The Perfection of Faith
Rev. Michael J.V. Clark • August 9, 2025
“To live is to change; to be perfect is to have changed often.”
Newman’s provocative insight reveals that if we don’t change, we’re not living. A fish that stops swimming is in fact going backwards - but we don’t just want to live, we should want to become saints. But there’s an inbuilt opposition to that growth. You see, man cannot achieve his ultimate goal using his own reason, or under his own power. It’s like the deliberate imperfections of aerodynamics; the instability that permits a plane to fly.
This frustration is what makes us fundamentally religious: we seek answers to big questions outside of ourselves, rather than within. But you see openness to growth is what the virtue of Faith looks like in a concrete way. Why? Because the virtues are the way we chart the operation of God’s grace in our lives. It’s how we measure whether we’re maturing spiritually or not. Faith is, as the Letter to the Hebrews defines it:
“The assurance of things hoped for; the conviction of things unseen.”
Heb 11:1
The problem with this is we use the word, ‘Faith,’ to describe different things. Here, the Bible is talking specifically about the theological virtue of Faith, which is infused by grace. But all that goes way over our heads if we can’t define what a virtue is, nor what grace is.
Let’s start with the virtues. What we call a virtue is a character or quality that disposes a person to morally good acts. We work out what they are by examining our behavior, and the behavior of others, synthesizing the principles for good living, and putting a label on it. According to Catholic thought, building upon the foundations of Aristotle, we can distill four ‘cardinal’ virtues, that can be known by reason, and on top of these we have three ‘theological’ virtues that God has revealed to us in the Scriptures.
The cardinal virtues are prudence, justice, fortitude, and temperance, and each of these represents a ‘golden mean’ on a sliding scale between two other characteristics: one of which is an excess, the other a deficiency; and both of which are vices. The golden mean does not necessarily sit in the center between the two - it can be skewed more one way, or another. So:
- Prudence sits between Cunning, and Recklessness
- Justice sits between Rigidity, and Laxity
- Fortitude sits between Foolhardiness, and Cowardice
- Temperance sits between Austerity, and Licentiousness
These natural virtues can be discerned by thinking logically and carefully, and they apply to all men, for all time. But they are very, very hard to achieve, and there is a gap at the end of the day. If you practice these virtues, you may be good, but you won’t be perfect. Indeed, you cannot be perfect.
To be perfect, requires God’s intervention - and we call that grace. Here’s where the three theological virtues come in. They are:
- Faith
- Hope
- Love
You already know where these come from. I suspect the majority of you who are married will have heard the verse at your weddings:
“So now faith, hope, and love abide, these three; but the greatest of these is love.”
1 Cor 13:13
The theological virtues don’t operate like the natural virtues. They don’t sit on a sliding scale, because each of them is given as a gift from God. They do, however, interact with the natural virtues. In fact, in individual circumstances they alter the golden mean, moving the needle in one direction, or another. It is the operation of the theological virtues that changes us from being good to being perfect, or, to think of it another way, by grace we can be made saints.
The Letter to the Hebrews gives eleven examples of men and women through salvation history that did something different because of the virtue of Faith. God’s action in their lives shifted the needle and they made choices they otherwise would not have made, because they recognized, by Faith, who it was that was doing the asking.
What is true of Faith, is also true of the other two theological virtues, so let’s see how they interact with the natural virtues. Let’s take Fortitude, the mean between Cowardice and Foolhardiness. Faith moves the needle in the direction of Foolhardiness - it makes us do things against the odds, or against the evidence, because we believe God and trust His commands. An excellent example is Peter’s encounter with the Lord walking on the waters: Peter’s Faith overrides his caution, and since it is the Lord who bids him come, he comes - until of course his Faith fails, and he sinks into the waves.
So let’s take another example of Temperance, the mean between Austerity and Licentiousness. The theological virtue of Love may move the needle in the direction of Austerity in specific cases. Think, for example, of the commitment of Carthusians, or Trappists, or hermits, they eschew not just luxury, but even basic human goods. They would not be exercizing the natural virtue of Temperance, except that Love, for Christ, and the salvation of souls, requests it of them - and if it is done out of Love (and not for other motives) the virtue is perfected by being changed.
We have not mentioned Hope yet, which is the confidence that what God promises will in fact be fulfilled. Taking the natural virtue of Justice, we might observe that Hope asks us to move in favor of Laxity - taking a longer view, and showing mercy, rather than requiring a strict application of law in the here and now. How often do parents exercise this quality! A brilliant example is Our Lady at Cana when she says “do whatever he tells you” to the servants. Her Hope modifies what Justice requires, which would be the honest admission that the wine has run out.
So at the heart of the virtuous life is openness to grace. It challenges our nature, and expands our horizon from the topical to the eternal. With the intellect and will that we have by nature, it is possible to be good, but for most of us the report card is mixed. By grace, it becomes possible for us to be perfect - and that works by showing us a deeper logic - the logic best expressed by Christ’s self-sacrificial love on the Cross. This is my body given up for you. Just like the other examples, Christ’s gift of himself on Calvary moves the needle of virtue. Don’t settle for being good enough - be perfect, as your heavenly Father is perfect.
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I have a friend I don’t see very often. I’m fond of him. He comes from an African nation, and we have been corresponding for over a decade. He’s also the wealthiest person I know. I won’t say too much about his biography, because I don’t want to identify him, but we first came to be friends because he had questions about Jesus’s teaching on wealth, and a mutual friend thought I might be able to help. Perhaps the most famous quotation Jesus ever said is Matthew 19:24: “ [i]t is easier for a camel to go through the eye of a needle than for a rich person to enter the kingdom of God. ” This is the line that haunts my friend. It haunted Jesus’s followers too. They responded: “who then can be saved?” The Lord’s answer was my starting point: “ With man, this is impossible. But with God, all things are possible .” Matt 19:26 In this reply, the Lord is very clear. Without God’s intervention, wealth presents insuperable barriers to salvation - indeed, to the extent of making it impossible. But it is not wealth per se that is evil; it is what it can do to the soul that is evil. In other words, grace is required. Grace is what alters the natural consequences, because God intervenes, either directly or indirectly. God desires all men to be saved - the wealthy and poor alike - and he offers sufficient grace to all of us to respond to his invitation. Today’s Parable of the Rich Fool is part of a landscape of comments the Lord makes on economic matters. It is easy to take one, or two verses, out of context and create a false narrative. Groups of Christians have tried to claim His teaching for their own - ‘see - he agrees with us here…’ but that can only be done by selective editing. I’ll say it plainly: Jesus is not a communist, and he’s not a capitalist, either. He is not against wealth, but it is not a sign of God’s favor either. In short, he’s just not that interested in it - and there’s the point. He demonstrates perfect detachment from it. Delving more deeply into the Gospel story, you might be forgiven for thinking: why does the Lord respond with a parable about a rich fool, when the man in the crowd simply asked him to adjudicate a property matter? It’s a good observation. The parable does not seem to be directly on point. The point arises because the narrator has not shared any background information about the questioner. He doesn’t even have a name. We only know he is a man because he’s asking about inheritance, and the way the Lord addresses him: simply as ‘man.’ The Lord knows the secrets of our hearts. Looking at the man, he sees the motivation behind the question, and the parable thus addresses what he has not said about himself - that he is greedy, and avaricious. The questioner is, of course, the rich fool building new barns. He is the one who has made himself rich in things that are not of God. He is the one who needs to hear the message of conversion. To fully understand the parable, however, we need to consider the verses which follow, which are not included in the lection this week. The Lord’s warning against covetousness (which is the excessive desire for possessions) is given because he knows how incredibly strong that drive can be. We may think the problem is about possessing things, but the truth is the things begin to possess us, and blind us to eternal truths. The next few lines in the discourse are actually about anxiety: “ do not be anxious about your life, what you will eat, nor about your body, what you will put on .” He references the ravens who are amply fed by God, and the lilies of the field whose beauty has nothing to do with how hard they work. Here we see the heart of the problem - a lack of Faith. We become covetous, and driven by the accumulation of things because we don’t really trust that God will provide what we need, when we need it. And if he does provide more than what we need, we fail to see that is an invitation from God to do even more. What is a basic truth is that God does not distribute his goods evenly. We are not all equally attractive, or intelligent, or gifted - and the way that he distributes those goods is not an indicator of God’s favor. Wealth then is more of a challenge than a blessing. It can become the instrument of much good in the world, if only we let go, and trust the God to whom it all belongs, anyway. God’s blessing comes in the privilege he gives to choose how to direct the abundance of his gifts. We have no need of barns, because we don’t fear the future. So we could boil down the Lord’s teaching on wealth to these four principles: (1.) don’t make an idol out of money - the rich fool has become consumed by a fortune he wrongly considers is the result of his cunning and skill; the more he stores up, the more anxiety he has, until the time comes when he ceases to be productive and instead has become fortune’s slave; (2.) don’t be greedy - everything that exists belongs ultimately to God, because He made the Earth, and everything that is in it; we are called to stewardship over the goods of the Earth, and we have a responsibility to direct what we don’t truly need to the propagation of the Gospel, and; (3.) don’t be stingy - the Lord does not want us to be worried about the future; if you have worked hard and done well once, of course you can do it again. If he has endowed you once, have you exhausted the generosity of the Most High God? If anything, God actually encourages us to be extravagant: “ Fear not, little flock, for it is your Father’s good pleasure to give you the kingdom. Sell your possessions, and give to the needy…For where your treasure is, there will your heart be also ” Lk 12:32,34 Finally (4.) don’t leave it to someone else to be charitable. All of us have a responsibility to be generous, no matter how large or small our fortune may be. Beware of the subtle cloak of envy - which hardens our hearts by making us bitter and resentful. Instead, fix your eyes on building up the kingdom, and the Lord from whom all blessings flow will satisfy every longing of your heart.
“Father, I pray all the time and God doesn’t answer me.” I want to say something this week about prayer - and in particular what we can expect of God if we pray. The Gospel message looks superficially simple: ask, seek, knock - and a promise that everyone will be satisfied if they do so. Have we been set up for disappointment? Does God only do this for certain people? Is it a promise without conditions? Well, the Lord answers that question: If you then, who are wicked, know how to give good gifts to your children, how much more will the Father in heaven give the Holy Spirit to those who ask him? The simple answer is that God, who is supremely good, will not give bad gifts to us, his children, so there is a condition to the triple injunction: ask, seek, knock. The condition is connected to God’s goodness. Imagine if it were another way. Imagine God simply did our bidding, like a genie in a lamp, granting whatever wish we ask for - what would ensue would be chaotic - no-one would have any stability upon which to base future decisions: or, in other words, we would no longer be free to act, and morality would be emptied of all its content. You could be walking over the Brooklyn Bridge, and, surprise, it disappears and you fall into the East River, just because someone else prayed that God would remove it. “But I would only ask for good things” - the boast is poor. If that were so, you would become the first benevolent dictator the world has ever seen. To have every wish granted just for the asking would give us limitless power. J. R. R. Tolkein illustrates this beautifully in his famous trilogy when the Elven Queen of Lothlorien, Galadriel, is offered the one ring: ‘You are wise and fearless and fair, Lady Galadriel,’ said Frodo. ‘I will give you the One Ring, if you ask for it. It is too great a matter for me.’ Galadriel laughed with a sudden clear laugh. ‘Wise the Lady Galadriel may be,’ she said, ‘yet here she has met her match in courtesy. […] And now at last it comes. You will give me the Ring freely! In place of the Dark Lord you will set up a Queen. And I shall not be dark, but beautiful and terrible as the Morning and the Night! Fair as the Sea and the Sun and the Snow upon the Mountain! Dreadful as the Storm and the Lightning! Stronger than the foundations of the earth. All shall love me and despair!’ Galadriel contemplates the possibility of limitless power - and recognizes it for what it is - a test. Having passed the test, she must depart. In a nutshell, that’s the story of Redemption. You see, remaining holy if one were omnipotent is only possible for God, not for man. Our motives are mixed because our perspective is limited. Not only can we not pray as we ought, we cannot see what good we need, either. So why doesn’t Jesus say: ask for good things, seek for good things, knock on good doors? Well, he does, actually. The disciples clearly catch him praying when they beg him to teach them how to pray like John taught his disciples. He teaches them the perfect prayer: the Lord’s Prayer. You will notice the text is slightly reduced from Matthew’s version which we learn in the cradle. It is distilled to the bare essentials - and the first petition is hallowed be your name. We say this line so frequently - and by selecting the antiquarian verb, hallow, which in every other context has been entirely replaced by its synonym, sanctify - the meaning often escapes us. It is really rather odd. Its passive construction tells us that we are not the ones doing the hallowing - God is the one who hallows himself, and we merely recognize it. When we pray, we recognize that God isn’t a genie in a lamp, but instead has a plan for our salvation, the includes working through sufferings. God does not promise that we will never suffer, and whilst suffering is not his direct will, he does permit it to happen, in order to safeguard our freedom. That is to say, suffering exists because people can choose to be good, or evil, and our actions have real consequences. Prayer then is a name given to a process, or as I like to say, a family of human behaviors, in which the individual will is set aside in favor of discovering what God’s will is - and aligning myself with that will, I have peace the world cannot give. Therefore, in my petitions, in my thanksgivings, in my worship, I set my heart on discovering what is fully good, true, and beautiful. It’s as simple, and yet as complicated, as that. If I desire to align myself with God’s will, the change I’m asking, seeking or knocking for in prayer is more in me than in the world. We get it wrong when we conclude prayer is going in one direction, from me to God, when in fact it’s much more the other way around. Prayer is opening myself up for God to illuminate my will, to discern what is truly good for me, and for the world. But if God changes me, because I submit to him, then the world changes also, because I become different. But there is one privilege I will share with you. God’s will is not monolithic - there are infinite possibilities, and multiple ways of reaching the same destination. It’s as if God is constantly rewriting the script, observing the free choices moral agents make, and governing the conditions that permit us to see him for who he is. If our heart is aligned with God’s, then we can pray that his will be done in a certain way. If I am good, and my desire is holy, then God may hear my petition, and the good I ask, seek or knock for, might come about in this way, so it is worth asking. But if it does not, that does not mean my prayer has not been answered - it often means we simply don’t like the answer.
“No-one would remember the Good Samaritan if he’d only had good intentions - he had money as well.” Jesus uses parables to explain deep truths - things that we need to mull over for a long time; things we need to keep coming back to. The word means to throw alongside - it’s the same root as the ‘parabolic’ in a parabolic curve - the kind you don’t want to see in your 401k. You could think of it as a boomerang - instead of giving a direct answer that you might forget, the Lord paints a vivid picture with a memorable story, so you can keep returning to the ideas again, and again. It’s the perfect strategy. But there’s a risk. Parables, you see, have multiple layers. There’s a superficial reading, perhaps one or two slightly deeper readings, and then there’s the core teaching, which makes all the little details in the story sparkle like diamonds. Only then can you say you have received what the Lord wished to convey. So let me disavow you of the superficial interpretation: the moral of the story is not simply: “be kind to people in need” - that is the most basic teaching, and does not need a parable to convince you of its suitability. Indeed, the Lord teaches this directly on multiple occasions: e.g. “love one another, as I have loved you.” It’s not about being kind. So what is it about? Well, to understand a parable, you need to pick it apart, and see the details. There are many, but let us concentrate on a handful: The traveler’s direction: from Jerusalem to Jericho The traveler is described as “a certain man” - anthropós tís The Samaritan is wealthy and generous He uses oil and wine to minister to him He takes him to an Inn He gives two denarii. He will return The traveler’s direction is important. Although a journey of merely 18 miles, it involves a descent of 3439 feet to the lowest city on Earth. Jericho is 864 feet below sea level, whereas Jerusalem is on a high mountain. Jericho, in this sense, represents hell - the bowels of the Earth. Man has turned his back on Jerusalem, where the presence of God tabernacles among men, and instead is journeying into the pit. He’s going the wrong way - and thus the victim is not entirely innocent. He is in a bad place because of his previous bad choices. The Greek word for man here is very broad. Almost every interpretation of this parable assumes that the man going to Jericho is a Jew - and therefore the parable is all about Jews receiving mercy from their despised enemies, the Samaritans. That is there by implication - remember there are multiple layers of meaning - but to conclude this about the parable you have subconsciously imported a detail which is not explicitly there. The parable takes on a very different vibe if the robber’s victim was also a Samaritan, doesn’t it? Who’s to say he isn’t? The Lord just tells us it was a certain man - an everyman. The robber’s victim is you - and me. The Samaritan represents someone who is entirely different from us - he is not our friend. He is a foreigner in this land - and he is extraordinarily generous and wealthy. The quotation I began with is from the late Margaret Thatcher, quondam Prime Minister of the United Kingdom. She was manipulating the parable to make a different point - that wealth generation enables us to be charitable. She’s not entirely wrong there, but she misses the point. We don’t actually know why the Samaritan is wealthy - we’re not told he is hard working - it’s just supremely obvious he is able to flash the cash however he chooses. Note carefully the mention of tending the victim’s wounds with oil and wine. What does that remind you of? Who else do you know of that uses oil, and wine, to heal people’s wounds? Maybe the picture is becoming clearer…but let’s move on. Next, the Samaritan uses his beast (redolent of the Sacrifice of Isaac on Mount Moriah) to take the victim to an Inn. This is not an irrelevant detail. I have told you before whenever you come across a ‘hapax legomenon’ - a word that is only used once in the Bible - it should scream out at you. Here is such a feature - the word, pandokíon is only found here in Luke’s Gospel. It is a construction from the word pas, meaning ‘all,’ and dechomi, which is the verb to receive. The Samaritan, having tended to the victim’s wounds with oil and wine, takes him personally to a place that receives all. What kind of a place might that be? The Samaritan, we are told, cannot stay with the victim. He must go away, but he tells the innkeeper he will return, and gives him two denarii to cover expenses. Again, the two denarii are important. A denarius was a single Roman coin. It represents a day’s wages, and thus symbolically, a day. The Samaritan is the one who makes arrangements for two days only. He must return on the third day. I hope by now the details are coming together to give an accurate picture of who the Samaritan is. It is, of course, Christ himself, and the parable is all about man’s need to receiving the healing that only he can provide and only he can pay for. As St. Teresa of Calcutta once said to a wealthy donor: God has lots of money. But the Samaritan has a place to take us - an Inn, which receives all, and is staffed by people he entrusts to look after us until he returns. This Inn is, of course, the Church. Only here can the oil and wine of Christ’s Sacraments be administered with his authority to raise us up when we find ourselves half-dead on the road to hell. Margaret Thatcher was right that the Samaritan had both good intentions, and resources, but she failed to spot the sting in the tail. The Lord says at the end: ‘go, and do likewise.’ This is impossible. No-one has the purity of intention or abundance of resources to do what the Samaritan does. Oh no. Instead, ‘go, and do likewise’ is an invitation to assist him in doing it. Only he will not pass by on the other side; only he will move towards the victim who got himself into a mess by turning away from God; only he has the oil and wine; only he will return on the third day. But there’s a final question. When the Samaritan goes away for three days, where is he going? Well, since man had set out on the road to hell, someone had to complete the journey. The Samaritan is the only one who could go to hell…and back.
Today’s parable, most commonly referred to as the Parable of the Prodigal Son, found in Luke 15:11-32, is often celebrated as a compelling illustration of God’s boundless mercy. The image of the father running to embrace his wayward son upon his return from a life of dissipation is a powerful testament to divine forgiveness. Yet, while this aspect of the story rightly captivates our attention, there is another dimension to the parable worth exploring: the contrast between two categories of sin—sins of the flesh, and sins of the spirit—as embodied by the two brothers. By shifting our focus, particularly to the older son, we uncover a deeper truth about human nature and the subtle dangers that threaten our relationship with God. But first a little theological anthropology. Human beings are a composite of body and soul, a union that gives rise to dual inclinations. On one hand, we are drawn to material comforts which satisfy the body—money, food, and physical pleasures—temptations we might call "beastly" because they align with the instincts we share with irrational beasts. On the other hand, we are also susceptible to spiritual temptations—for example, envy, prestige, or the desire for praise—which we might term "angelical" because they reflect the higher, immaterial aspect of our nature, akin to the spiritual beings created by God we commonly call, angels. All types of sin are serious, but the Parable of the Prodigal Son suggests that the angelical sins, exemplified by the older son, pose a greater peril precisely because of their clandestine nature. The younger son’s story is familiar: he demands his inheritance, squanders it in reckless indulgence, and eventually returns home humbled and repentant. His sins are of the flesh—self-evident and tangible. When his material resources run dry, he comes to his senses, recognizing the emptiness of his pursuits. His contrition is visible, his pathology clear, and thus, his return to the father is straightforward. He has chosen immediate gratification over lasting good, but his crisis forces him to confront this mistake, opening the door to reconciliation. The older son, however, presents a more complex figure. Note he too receives his inheritance (so Scripture is careful to stress he has not been cheated) but he remains in his father’s house, outwardly obedient and dutiful. Yet, when the father celebrates the younger son’s return, the older son’s reaction reveals a cankerous, and deeply sinful heart. He accuses his father, saying, “Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fattened calf for him!” (Luke 15:29-30). His words betray a relationship with his father built not on love, but on a transactional sense of duty. He does not even call the prodigal one “my brother” but “this son of yours,” distancing himself both from his sibling and the father’s mercy. He is the great accuser, adding salacious detail to the narrative of which the father was previously unaware, as if that might revoke his mercy. Pope Francis, in his Angelus address on March 22nd 2022, highlights this flaw: “The elder son bases his relationship with his Father solely on pure observance of commands, on a sense of duty. This could also be our problem… losing sight that he is a Father, and living a distant religion, made of prohibitions and duties.” The consequence is a rigidity that blinds the older son to the familial bond he should share with his brother. His refusal to join the celebration—“he refused to go in” (v. 28)—symbolizes a self-imposed exile from the father’s love, driven by pride and bitterness, but one that is interior. Outwardly, all is well; inwardly it is a mess. Pope Benedict XVI, in Jesus of Nazareth, notes that for such people as the older son: “Their bitterness toward God’s goodness reveals an inward bitterness regarding their own obedience… In their heart of hearts, they would have gladly journeyed out into that great ‘freedom’ as well. There is an unspoken envy of what others have been able to get away with.” The older son’s obedience, though outwardly impeccable, is hollow. He has renounced immediate pleasures but he is angry about it. He harbors resentment, envying his brother’s escapades while clinging to a self-righteous sense of grievance. This contrast reveals a profound truth: sins of the spirit, like pride and envy, are actually harder to root out than sins of the flesh. The younger son’s dissipation is obvious and, in a sense, easier to treat because it is exposed by its consequences. He knows he has done wrong and seeks forgiveness. The older son, however, is more pitiable. His sin is hidden, masked by his adherence to rules, and he feels no need for repentance. He believes he is in the right, yet his heart is further from the father’s than his brother’s ever was. As St. Paul writes, “If I have faith to move mountains, but have not love, I am nothing” (1 Corinthians 13:2). Without love, even the most rigorous obedience is empty, and profits us nothing. Our Lord underscores this in his teaching elsewhere: “The prostitutes and tax collectors are entering the kingdom of God ahead of you” (Matthew 21:31), he warns the scribes and Pharisees—those who, like the older son, reduce faith to a rule-based system. Obviously, the Lord does not condone the antics of prostitutes, or tax collectors, but he does note that their repentance is more sincere. Christianity is not a checklist of obligations but a call to transformation: not “tell me what I must do,” but “tell me what I must be.” One in which the past does not govern the future. The father in the parable goes out to both sons, offering love and reconciliation, yet only one accepts it fully. The younger son’s childish faith falters under temptation but matures through repentance. The older son’s faith, equally immature, cannot cope with the reconciliation of sinners, trapping him in a cycle of judgment and isolation. The enduring legacy of Pope Francis’s pontificate may well be his challenge to this hypocrisy—calling out those who cling to regulations while secretly judging others in their hearts. We must repent of both types of sin, of course. The prodigal’s excess is not excused, but his visible struggle allows for a clearer path to healing. The older son’s spiritual cancer, rooted in pride, not unlike Satan and the fallen angels, is more treacherous because it festers unseen. It is a basic fact of pathology that a hidden infection is more difficult to treat. To live as true children of the Father, we must move beyond mere duty, embracing a faith grounded in love—for God, and for our brothers and sisters, prodigal or not. Only then can we recognize that the Father’s mercy is pure gift; entirely unmerited. He wishes to dress us with robe, ring, and sandals, but we cannot ever deserve it. To be like God is to be extravagantly generous, to give until the pips squeak, and to rejoice at the reconciliation of sinners.