God sends us to the goal of glory – John 8:1-11, Isa 43:16-21, Phil 3:8-14

Lent, Yr C, Wk 5; Basilica of the Sacred Heart (ND).

The saddest thing about this gospel is that they walked away, these people with stones in their hands.  And there’s pretty stiff competition for the saddest thing about this gospel.  There’s the fact that there were going to stone a woman to death.  There’s their desire to test Jesus.  There’s the possibility that an act of adultery had been occurring, and we have to stand back and also be just as saddened, nay outraged, that we don’t know who consented to what in this encounter.  There is a lot to lament in this Gospel, about this happening retold to us, and about people and events in our lives whose memories it evokes.  But, I still contend that the saddest thing about this gospel is that they walked away, these people with stones in their hands.

Of course, I don’t mean that it would sadden me less if they had cast those stone, if they had added murderous defilement of human life to the sins of their hearts.  No, it saddens me that they didn’t drop their stones and go to Jesus.  And what gives me hope, what gladdens my heart, what excites me to strive for holiness, what allows me to proclaim this as gospel, as good news: is this woman, that she stays.  And unlike these people with stones in their hands, who desert, who flee, who cannot bear to be in the presence of the one who has convicted them of their sins, she is sent.

All depart, but only she is sent by Christ.  Only she leaves having been raised up, head held high to gaze in wonder, love and awe at the lofty grandeur of mercy incarnate; they skulk away, with heads bowed, made lower.  And that still saddens me.  If I’d have been writing this story, they would have dropped their stones and gone to Jesus for healing, and been sent and done wondrous things in his name.  I didn’t write that story; but, I can help write a new story, we can help write a new story: a story in which sinners never skulk away but come to Jesus and are sent out with heads held high.  Lament can become fuel for zeal.  And if we want to invite others to God’s mercy we have to start by encountering it for ourselves.

Throughout our lives, and maybe particularly in this season of Lent, we find ourselves convicted of our sins and experience compunction.  And however God uses the created order to show us that, it is the Spirit who convicts, who shows us the stones in our hands, that we don’t know how they got there; or the stones a stone’s throw away from us, that in our heart of hearts we did not want to hurl, but we did.  And I don’t want to homogenize all sin, to say that all sin is equally deadly or equally vicious.  But all sin is sin, and what I long for is for us each to drop it, but not skulk away; instead, to come to Jesus and leave sent.

These past few Lents, I’ve made part of my fasting to fast from taking the best available parking space, to try and train myself to think humbly of others as more important than myself, to recognize that someone else has heavier bags, a tighter schedule, or more fatigue in their bones.  I’ve found the main value of this fasting has been to show me quite how bad at it I am.  How often my autopilot spidey-sense parking spot finder just locates me, right there next to the store, avoiding only the disabled parking spots (out of fear of a ticket, not love for the disabled).  And, then I start to justify staying there to myself, “well, it would be a waste of gas to move now,” and this year I can even footnote my excuse with Laudato Si’, and skulk away from trying to drop the stone of selfishness.

Here, in this place, in this Mass, we do not skulk away.  We don’t just leave right after the penitential act.  We acknowledge our sins, we profess our longing to drop our stones, and then we stay, and we hear the words of everlasting life.  We have our tender, intimate encounter with Jesus.  We pray, through the priest’s prayer that precedes the sign of peace, that God would not look upon our sins, but upon the faith of the Church.  And we trust that He is faithful in answering that prayer.  I’ve found that as I pray it in our name, I can’t help but briefly do what I’m asking God to do, and look over the congregation marveling at the faith of the Church, tasting for a brief moment what it means to look without judgment.  And then we’re sent.  “Go.”  “Go in peace, glorifying the Lord by your life.”

We are sent, with the woman who was sent.  We are sent to seek those who skulked away and invite them to this wondrous going forth, this pilgrimage together to holiness.  We are sent to seek those with stones still in their hands, and invite them on the same journey.  It’s a journey in response to that upward calling of which St. Paul wrote, being raised to walk with heads held high because we gaze with love and longing at what lies ahead, and with arms outstretched to beckon others to join us on the way because we want to share that with them.

And it is hard.  It does require straining forward.  But, we’re not journeying under our own steam.  Our reading from the book of Isaiah proclaims how God acts to create that way for us: that paths are forged in seas; deserts are watered; wild beasts made not just benign, but devout.  All this that we might come to our goal; that we, the people God formed for Himself, might announce his praise.