Text: Luke 15: 1-3, 11-32
This is the second week of three (dear knows after that!) in which we’re sticking with this story from Luke’s Gospel that Jesus tells.
It’s such a rich text through which to explore the spiritual practice of beginning again … a practice which, as I mentioned last Sunday, is very much alive for me as I return from my sabbatical leave … aware of this desire to re-enter with intention, deliberateness, to not simply pick up from where we left off but to let this be an opportunity for freshness, for some life-giving shifts.
And what I realize is that this opportunity to begin again of course is not just for me at this particular moment in my life. ALWAYS there is the opportunity for each of us to begin again from wherever we are. Here’s a small yet significant example of what that could look like:
The day gets off to rocky start. Something happens to provoke anger or resentment, fear, frustration -- the kinds of energies that can overtake us, make us miserable for the entire day no matter what we’re about. But then what it is to get a hold of ourselves … to notice what’s happening, breathe deeply, and to make a deliberate shift … to begin again with the kind of spirit that called for, that we desire. ALWAYS, whatever our circumstance, we can practice beginning again. And we’re not just talking those big life transitions, but within our everyday moment-to-moment living, where most of our life happens!
That’s one of the things that’s so beautiful about the story Jesus tells. We’re given to see these three family members living their everyday lives, and each of them, from their very different circumstances, faced with the opportunity to begin again.
It’s my thought that over the course of these three weeks we would come alongside each member of the family in turn, opening to what wisdom there might be for us about beginning again, as we pay attention to the tug, the rub, the a-ha’s for us as we step inside the story with them.
What might be there for us today, and during the week, as we encounter, in this case, the father … the father who’s been doing as best he can to be about his business, all the while aware of the ache in his heart … the way it ended with his son. Every day, the nights especially, wondering, worrying … how is he? where is he? is he even alive? This hollowing out of his heart, it’s the cost of letting go. And the wear, the fatigue of unanswered longing.
This day, as he’s repairing the fencing, suddenly, out of nowhere he drops everything and begins to run. We only see him from behind … but we can hear him howling … that fearsome sound of his heart in his mouth. And there in the distance, this figure, barely visible, coming this way. The old man’s pace eventually slows down but there’s no stopping, until that figure, down on his knees, is gathered up in his wild embrace.
This past week as Daniel and I were sitting with this story, I said to him, what about those of us who feel a sense of inadequacy or even guilt at this point in the story knowing that we haven’t or couldn’t possibly respond with this kind of open-hearted generosity. And Daniel said something like, “well what if we’re being called to shift our gaze from disappointment in ourselves to the inspiration of this man’s great love -- isn’t it astounding?!” As if to say what if this isn’t so much about us as something beautiful being offered to us ... giving us to see this response as a possibility, this capacity as a possibility. And if we don’t already know it in ourselves, what is it to contemplate it … to open up to it … to invite it … to let it transform us.
Notice the father’s response is utterly spontaneous. He didn’t think his way toward his son. He caught a glimpse and he ran. True reconciliation it seems, isn’t so much a matter of our will (try as we might) as it is a gift of a great grace that rises up within us. I don’t think we can reason our way there, for it’s typically unreasonable. But we can be carried there on the wings of a story that breaks our heart, or by way of some holy impulse that visits us unawares. Most often it is miraculous … and by that I mean inspired, a divine conspiracy … the Holy Spirit breathing us together, working a great transformation in us.
The father’s wild embrace is followed by one extravagant gesture after another. A ring, a robe, a royal celebration … how can he possibly convey the fullness of his love, the depth of his joy? Notice there’s not a hint of him holding back … wondering what the neighbours will think, how they’ll judge him. Notice too it doesn’t occur to him to let the pain of the past temper his joy. He is entirely present to the gift and significance of this moment -- he sees it for what it is: his son who was lost is home, who might just as well have been dead is alive! There’s something about the way the father allows himself to follow his heart that in itself engenders the possibility of so much more.
Some pretty amazing clues here, aren’t there, for the practice of beginning again.
There is so much we are not given to see or hear in this story. Which is in the end part of its power … the way it causes us to wonder. The way it invites our own voice … makes room for our own heart.
I find myself wondering: what about the morning after? … when the food’s all gone, the music has died out, after the night’s sleep or wakefulness. And now they’re facing each other, the father and the younger son, over the breakfast table. What is it now to begin again?
What is it to find ourselves at this table?
Met by such a love, what do you find yourself saying … wondering … asking? What happens when you engage with such a love as this?
…
And then as you allow yourself to be in that gracious heart, the heart of that father, what flows for you and through you in this moment of beginning again with the young son?
To begin again in relationship --to truly begin again-- is to welcome the stranger in each other, to make room for the mystery of the other, and the mystery of our own selves … appreciating that within us all there is a story, and story upon story.
Behind every face is a soul at work.
That same morning-after, there’s the father’s encounter with the older son … newly aware of his hurt, and his fear of where he now stands with his father. Where there is pain there is a story.
But that’s for next week.
There’s already more than enough for us to work with today and this week.
This scene at the breakfast table -- it is there for us to return to all week long.
Surely already, there is plenty in our hearts that beckons the Holy Spirit to be at work in us.
And so, may we let her!
