Have you ever been so desperate that all you could say was, “Lord, have mercy”? No fancy words, no well-structured prayer, no big grammar; just those three simple words whispered from the heart: Lord Have Mercy, or as we pray at Mass in Greek, “Kyrie eleison.” There are moments when life knocks the wind out of our lungs; when pain, guilt, loss, or fear leaves us too weak to explain ourselves. In such moments, God does not need our grammar; he needs our honesty. He does not require a résumé; he wants our surrender, he requires our emptiness so he can fill us up with himself.
King Frederick the Great of Prussia once visited a prison and interviewed the inmates to know why they were imprisoned. One after the other, they expressed their innocence. One said, “God is my witness that I am innocent.” Another said, “I am a victim of prejudice and injustice.” The third one said, “I was framed.” So, they continued to express their “innocence.” Finally, the king came to one of the convicts who remained silent. “Well,” said the king, “I suppose you are also innocent, but can I hear how innocent you are?” “No, sir, I am not innocent,” the man replied. “I am guilty, and I deserve this punishment.” Turning to the warden (Prison Officer), the king said, “Release this rascal from the prison right now before he begins to corrupt all these innocent people here.” That man walked out of prison free, not because he was innocent, but because he owned up, and so it would be easier to convert him.
That is what today’s Gospel passage is about: not perfect people, but honest ones. Two men went up to the Temple to pray. One was a Pharisee, a good citizen, highly respected, and devoted to religion. The other was a Tax Collector, corrupt, despised, and considered a traitor. But when they stood before God, something unexpected happened. The Pharisee began with “O God,” but quickly turned his prayer into a monologue about himself. He listed his good deeds: “I fast twice a week, I pay my tithes, I am not like other men.” Even his thanksgiving was self-congratulation. His lips said “God,” but his heart said “me.”
On the other hand, the Tax Collector stood far off. He could not even lift his eyes. Beating his chest, he uttered the shortest, deepest prayer in Scripture: “God, be merciful to me, a sinner.” The Greek literally translates to English as, “O God, make atonement for me, the sinner.” It is the same cry we echo at every Mass when we say “Kyrie eleison,” “Lord, have mercy.”
And Jesus concludes with the shocking verdict: it was the Tax Collector, not the Pharisee, who went home justified. Why? Because the Pharisee came to God full: full of himself, and left with nothing. The Tax Collector came empty: empty of pride, empty of excuses, empty of himself, and left filled with divine mercy. He was saved by his “Kyrie eleison.”
Here is the divine paradox: the most powerful prayer is the simplest one. When it comes not from the lips but from the depths of our hearts. That is why blind Bartimaeus cried, “Jesus, Son of David, have mercy on me!” and regained his sight. That is why the ten lepers shouted from a distance, “Jesus, Master, have mercy on us!” and were cleansed. That’s why the repentant thief on the cross said, “Jesus, remember me,” and was promised paradise. Jesus said to him, “Today, you will be with me in paradise.” Each was saved, not by perfection, but by mercy. We are not saved because we have done everything right; we are saved because God’s mercy is never exhausted. The door of heaven does not open to the proud who knock loudly with their achievements, but to the humble who whisper through their tears, “Kyrie eleison.”
Now, let us bring it home. How often do we pray like the Pharisee? We say, “I thank you, Lord, that I am in the Church today, while others are languishing in the hospital; I thank you, Lord that I am at Mass today while others are in jail; I thank you, Lord that my marriage is a success while that of my neighbor sitting next to me in the Church is a failure. My children are not wayward like other children; I am not like other priests/nuns.” We are like the Pharisee when we stay away from the Sacrament of Reconciliation. Even when we go to confession, we are like the Pharisee when we say things like “Bless me Father for I have sinned. Actually, I have been trying my best to be a good husband/wife and a good parent. I do no drugs, I come to Church as often as I can, I try not to say bad words; it is just that my wife/husband gets on my nerves sometimes.” So, in confession, we spend more time explaining why we are not that bad than admitting where we are wounded. In our prayers, we pray for mercy, but secretly believe we do not really need it. We ask God for forgiveness, but struggle to forgive others. We want grace, but refuse to make room for it.
The Pharisee prayed about himself, to himself, and for himself. The Tax Collector prayed to God for mercy for his sins. Two men prayed in the same place: one recited his goodness, the other received God’s goodness.
Saint Paul in today’s Second Reading reflects on his life, saying, “I have fought the good fight, I have finished the race, I have kept the faith.” But listen to what he adds: “The Lord stood by me and gave me strength… The Lord will rescue me from every evil deed.” Paul does not credit himself. He knows that the only reason he finished the race is because mercy carried him. And that’s the secret of every saint: they were not perfect people; they were forgiven people. Their Kyrie eleison saved them. My dear friends, at every Mass, we repeat those ancient words: Kyrie eleison, Christe eleison, Kyrie eleison. Please do not rush through them. Let them rise from the heart, not just the mouth. When you say “Lord, have mercy,” you are not just reciting a ritual; you are reopening the floodgates of grace. So, here is the homework for this week: Do not hide behind your goodness; stand in need of God’s grace. Do not come before God full of excuses; come empty so that he can fill you. Do not measure yourself against others; measure yourself against God’s mercy. For in the end, we are all beggars at the door of His compassion, and the password to enter is not perfection but “Kyrie eleison.”
The Pharisee walked out proud and unchanged. The Tax Collector walked out forgiven and free, saved by his Kyrie eleison. May the same mercy that lifted him lift us too, until that day when, with our last breath, our final prayer will be the simplest and truest of all: “Lord, have mercy.” Amen.
Homily for 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year C 2025
Father Lord show me your mercy . 🙌🏾