By DONALD DeMARCO
“Why is there a Church?” Cardinal Pell has answered this often asked question in a timely and theologically sound way. The Church exists, says the Australian prelate, to bring God’s mercy into the world. Two essential points are implied by this comment. The first is that mercy is available. God is Mercy and His Mercy has no limit. It is infinite. The second is that if mercy is to be dispensed, it must first be requested. If mercy is not requested, it is not received.
The distinction between the availability and reception of mercy calls to mind a remark that the noted evangelist Fr. Vincent McNabb, OP, made while speaking to a public gathering in London’s Speaker’s Corner. A heckler interrupted the famous preacher by loudly objecting that if God really existed He would be everywhere and evident to everyone. The perspicacious Dominican noted the protester’s face that urgently needed to be washed. Without missing a beat, the unflappable apologist replied that no one would believe that a man’s dirty face implied that water did not exist.
A pizza emporium has pizza readily available. But if no one requests it, North America’s favorite snack is not delivered. The great problem afflicting mankind is the illusion of self-sufficiency, the notion that we can save ourselves through ourselves and need neither God nor His Mercy. With regard to pizza, good marketing closes the gap between availability and delivery; with regard to human beings, it is humility that closes the gap between God’s Mercy and its human reception.
When President Obama exclaims, “God bless Planned Parenthood,” he is not invoking God’s blessing, but, in effect, asking God to congratulate this abortion conglomeration for the splendid work it is doing. Planned Parenthood could use God’s Mercy, but its commitment to violating His Fifth Commandment is incompatible with requesting it. It is a model example for all who use the deception of self-sufficiency as a barrier to God’s Grace.
King Frederick William I (1688-1740) once visited a prison in Potsdam, Germany, with the hope of dispensing mercy. He listened attentively to one prisoner after another, each of whom claimed that he was a victim of injustice. They all alleged being sent to prison because of prejudiced judges, perjured witnesses, or unscrupulous lawyers. From cell to cell, the King heard each prisoner swear his innocence and insist on his false imprisonment until he came to an inmate who said nothing. “Well, I suppose you are innocent, too,” said Frederick, somewhat sarcastically. “No, Your Majesty,” came the startling reply. “I am guilty and richly deserve all that I get.”
“Here, turnkey,” thundered the King, “come and get rid of this rascal quick, before he corrupts this fine lot of innocent people that you are responsible for.” The King could dispense mercy because this contrite prisoner was disposed to receive it. Availability was not the issue.
How do we, as ordinary Christians dispense mercy, or at least, help others to do so? If I may stretch an analogy, I once found myself in a comparable, but far less dramatic, situation than that of King Frederick. While a house guest, I observed an unhappy situation unfolding for which there seemed to be no solution.
The oldest daughter had apparently (but not definitively) neglected certain household duties. Her punishment was severe. She would not be allowed to play soccer that day. The father of the house wanted to be merciful, but he knew that he must also insist on discipline and responsibility. He feared that if he backed down, he would be shirking his fatherly responsibilities. The mother also hoped for mercy, but remained silent since she did not want to interfere with the execution of her husband’s responsibilities. It was a standoff. Meanwhile, I could hear the daughter’s sobs surfacing from her prison in the basement.
I thought of a way that would be acceptable to everyone. “There is an old Catholic tradition,” I said to my hosts, who were highly respectful of Catholic lore, “that if you are showing hospitality to a guest and it is his birthday [which it was], in accordance with the esteemed Passover custom, you are allowed to release one prisoner.” That did the trick. A broad smile swept across the father’s face. He raced downstairs and freed his prisoner. She emerged happily from her cell, gave me a big hug and verbalized her heartfelt thanks.
The father could show mercy because he had a basis that justified it, and one that had a long and honored tradition (especially the part about the Passover). We can all help to combine the availability of mercy in one with its reception in another.
Mercy cannot be dispensed willy-nilly. It means nothing to the unrepentant who would regard it as irrelevant and unneeded. But it means everything to the person who has accepted justice and thirsts for mercy. “Justice without mercy is cruelty,” writes St. Thomas Aquinas. On the other hand, according to the Angelic Doctor, “Mercy without justice is the mother of dissolution.” The New England poet, Henry Wadsworth Longfellow put it nicely when he said, “Being all fashioned of the self-same dust, / Let us be merciful as well as just.”
A little mercy goes a long way. It can bring joy to a young girl, relief to a father, pride to a mother, and peace to a family. But it can also bring a smile of satisfaction to a house guest.
+ + +
(Dr. Donald DeMarco is a senior fellow of Human Life International. He is professor emeritus at St. Jerome’s University in Waterloo, Ontario, an adjunct professor at Holy Apostles College in Cromwell, Conn., and a regular columnist for St. Austin Review. His latest works, How to Remain Sane in a World That Is Going Mad; Ten Major Moral Mistakes and How They Are Destroying Society; and How to Flourish in a Fallen World are available through Amazon.com. Some of his recent writings may be found at Human Life International’s Truth and Charity Forum. He is the 2015 Catholic Civil Rights League recipient of the prestigious Exner Award.)
Powered by WPtouch Mobile Suite for WordPress