flesh and blood for far too long.

Like this older brother, is there anyone I need to be reconciled with? Perhaps it’s a member of my own family, a friend, or even an enemy.

“If you forgive those who sin against you,” Jesus says, “your heavenly Father will forgive you.”

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The parable of the prodigal son should flush our conscience.

It challenges us to turn away from sin – all those things that cannot fill that God-shaped hole within us, to be reconciled with family, and most importantly, to be reconciled with God.

Lent is the time to make that happen.

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Perhaps one of the most majestic creatures God ever created is birds.

Watch them.

They soar throughout the sky seemingly without a trouble on their mind.

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But if you clip their wings – if you trim a bird’s feathers – they’re instantly grounded, capable only of living inside a cage.

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Like birds, you might say that fear clips our wings.

The second we become afraid, our wings are clipped; we lose our ability to fly, to become who we are meant to be.

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In the Gospel, for example, God intervenes in Mary’s life through the angel Gabriel, proclaiming to her that she will bear Jesus, the Son of God, in her womb.

Overwhelmed by the gravity of what is promised, Mary’s wings are clipped; she’s afraid of her future.

Understanding the fear in her heart, the angel Gabriel assures her, “Do not be afraid, Mary,” do not clip your wings, “for you have found favor with God.”

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Where is God working in my life? Where am I afraid to trust like Mary?

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“Do not be afraid,” the angel Gabriel says. Do not let fear clip your wings.

“For you have found favor with God.”