VOICE OF THE LOGOS (37): REFLECTION/HOMILY FOR THE FIFTH SUNDAY OF LENT, YEAR C

We are all that “woman” in need of mercy at one point or another, and unless we acknowledge that, we risk standing with the accusers.

First Reading: Isaiah 43:16-21
Responsorial Psalm: Ps 125(126)
Second Reading: Philippians 3:8-14
Gospel: John 8:1-11
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Fr. Francis shocked his congregation one Sunday morning by announcing that he had reinstated Mama Ozioma to full communion with the Church. Mama Ozioma was a woman in her late fifties who had been away from the Church for over a decade. She had lived openly with a man after a failed marriage and bore another child outside wedlock, which made the CWO (Catholic Women Organization) expel her from their group. Her children no longer attended the parish because of the coldness, whispers and shame they faced. Following the death of her partner, mama Ozioma finally came to her senses and went to Fr. Francis in tears, confessing years of sin and asking to return. The priest, moved by her humility and genuine repentance, took her through confession, catechesis, and gave her the Eucharist once again. After Mass, a group of elderly women from the CWO confronted Fr. Francis – “Father, you know how she lived! People who kept the Church’s law for years now feel betrayed. How can she just be accepted back like that?” Fr. Francis calmly responded: “Is it not the Church of Christ? Did not Christ say there is more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than ninety-nine who need no repentance? Do we now measure mercy by our own standards?” Many were uncomfortable. For weeks, people avoided sitting near Mama Ozioma. Yet slowly, the example of her renewed fervour began to speak louder than her past. One of the older women later told Fr. Eze in confession, “I judged her too quickly. I forgot that I, too, live only because of God’s mercy.”

Sometimes in life, we come across situations where people are treated more harshly not because their wrongdoings are greater, but because their sins are more visible or scandalous to the self-proclaimed righteous. It is common to see communities, religious circles, or even families ostracize individuals who have made mistakes, often forgetting their own hidden flaws. The scandal of mercy lies in the way it challenges our human inclination to demand punishment and retribution before extending forgiveness. In this light, many who consider themselves morally upright become offended when mercy is shown to those they think deserve nothing but condemnation. This inner resistance to mercy is at the heart of today’s Lenten readings, calling us not only to conversion but also to a renewed understanding of God’s justice, which does not always align with human expectations.

Beginning with the First Reading, taken from the Book of Isaiah, specifically from the so-called “Second Isaiah” (chapters 40–55), also known as “Deutero-Isaiah.” This section of the book was composed not by the original prophet Isaiah of Jerusalem, who lived in the 8th century BC, but by an anonymous prophetic voice writing during the Babylonian Exile, around 540 BC. By this time, the original Prophet Isaiah – the son of Amoz – had long since passed; the exile had taken full effect, Jerusalem had been destroyed, and the people of Judah were in a state of despair in a foreign land. The historical context here is one of sorrow, loss, and longing for restoration. It is in this setting that the prophet, speaking under the name and authority of Isaiah’s tradition, delivers a message of divine comfort and promise: “See, I am doing something new. Now it springs forth, do you not perceive it?” The central theme of mercy as a scandal is powerfully illustrated in this context. The people had every reason to believe that their sins had brought about their ruin (and indeed they had) but what they did not expect was that God, rather than discarding them, would instead offer mercy and a new beginning – that is, God surprises them not by repeating the past miracles but by initiating a new work, one that no longer follows their script. The Hebrew word raḥamîm (רַחֲמִים), meaning compassion or tender mercy (from the root r-ḥ-m, which is also related to the womb), gives us an idea into the maternal and intimate character of God’s mercy in this setting. Also, the term ḥesed (חֶסֶד), which denotes steadfast love, covenantal loyalty, and mercy, is implicitly present in the divine gesture of making “a way in the wilderness and rivers in the wasteland.” God is acting not out of obligation, but from ḥesed, a mercy that is scandalous precisely because it is unearned, unexpected, and excessive. He chooses to redeem the people not after their moral rehabilitation but in the midst of their failure. This radically undermines any human expectation of strict justice and points instead to a divine justice that restores rather than punishes. For a people used to retribution, this mercy would have sounded both comforting and provocative, as it questioned their assumptions about who deserves to be saved and why.

This same tension is carried through the Responsorial Psalm (Psalm 126), which sings of restoration and joy: “When the Lord brought back the captives of Zion, we were like men dreaming.” By this time, they had returned from exile, and recounting their experience, the Psalmist expresses the sentiment of divine mercy, which they never merited. Thus, the return from exile is celebrated as a divine intervention, not as a human achievement. Here, the people realize that their redemption is not something they earned, but something given. The imagery of sowing in tears and reaping with joy further expresses the overwhelming generosity of God’s mercy. While the tears may represent penitence and the memory of past sin, the joy is a response to an unmerited return to favour. The people, who might have felt shame or believed themselves unworthy of being restored, now rejoice because God has chosen to act mercifully. The scandal lies again in the divine initiative: He turns mourning into dancing not after Israel has proven itself, but because He is faithful to His promises.

And yet, the joy of restoration sung in the psalm finds its personal echo in the testimony of St. Paul as reflected in the Second Reading, taken from St. Paul’s Letter to the Philippians (Philippians 3:8–14), which deepens the message of mercy as something disturbing to the self-assured. Paul, writing from prison and reflecting on his past as a zealous Pharisee, makes a bold admission: all his former achievements under the Law he now considers “rubbish” (skubala in Greek, a term that connotes refuse or even excrement) when compared to the surpassing worth of knowing Christ. This renunciation is not merely rhetorical; it reflects a personal experience of mercy that dismantled his previous confidence in legal righteousness. In the light of Isaiah’s vision of God doing “something new” for a people still in exile, Paul represents someone who has been interrupted by that “new thing.” The scandal of mercy for Paul is that righteousness is no longer earned through works of the Law but is received through faith in Jesus Christ. He, a former persecutor, has become a vessel of grace, not because he proved himself, but because Christ met him in mercy. Just as God had not abandoned the exiled Israelites, so too Christ did not abandon Paul in his blindness and rebellion. This challenges any claim to salvation by merit and bolsters the theme that mercy upsets human expectations. It confronts both the ancient exiles and the modern believer with a truth that is simultaneously humbling and liberating: that we are saved not by what we have done, but by what has been done for us.

This same divine logic of mercy, which overturns self-righteous credentials and embraces the unworthy, comes to life vividly in the Gospel account. The Gospel (John 8:1–11) presents a vivid example of mercy in action and how it scandalizes those who see themselves as guardians of moral order. The context is a tense and carefully staged public confrontation. Jesus is in the Temple teaching, surrounded by people eager to learn. Into this same space come the scribes and Pharisees, dragging a woman caught in the act of adultery. They present her to Jesus not out of zeal for justice but with a calculated intention to trap Him. According to the Law of Moses (cf. Leviticus 20:10; Deuteronomy 22:22), such a woman was to be stoned to death. However, Palestine at that time was under Roman occupation, and Jewish leaders were not legally permitted to carry out capital punishment on their own. If Jesus affirmed the death penalty, they could report Him to the Roman authorities as inciting unlawful execution. But if He refused to condemn her, they would accuse Him of disregarding the Mosaic Law, thereby discrediting Him as a teacher and possibly branding Him a false prophet. Either way, they hoped to destroy His credibility. Instead of responding immediately, Jesus stoops down and writes on the ground. This action, though often overlooked, is deeply symbolic and steeped in Old Testament imagery. In Jeremiah 17:13, the prophet says: “Yahweh, hope of Israel, all those who abandon you shall be put to shame, those who turn aside from your ways will have their names written in the dust and blotted out, for they have departed from Yahweh, the fountain of living water.” By writing on the ground, Jesus is possibly alluding to this verse, implying that His accusers, who are violating the spirit of the Law and ignoring mercy, are themselves being judged. In that moment of silence, He exposes not just the woman’s sin, but theirs too, hidden beneath a veneer of piety. This subtle reference reveals that Jesus is not avoiding the Law; rather, He is applying its deeper intention: justice tempered with truth and mercy. Then Jesus stands and utters the famous line: “Ὁ ἀναμάρτητος ὑμῶν πρῶτος ἐπ᾿ αὐτῇ βαλέτω λίθον” — “Let the one among you who is without sin be the first to throw a stone at her.” The term ἀναμάρτητος (anamártētos) does not merely mean someone who has never sinned, but one who is without guilt or fault in this very matter. It was a piercing call for moral introspection. One by one, the accusers leave, beginning with the elders, perhaps more aware of the weight of their own sin – for they were guilty of the very accusation they condemned the woman with; and many scholars, including several Church Fathers, have suggested precisely that. Having exposed their guilt, Jesus then turns to the woman and says, “Neither do I condemn you. Go, and from now on do not sin anymore.” This statement is not a license for sin but a complete restoration. He neither minimizes her wrongdoing nor enforces the punishment. He forgives while simultaneously calling her to a new life. In offering mercy without condemnation, Jesus affirms the gravity of sin and the greater power of grace. For the early Jewish-Christian communities steeped in reverence for the Law, this must have been shocking. Adultery was a grave sin with serious legal and social implications. That Christ, a teacher and supposed prophet, would simply dismiss the case with forgiveness was scandalous. It unsettled those who expected righteousness to always come cloaked in judgment. But that is precisely where the scandal of mercy lies: that God does not deal with us according to what we deserve, but according to His mercy.

O that today you would listen to his VOICE, harden not your hearts! (Ps. 95:7)

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Shalom!
© Fr. Chinaka Justin Mbaeri, OSJ
Seminário Padre Pedro Magnone, São Paulo, Brazil
nozickcjoe@gmail.com / fadacjay@gmail.com

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