March 14, 2010
Luke 15.22-24.
Last week I made a confession about myself. I said that I was a bit stubborn on occasion. This week, since we’re now in our Fourth Sunday of Lent, I think it’s time to make another confession. And that confession also going to be a shock to most of you: I am a bit of a rebel.
Now you wouldn’t know it by just looking at me standing before you. Here I am in my purple Chasuble, with my crisp black clericals and my dog collar on. You would think that I conform pretty well to that image that is expected of me. But I am a rebel and in many ways I see what I am wearing as a sign of that rebellion.
Growing up I was very headstrong. If I didn’t want to do something I did not do it, no matter what anyone said.
But at age 13, an even happened that completely turned my world upside down. At thirteen, this nominally Lutheran boy decided to become a Catholic priest. Now, I know this isn’t your average form of rebellion. But for me, becoming catholic and becoming a priest was the ultimate form of rebellion.
While people my age experimented with different kinds of music, so did I, though mine was Gregorian chant. While other teenagers were maybe tempted to try pot or other exotic-smelling herbs, I was getting high (spiritually high) from incense. And while my friends were going to concerts, I sat enraptured during Mass.
But my rebellion was probably hardest on my poor parents. I think there were times when they might have thought it was easier having a kid who actually did go the sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll road, rather than the celibacy-incense-and-high-Mass route. I don’t think they understood what I was doing or why. It was a kind of rebellion that simply boggled their (and most of my peers’) minds.
Now I am not saying that I am the Prodigal Son to my parents. I’m not because in my rebellion I left and never went back. I stand here before you, twenty-seven years later exactly what I thought I would be—a priest. But turning away from what my parents’ held dear, turning away from generations of good Protestant upbringing, was not easy. There were times when I realize that the route I chose was very different than that of all of my friends who went on to have so-called “normal” lives and “normal” jobs. And there were many times when it was downright hard. There moments when I looked at their faith and the life I could’ve had and thought: maybe it would have been easier.
I think, to some extent that is why I can relate so well to the story of the Prodigal Son. We have all been down that road of rebellion and found that, sometimes, it is a lonely road. Sometimes we do find ourselves lying there, hungry and lonely and thinking about what might have been.
But for me, in those lonely moments, I have tried to keep my eye on the goal. I am, after all, one of those people who habitually makes goals for myself. I always need to set something before me to work toward. Goals are good things, after all. They’re essentially mile markers for us to set along the way.
The reality of goals are, however, that oftentimes—sometimes more often than not, I hate to admit for myself—they are not met sometimes. It was a really growing moment in my life when I stopped beating myself up and learned not to be too disappointed in myself when certain goals have not been met in my life.
Goals are one thing—good things. Hopes and dreams are another. There was a point in my life when I had one particular hope. I wanted this particular thing to happen so badly that I almost became obsessed with it. And when it finally did, it was fine, but then it was done and I was on the other side of that hope. And on the other side of hope can be desolate place. It can feel very empty over there.
That “other side”—the other side of our goals (once we’ve achieved our goals) and our hopes and dreams (when our hopes and dreams finally come true) can be, I think, even more dangerous places than the place that leads up to them.
In our Gospel for today, we find the Prodigal Son have some big goals and some pretty major hopes and dreams. First and foremost, he wants what a lot of us in our society want and dream about: money.
He also seems a bit bored by his life. He is biting at the bit to get out and see the world—a place many of us who grew up in North Dakota felt at times in our lives.
He wants the exact opposite of what he has. And that’s a difficult place to be. He only realizes after he has shucked all of that and has felt real hunger and real loneliness what the ultimate price of that loss is.
God does occasionally lead us down roads that are lonely. God does occasionally lead us down roads that take us far from our loved ones. And sometimes God allows us to travel down roads that lead us from God. But every time we recognize our loneliness and we turn around and find God again, we are welcomed back with open arms and complete and total love.
There’s another aspect tot eh story of the prodigal son that is not mentioned in the parable. The prodigal has experienced much in his journey away. And as turns back and returns to his father’s house, we know one thing: that prodigal son is not the same son he was when we left. The life has returned to is not the same exact life he left. He has returned to his father truly humbled, truly contrite, truly turned around.
And that’s the story for us as well. In my life I have come to appreciate my family’s ancestral Protestant faith. And I have come to appreciate and respect the lives my friends and peers have chosen for themselves. I no longer see my life as a rebellion against those things. I now see my life has an embracing of those things—a healthy respect and appreciation of those things. But those things, I realize now, are not right for me. They are not me. This—for better or for worse—is me. And I am happy with it and for it.
God at no point expects us to say the same throughout our lives. Our faith in God should never be the same either. In that spiritual wandering we do sometimes, we can always return to what we knew, but we know that we always come back a little different, a little more mature, a little more grown-up. No matter how old we are.
We know that in returning, changed as we might be by life and all that life throws at us, we are always welcomed with open arms. We know that we are welcomed by our God with complete and total love. And we know that we are, lost as we might be sometimes, we will always be found. And in that finding, we are not the only ones rejoicing. God too is rejoicing in our being found.
So, let us this day rejoice in who we are. Let us rejoice in our rebelliousness and in our turning back to what we rebelled against. Let us rejoice in our being lost and in our being found. Let us rejoice especially in the fact that no matter how lonely we might be in our wanderings, in the end, we are always, without fail, embraced with an embrace that will never end.
Luke 15.22-24.
Last week I made a confession about myself. I said that I was a bit stubborn on occasion. This week, since we’re now in our Fourth Sunday of Lent, I think it’s time to make another confession. And that confession also going to be a shock to most of you: I am a bit of a rebel.
Now you wouldn’t know it by just looking at me standing before you. Here I am in my purple Chasuble, with my crisp black clericals and my dog collar on. You would think that I conform pretty well to that image that is expected of me. But I am a rebel and in many ways I see what I am wearing as a sign of that rebellion.
Growing up I was very headstrong. If I didn’t want to do something I did not do it, no matter what anyone said.
But at age 13, an even happened that completely turned my world upside down. At thirteen, this nominally Lutheran boy decided to become a Catholic priest. Now, I know this isn’t your average form of rebellion. But for me, becoming catholic and becoming a priest was the ultimate form of rebellion.
While people my age experimented with different kinds of music, so did I, though mine was Gregorian chant. While other teenagers were maybe tempted to try pot or other exotic-smelling herbs, I was getting high (spiritually high) from incense. And while my friends were going to concerts, I sat enraptured during Mass.
But my rebellion was probably hardest on my poor parents. I think there were times when they might have thought it was easier having a kid who actually did go the sex-drugs-and-rock-and-roll road, rather than the celibacy-incense-and-high-Mass route. I don’t think they understood what I was doing or why. It was a kind of rebellion that simply boggled their (and most of my peers’) minds.
Now I am not saying that I am the Prodigal Son to my parents. I’m not because in my rebellion I left and never went back. I stand here before you, twenty-seven years later exactly what I thought I would be—a priest. But turning away from what my parents’ held dear, turning away from generations of good Protestant upbringing, was not easy. There were times when I realize that the route I chose was very different than that of all of my friends who went on to have so-called “normal” lives and “normal” jobs. And there were many times when it was downright hard. There moments when I looked at their faith and the life I could’ve had and thought: maybe it would have been easier.
I think, to some extent that is why I can relate so well to the story of the Prodigal Son. We have all been down that road of rebellion and found that, sometimes, it is a lonely road. Sometimes we do find ourselves lying there, hungry and lonely and thinking about what might have been.
But for me, in those lonely moments, I have tried to keep my eye on the goal. I am, after all, one of those people who habitually makes goals for myself. I always need to set something before me to work toward. Goals are good things, after all. They’re essentially mile markers for us to set along the way.
The reality of goals are, however, that oftentimes—sometimes more often than not, I hate to admit for myself—they are not met sometimes. It was a really growing moment in my life when I stopped beating myself up and learned not to be too disappointed in myself when certain goals have not been met in my life.
Goals are one thing—good things. Hopes and dreams are another. There was a point in my life when I had one particular hope. I wanted this particular thing to happen so badly that I almost became obsessed with it. And when it finally did, it was fine, but then it was done and I was on the other side of that hope. And on the other side of hope can be desolate place. It can feel very empty over there.
That “other side”—the other side of our goals (once we’ve achieved our goals) and our hopes and dreams (when our hopes and dreams finally come true) can be, I think, even more dangerous places than the place that leads up to them.
In our Gospel for today, we find the Prodigal Son have some big goals and some pretty major hopes and dreams. First and foremost, he wants what a lot of us in our society want and dream about: money.
He also seems a bit bored by his life. He is biting at the bit to get out and see the world—a place many of us who grew up in North Dakota felt at times in our lives.
He wants the exact opposite of what he has. And that’s a difficult place to be. He only realizes after he has shucked all of that and has felt real hunger and real loneliness what the ultimate price of that loss is.
God does occasionally lead us down roads that are lonely. God does occasionally lead us down roads that take us far from our loved ones. And sometimes God allows us to travel down roads that lead us from God. But every time we recognize our loneliness and we turn around and find God again, we are welcomed back with open arms and complete and total love.
There’s another aspect tot eh story of the prodigal son that is not mentioned in the parable. The prodigal has experienced much in his journey away. And as turns back and returns to his father’s house, we know one thing: that prodigal son is not the same son he was when we left. The life has returned to is not the same exact life he left. He has returned to his father truly humbled, truly contrite, truly turned around.
And that’s the story for us as well. In my life I have come to appreciate my family’s ancestral Protestant faith. And I have come to appreciate and respect the lives my friends and peers have chosen for themselves. I no longer see my life as a rebellion against those things. I now see my life has an embracing of those things—a healthy respect and appreciation of those things. But those things, I realize now, are not right for me. They are not me. This—for better or for worse—is me. And I am happy with it and for it.
God at no point expects us to say the same throughout our lives. Our faith in God should never be the same either. In that spiritual wandering we do sometimes, we can always return to what we knew, but we know that we always come back a little different, a little more mature, a little more grown-up. No matter how old we are.
We know that in returning, changed as we might be by life and all that life throws at us, we are always welcomed with open arms. We know that we are welcomed by our God with complete and total love. And we know that we are, lost as we might be sometimes, we will always be found. And in that finding, we are not the only ones rejoicing. God too is rejoicing in our being found.
So, let us this day rejoice in who we are. Let us rejoice in our rebelliousness and in our turning back to what we rebelled against. Let us rejoice in our being lost and in our being found. Let us rejoice especially in the fact that no matter how lonely we might be in our wanderings, in the end, we are always, without fail, embraced with an embrace that will never end.
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