There is an old story about how hunters trap monkeys in some parts of the word. It is a simple but effective trick. They take a heavy container and cut a hole just wide enough for a monkey’s open hand to enter. Then they place something tempting inside: a nut, a piece of fruit, and leave it where the monkey can find it. Soon the monkey arrives. It smells the fruit. It looks around. It slips its hand through the opening and grabs the prize.
But now there is a problem. With its fist clenched around the fruit, the hand is too large to come back through the hole. The monkey pulls. Nothing. It twists. Nothing. It panics as it can hear the hunters approaching. Freedom is one simple decision away: open the hand. Drop the fruit. And run for your life. But the monkey will not let go. And that is how something so small can cost something so precious.
We may smile at the monkey and shake our heads in surprise, but Sirach gives us a mirror in today’s first reading: “Wrath and anger are hateful things, yet the sinner hugs them tight.” Sometimes nobody is holding us prisoner. We are holding the thing that keeps us imprisoned: the insult, the betrayal, what she said, what he did; and what they should have done but did not do. And sometimes we remember it with astonishing accuracy. We cannot remember where we put the wallet or car keys five minutes ago, but we can remember exactly what somebody said or did to us twenty years ago.
Last Sunday, Jesus taught us what to do when a brother or sister sins against us: go and speak to the person. Do not gossip first. Do not recruit an army. Seek reconciliation. Today’s Gospel continues almost like Peter has been thinking about last Sunday’s lesson all week and so he says to Jesus, “Lord, if my brother sins against me, how often must I forgive? As many as seven times?” You can almost hear what Peter really wants to know: Lord, at what point may I finally say, “That’s it. I’m finished with you”? Seven sounds generous. But Jesus replies in a way that implies: Stop counting!
Then He tells a story. A servant owes his king a debt so huge that repayment is impossible. Judgment is coming. The servant falls down and begs for patience. And the king does something surprising. He does not only extend the deadline. He cancels the entire debt. The servant walks out free. Imagine that walk home! No debt. No prison. No fear. His family is safe. His future has been handed back to him. Then he meets another servant who owes him a much smaller amount. And suddenly the man who had just begged for mercy develops memory loss. He grabs the man by the throat. “Pay me what you owe!” That is the tragedy of the Gospel passage: he remembered the debt against him but forgot the mercy given to him.
And perhaps that is our problem too. We remember wounds better than grace. We remember the people who disappointed us, but forget the times God gave us another chance. We remember who failed us, but forget the confessional where God heard the worst about us and still said, “You are forgiven.” We remember the debt. We forget the mercy.
This past Friday marked twenty-five years since September 11, 2001. We remember the horror. We remember the lives lost, the families changed forever, the first responders who ran toward danger while others were running away. But perhaps an anniversary asks us to remember something else. Remember the courage. Remember strangers helping strangers. Remember people lining up to give blood. Remember communities praying; Churches filled up with worshipers. Remember how suddenly life looked fragile, relationships looked precious, and things we had considered terribly important became very small. The question is not only, “Do you remember what happened?” The deeper question is, “Do you remember what it taught us?” Because selective memory can become a prison.
And that brings us to something we do at every Mass. Shortly before Holy Communion, Jesus Himself puts extraordinary words on our lips: “Forgive us our trespasses, as we forgive those who trespass against us.” We say it so easily that we may miss how demanding that prayer is. We ask God to forgive us the way we forgive others, which also implies that God should deny us forgiveness the way we refuse to forgive others. And within moments comes the Sign of Peace. In many cultures that sign is often a handshake. One traditional explanation of the handshake says that people extended an empty right hand to show another person: “I carry no weapon. I come in peace.” What a beautiful image for today’s Gospel passage. Think again of the monkey. As long as its fist is clenched around the fruit, it cannot be free. And here is the beautiful part: A clenched fist cannot shake another hand. At Mass, we first pray, “Forgive us… as we forgive.” Then we turn toward another human being and open our hands in peace. The Church places the Rite of Peace here precisely as an expression of peace, communion, and charity before we approach Holy Communion. Here, the liturgy is asking: What are you still carrying in that hand? An old insult? A betrayal? An argument? A debt someone owes you? What must you release before that hand can truly become a hand of peace?
Forgiveness does not mean pretending the wound did not happen. Forgiveness does not mean calling evil good. It does not mean remaining in an abusive or unsafe situation. It does not mean there should never be consequences. Forgiveness means: What you did to me may be part of my story, but I refuse to let it become my prison. Because sometimes the person who hurt you has moved on with life. And you are still standing beside the trap, fist clenched around something from ten years ago.
The hunters are getting closer. Your peace is disappearing. Your joy is disappearing. Your prayer is becoming bitter. And Jesus is not standing there shouting, “Pretend it never happened.” He is saying: Open your hand. Remember how much you have been forgiven. Remember how patient God has been with you. Remember the debt Christ cancelled for you. And then, by His grace, begin releasing the debt you are holding against somebody else.
My dearly beloved in Christ, some things are simply too small to cost you your freedom. At the Our Father, loosen the fist. At the Sign of Peace, open the hand. And at Holy Communion, receive the One who opened His hands on the Cross for you. Drop the nut. Remember the mercy. And walk free.
Homily for 24th Sunday in Ordinary Time Year A 2026
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