The Book of Sirach was written in Hebrew in Jerusalem about 190-180 BC; some fifty years later, it was translated into Greek in Egypt for the Jews settled there. From the time of Saint Cyprian (d. 258), and until recently, the book was called Liber Ecclesiasticus, “Church Book”, because it was used for instructing catechumens. Its traditional teaching remains indeed timely, as the passage read today demonstrates. It deals with an important, even vital, question: that of the daily relationships between human beings. Alas, the experience of many centuries shows that egotism, the spirit of competition, jealousy, the recourse to brutal force, etc. constantly threaten to enmesh us in the homicidal gear set in motion by resentment and anger. In all times, the sages have endeavoured to convince people of the pressing need to renounce these evils, destructive to oneself and others. Sirach, the sage, forcefully brands resentment and anger as “hateful things.” We readily agree. It is sufficient to see the ravages wrought by resentment and anger, when they gnaw at the human heart, the whole life is gravely, even dangerously, disturbed. Being obsessed with them can lead to true madness. Human wisdom does not lack arguments to urge us to protect ourselves against the virus of resentment and anger. Sirach knows well this type of reflection, which is of benefit to everyone. But here he does not appeal to such considerations. The obligation to avoid resentment and anger is strictly enjoined on those who know God and are conscious of their own need for divine mercy.
Judgement belongs exclusively to God: “Vengeance is mine, I will repay, says the Lord.” Paul (Rom 12:19) recalls this word of Deuteronomy (32:35). To usurp this right is impious . But another consideration, a very concrete one, helps us to guard against the temptation to vengeance. God is not a pitiless and unfeeling judge; one can implore his pardon. He even desires to grant it for the asking, because “he is slow to anger and rich in mercy.” If he kept tally of sins, who would survive. It would be a contradiction to hope for divine forgiveness while showing oneself merciless toward others. The day will come when everyone will be submitted to God’s judgement. Could we then appeal to his tenderness after having been severe and intractable with others? On the other hand, if we are able to say, “Forgive my faults, for I myself have forgiven those who wronged me,” he certainly will pardon us. More than that, he will listen only to his heart, without our having to say anything. As a matter of fact, the whole of the covenants, from beginning to end, is the story of God’s mercy. It is impossible to appeal to this story, and even less to remain faithful to it, if we set ourselves outside the dynamic movement of forgiveness or—worse—if we act toward all human beings, sinners, in a way contrary to God’s dealing with us.
Our Gospel today, too, speaks of God’s mercy, but also of his justice. We are called to forgive as God forgives—without counting. Last Sunday we read in Matthew’s Gospel how we must act towards brothers and sisters who persist in sin. The duty of Christian correction is in order. Their obstinacy can lead to their being excluded. “Sometimes, these persons divide the community and cause it to deviate from its original goals. In this difficult domain of divisions and schisms, no rule can be set down, except that of patience, watchfulness, and firmness, that of respect for structures and channels of dialogue.” In fact, it is in this spirit that the general Law of the Church, the inner rules of diverse communities determine the procedure to follow and the manner in which those who have been excluded or excommunicated for their sins can be readmitted after having made amends. But if a brother or sister has committed a fault “against me,” how many times must I forgive? Peter puts to Jesus this concrete question that comes to everyone’s mind. “As many as seven times?”
We would be ill advised to laugh at Peter’s question and, at his casuistical perspective on forgiveness. Who would dare to cast the first stone at him? To forgive seven times—is it not already a lot, a limit beyond which it would be unreasonable to go? We would risk showing weakness and, by the same token, encouraging the backslider. All this applies when we remain on the plane of human justice and the settling of contentious matters. But one day Jesus said that he had not been appointed as judge to arbitrate that kind of dispute. His answer: “I say to you, not seven times, but seventy-seven times,” is given from another viewpoint—that of the kingdom of heaven.
From the beginning, it is obvious that the parable contains a teaching requiring the hearers’ undivided attention. It shows a king to whom is brought a servant who owes him money. The sum due exceeds all imagination. One does not see how a servant could be so indebted to his master for such an enormous amount. No-one could owe such a debt to another person, even a king. Therefore, we know the parable is speaking of God, to whom we owe what we absolutely are unable to pay back. The servant is fully conscious of his dead-end predicament. For his part, the king knows perfectly well that the sale of this debtor and his wife and children will never reimburse the large debt. What the king says means that the servant has lost everything: his freedom and his life, as well as his family’s.
The religious orientation of the parable is then emphasised by the servant’s attitude, he prostrates himself before the king and implores his patience and pity. According to Matthew, this attitude and manner of speaking are appropriate when one addresses God or Jesus. In fact, “moved to compassion” on hearing his plea, the master forgives the servant his loan.
The parable could stop here. But it does not intend to leave us to figure out for ourselves the practical consequences of God’s infinite mercy toward the insolvent servants we are. It confronts us in our conduct toward our brothers and sisters who owe us amounts ridiculously low in comparison with the debt God forgives us. The servant, who just was the object of his master’s generous pity, right away meets one of his companions who owes him one hundred silver coins, a debt one can easily reimburse given the right economic conditions—it is without proportion to the ten thousand talents. (Which according to the English language Jerusalem Bible is equivalent to about forty million pounds, the difference is immeasurable.). He throttles his fellow servant. Deaf to the request for a delay, formulated in the very terms he himself had used, this servant, himself freed from an exorbitant debt, now causes his peer to be put in prison until he pays back what he owes.
The parable is designed to arouse the hearers’ indignation—graciously forgiven an enormous debt by his master, the servant must surely, in his turn, have mercy on his companion. His behaviour is scandalous. We share the master’s anger and applaud his decision. This is exactly what Jesus has in mind when narrating this parable, to bring us to be ourselves the judges of this servant’s shamefully pitiless conduct. But Jesus is not giving us a lesson in magnanimity, albeit an elementary one; he is speaking of the kingdom of heaven, “this is how my heavenly Father will deal you, unless each of you forgives his brother from his heart.”
We are no longer speaking of fellow servants but of brothers and sisters. We are no longer asked to pardon indefinitely, “not seven times, but seventy-seven times,” but from the heart. The parable is addressed therefore to the Christian community where all are brothers and sisters. Each one of us has received, and continues to receive all the time, the mercy of the Father in heaven, who has remitted the unpayable debt of sin. Our conduct toward our brothers and sisters who have offended us follows from the conduct of God toward us. To act otherwise is to incur rejection from the father. The pardon must be given from the heart, like the pardon of God, who is not content to receive lip service from a people whose heart is far from him.
Whether they pray in their secret rooms or in common, in the beginning of each Eucharistic celebration or at the moment of receiving the bread of life and of drinking the cup of the Lord, Christians acknowledge their sinfulness before God. But this confession of their sins goes hand in hand with the confession of God’s infinite mercy. These two confessions, along with intercession and thanksgiving, are the essential components of prayer and worship, of life in God, to whom we belong. Thus, the Church is a community that must witness to the infinite mercy of God toward all human beings for whom Christ suffered his passion and conquered death. She is the place of forgiveness generously offered to all. The daily prayer of Christians is the Our Father, which the Saviour taught them and through which they do not cease to beseech God to forgive their sins as they themselves forgive the wrongdoing of their brothers and sisters.
We must unceasingly say the Our Father, not because we always and spontaneously forgive our brothers and sisters from the heart, but because we desire to receive from God the grace to do so. Such a prayer takes its full meaning within the celebration of the Eucharist; before we receive the Body of Christ and share the cup of his blood after having exchanged with our brothers and sisters a sign of peace, of reconciliation in God.
“The Lord is compassion and love, slow to anger and rich in mercy.”
