More Prodigal Thoughts

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Still on Luke 15:11-32.

I've been thinking a lot about the older brother these past few days.  It seems to me that he is as lost as his brother, though in a different way.

The younger brother took his inheritance, left home, squandered the inheritance, and ended up as someone's hired hand.  He "hit bottom," as we say in 12-Step language, and he turned back.  He didn't expect much, but he knew he had made a wrong turn.

The older brother, on the other hand. stayed on the farm.  He "worked like a slave," and "never disobeyed" a command.  In fact, he left home too; he didn't recognize himself as the heir, the beloved child of the father.  He thought he needed to be a slave.  He has squandered his inheritance, and made himself a hired hand.

Paul tells the Galatians that they have been adopted by God: "So you are no longer a slave but a child, and if a child then also an heir, through God" (Gal. 4:7).  He is urging them not to return to the economy of servitude, of debts and payments and rules that earn merit.  "You were called to freedom, brothers and sisters" (5:13); don't waste it!  Celebrate.

There's more than one way to waste God's love.  We can walk away in defiance, but the subtler (and probably more common) way is to insist on earning what God wants to give us in grace.  Such a posture works well for institutions that feed on feelings of guilt or duty, but it's not what Jesus came to bring us.

In my life I've been both brothers.  Both of them have a lot to learn.  I think the older brother has the harder task, because all around him people applaud his earnest service.  But the real inheritance eludes us as long as we think about earning.  The gift of God is infinitely greater than any wages.

And the goat?  That goat is yours anytime you ask.  It's up to you to go get it.  You are free.

Are you trying to earn God's love?  Let go.  Let God love you.  Enjoy the party!

Prodigal Thoughts, part 1

I am seized by the readings for this coming Sunday.  We have the story of the Prodigal (Luke 15), and  the Epistle (2 Cor. 5:16-21) that is also appointed for the feast of Mary Magdalene (who knew a thing or two about prodigal love).  The themes and messages are too much for one sermon, or one blog post.  I'll see when it's time to stop!

One path I'm thinking about is the nature of righteousness.  "For our sake he (sic) made him to be sin who knew no sin, so that in him we might become the righteousness of God: (2 Cor. 5:21).  OK, so setting aside the question of how Jesus was "made to be sin," let's think about the righteousness of God.  What is that righteousness like?

It's clearly not like the righteousness of the older brother.  He has indeed followed the law, done his duty.  He certainly thinks he's been righteous.  And I think a lot of people would agree with him, and would feel just as he does when his ne'er-do-well brother returns to a big welcome.  If righteousness is about obeying the commandments, he's entirely in the right and his father owes him an apology.

But the father has another idea, and God has another righteousness.  It seems that the righteousness of God is about welcome, about forgiveness.  In Christ "there is a new creation."  Now, some people would distinguish reconciliation from forgiveness (maybe that's for another day), but the father in the story is clearly not waiting for the son to admit his faults.  He's just glad he's back.  He has already forgiven him.

We often distinguish righteousness from self-righteousness, and that's one way to approach it in our lives.  But the righteousness of God has no counterpart of self-righteousness.  Letting go of self is part of God's righteousness.  God is not standing at the door waiting for us to confess and measure up.  We need to confess in order to find the courage to enter the door, not in order to appease God.  God has the door open all the time.

So today, I'm basking in the righteousness of God.  Paul says that in Christ we might become that righteousness.  That's another huge idea, for another day.  Today I'll just take in this little part.

Come home.  All is forgiven.



P.S. Our monthly newsletter comes out on Saturday, with more on reading this story.  Tune in then!
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Under the Wings

Just a word about the Gospel for yesterday, Sunday.  I love this passage more each time I read it.  Jesus is the mother hen, who loves us and will die in order to save us.  We don't have the sense to get in under the wings most of the time; we think we know what to do, so we run around and get picked off by foxes and other predators, in our own hearts as well as "outside."  Jesus calls us, and grieves when we run the other way.

When will we let go of the idea that Lent is a time of sadness and grief?  It begins that way, but each week we are reminded instead of God's overwhelming love for us.  We may read God as angry, we may project our anger onto Her, but She is waiting with open arms and big wings.

Spend some time this week visualizing those wings embracing you.  Whatever storms and dangers are out there for you, take refuge under the wings.  God is crazy about you.

Give Me Lent!

A week after Ash Wednesday, Lent is starting to sink into me - or I'm sinking into Lent.  And this is a gift.

Benedict says that the monk's life should be a perpetual Lent.  He doesn't mean (only) the deprivations or disciplines we associate with Lent.  He includes that, but the real point is that the monastic life is aimed at conversion of life.  This is a continual journey, not a destination we reach in our lifetimes.  Lent is a time when all Christians are reminded of this call to conversion and intentional seeking after God, laying aside whatever stands between us and God.

We don't have to wait for Lent.  We don't have to be monastics to live that life all year round.  But monastics also don't get a pass from Lent: "I'm already doing all that one might do in Lent."  No.  Our lives are continually dogged by entropy, by slackening and forgetting and falling away.  Just so, we are continually in need of returning, of starting over, of tightening up.  However and wherever we live, we humans live between entropy and intention.

So here it is, another Lent.  Another spring.  Another call to start over, to return.  Another chance to remember how much God loves us, and to respond with love in turn.  What a gift!

I resist the whole "giving up" thing about Lent, especially if I think I will return to that practice after Easter.  But sometimes I can let this time be a time to change me, to let God begin the work that continues after that glorious day.  Yesterday I realized that the mystery novels I've been reading the past two weeks are sordid.  I love a good puzzle, and some writers manage to offer one in a world where characters love and serve one another.  But I've run out of those, and as I look for a new author I see I settled for some who write well, but create a world I don't want to live in.  So I'm giving up fiction for Lent.  When Easter comes, I'll see if I can find an uplifting author.  But for now, I have plenty to read that will feed me, and more time to pray and walk and listen to God.

How are you with Lent?  Are you eager to return?  Do you just ignore the whole thing?  Perhaps your tradition doesn't include Lent; how is that for you?  Whatever your practice, or lack thereof, do take the opportunity today to hearken to God's voice.  She's singing love songs to you.  Listen.

And, for fun, our flowers.  The geraniums don't know they're outdoor plants.  The orchids don't know they're supposed to be hard to keep growing.  Don't tell them.

On the Mountaintop

I've spent a lot of time these past few days pondering the readings for Transfiguration Sunday.  Moses' time with God on the mountain especially struck me this year (Exodus 34:29-35).  The intimacy of that converse really landed.  Moses has these moments with God, speaking face to face, but no one else is invited.  And no one else is invited.  It matters that these moments are so private.  The people see the impact of that encounter on Moses' face, but they do not share in the encounter itself.  And Moses knows better than to try to explain.  He covers his face with a veil, to make things as ordinary as they can be for people who can't stand the full-wattage presence of God.

Just before this, in the daily Office readings Jesus told his followers to pray in secret (Mt 6:1-6).  He'll say it again on Ash Wednesday.  His point, it seems to me, is that true prayer is precious and intimate.  To really encounter God we need to pull in a bit, to shelter that tender thread, to let it take root in us rather than run around exclaiming and announcing that we've prayed, or received a message.  There's a time for proclamation, of course, but the deepest encounter with God takes place in private.

This past week I celebrated a milestone in my recovery.  On Saturday my home group makes a big deal out of these milestones, and I was looking forward to sharing the message that continued recovery is possible.  But I got a greater gift.  There was a snowstorm - not a bad one, but sufficient to spook some people.  A lot of people.  My group, which usually runs about 20, had five people including me.  But those five people included some of my favorite companions on the journey.  So instead of a lot of hoopla, and gifts I don't need, I got deep sharing and love with a few people.  It felt, not like Moses on the mountain - that came during my private prayer time - but it felt closer to God.  I found I was grateful for the small group.

I wonder if you can relate to this.  Have you had moments when your encounter with God needs sheltering?  When you need to not tell people what happened?  When you need to veil your face because it shines too brightly?  I hope so.  If you haven't, go into your room and shut the door and pray to your Mother in secret, and your Mother who sees in secret will reward you (Mt 6:6).

And when the light comes, hug it close.  Cover your face, close your door.  Be with God.