“God’s saints come out of two different schools. The school of the righteous and the school of the sinner.” That’s how the poet Charles Péguy put it, and that’s what these beautiful parables of the lost sheep, the lost coin and the prodigal son are all about — that simple, strange truth. “Fortunately,” Péguy continued, “in both cases, God is the schoolmaster.” That’s the other truth Jesus was talking about — that the mystery of God’s mercy is for sinners, for us, not just the righteous.
Put simply, what Jesus was trying to say to the Pharisees and scribes is that God’s mercy matters more. It’s not heritage or history that finally matters, not religious or cultural presumption; rather, what matters is the vulnerability of faith: the humble, dispossessed desire for God. It’s the person who does not presume the higher seat that’s invited to it (cf. Lk 14:10-11). It’s the person not too busy for the kingdom who’s welcomed into it (Lk 14:15-24). It’s the person disarmed of wealth that’s fit for it (Lk 14:25-33).
And here, in these famous parables, we learn even more about this mercy. We learn it’s a mercy that seeks sinners out — like a shepherd seeks lost sheep; a woman, her lost coin; a father, his wandering son. This is precisely what was so shocking to Jesus’ hearers, the idea that God not only tolerates or loves sinners indifferently but that he desires them, seeks them out passionately, diligently. The sinner, the lost, the wanderer mired in muck and mud: such is precisely whom God loves and seeks, not only the conventionally good and religious, and never the proud.
Which is the amazing grace of it all, the good news. God indeed loves sinners, loves us. He really does. He loves not just us but other sinners, too. God runs after us, seeks after us. Ever since Eden, that’s what God’s been doing — seeking us out like that shepherd, like that old woman, like that father. While we were “helpless,” Christ died for us, the “ungodly,” Paul said (Rom 5:6). That in summary is what Jesus is trying to teach us, that God loves us like that.
But, of course, that God loves us in this way is what’s often hard to accept. God loves us more than we love ourselves; we’ve always had a hard time with that. And that’s the spiritual challenge of these parables: Can we accept that God loves us like this? Can we, accepting the reality and misery of our own sins, also accept the reality and beauty of God’s love for us? And, accepting that love, can we show similar love to our fellow sinners, our equally loved brothers and sisters? St. Bernard of Clairvaux said, “Easily they love more who realize they are loved more.” That was the good son’s hang-up. He couldn’t see how God’s love included both he and his wandering brother. We’re like that sometimes: misers of a grace that’s not our own.
But even that’s a sin God wants to forgive — our self-righteousness and bitterness. And that’s again because of God’s relentless love for us, and because he wants us to be merciful like he is. And so, what is the quality of your mercy? And what of it needs to be changed by grace? And what of your bitterness for the sinners around you? Why can’t you let go of it like God does?
Original source can be found here.
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