Homily – TWENTY FOURTH SUNDAY IN ORDINARY TIME YOUR RECORD IS NOT YOUR NAME 09-13-26

📖 Sirach 27:30—28:7; Psalm 103:1–4, 9–12; Romans 14:7–9; Matthew 18:21–35

A man once prayed, “Lord, please give me the strength to forgive everyone who has hurt me. And Lord, if You could arrange for them to realize that I was right first, that would really help.” I suspect God hears quite a few prayers like that. So perhaps we should begin more simply: Lord, help me remember the mercy I have received before I start counting what everybody else owes me. Amen.
Peter comes to Jesus today with a mathematical question: “How often must I forgive? Seven times?” Peter thinks seven is pretty generous. Most of us would probably negotiate downward. “Lord, how about three? And does that include family?” But Jesus refuses to give Peter a number because once you start counting, you are keeping a record. Then Jesus tells a story about a man with an enormous debt. The debt is forgiven completely. Yet the moment he walks outside, he finds someone who owes him much less and demands payment. His problem is not that the smaller debt is imaginary. It is real. His problem is that he has received mercy without allowing mercy to change him.

There is something about that Gospel that sounds different inside a jail or prison. In here, words like debt, judgment, record, sentence, release are not religious abstractions. Some of you know what it feels like when people look at your record and decide they know your entire life. They may know the worst thing you ever did, but not the best thing. They know the charge, but not the childhood. They know the case number, but not your mother’s name, the person you love, the child you miss, the nights you regret what happened, or the man you are trying to become. And here is the extraordinary thing about God: God knows more about your record than anybody else does, and He still calls you by your name.

That does not mean the past does not matter. Mercy is not pretending. Forgiveness does not erase consequences, make evil acceptable, or require you to trust somebody who is dangerous. Some wounds happened long before anybody entered this place. Some came from parents, partners, streets, betrayal, abandonment. Some happened in here. Sirach understands that anger can feel justified. But he also understands something else: eventually anger can become another kind of cell. The door may be open, but we keep living inside it. Forgiveness is not saying, “You didn’t hurt me.” Forgiveness is saying, “You hurt me, but you don’t get to decide who I become.”

Then Paul gives us perhaps the most important sentence of all: “Whether we live or die, we are the Lord’s.” Not the DOC’s. Not our past’s. Not our mistakes’. Not even our shame’s. We are the Lord’s. Psalm 103 says God removes our sins “as far as the east is from the west.” God does not confuse accountability with identity. He can tell us the truth about what we have done while still seeing what grace can make of us. And if God refuses to reduce us to our worst chapter, perhaps we should be careful about reducing somebody else to theirs.

So go back to that little prayer with which we began: “Lord, help me remember the mercy I have received before I start counting what everybody else owes me.” Maybe there is somebody you are not ready to forgive completely today. Then begin smaller. Ask God to make you willing to become willing. Stop rehearsing the case every night. Stop letting someone who hurt you occupy a cell inside your head rent-free. Give God the anger one piece at a time. Because one day every earthly sentence ends. Every number disappears. Every record belongs to history. And when God finally calls us home, He will not call us by an inmate number, a case number, or the worst thing we ever did. He will call us by our name. And perhaps freedom begins when we learn to do the same for one another.

Let us pray. Merciful Lord, you know our whole story: what has been done to us, what we have done to others, what we regret, and what we still hope to become. Heal the wounds we cannot heal by ourselves. Give us courage to face the truth without being imprisoned by it, and grace to forgive what we are still struggling to release. When shame tells us that our worst moment is our identity, remind us that we belong to you. Teach us to see ourselves and one another as you see us: not as numbers, records, or mistakes, but as your sons and daughters, still loved, still called, still capable of becoming new. And when forgiveness seems impossible, Lord, simply make us willing to become willing. Amen.