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2003 Sowing Seeds Writing Contest Winner: Sermon "The Story of the Prodigal Son" by Susan Joyce of Farmville, Virginia No companion but solitude joins me on this arduous journey back home. I must make my way back alone. The wounds formed by years of finding my place in this world reopen with each step that leads me closer to my destination. As I close my eyes to shield them from the morning sun, I am brought to a place of vague remembrance - a life so different from the one that brought me to my desolation, but yet it is a part of me. My father's home. The weariness in my mind and body from the journey is causing my mind to play tricks, and I can make out my father's face as if it were only yesterday that I left. And I remember. I remember the frustration, the pain, the anger. And the scenario of our last confrontation replays once again. I was young and impetuous. Being the younger son, I felt I had no place at home. I would have had to wait in a long line of successive rituals before I would be entitled to some sort of inheritance, if, in fact, any were left. It caused me to be angry and resentful. I felt as if I was being forced to fit into some restrictive mold into which I did not belong. There was a yearning in me that there was more to life and myself than what I was experiencing. Since I could not break free within the confines of my home, I sought freedom by leaving. At the time, I did not question what my father's motives were in honoring my request for my inheritance. I was asking that he compromise tradition and give me now that which I might one day be entitled to, and he did it. In my selfish desire to be gone, I was oblivious to the heaviness of his heart. I was thankful only to have the means to be on my way. I cannot pretend that I did not enjoy the immense freedom and sheer ecstasy that I felt, walking down the road, with the past at my back, and the future at my face. The world was mine to tame, or so I thought. The lights of the city were a beacon to my thirsty soul. I thought there I could be the person I was meant to be, a butterfly emerging from his cocoon. Friends were as abundant as my resources in the early years. Life was fresh and exciting, and wine, women, and cheap thrills replaced any memories I had of my former life. But in my eagerness to please, I had made no preparation for establishing a long-term income, nor long-term friends. My new friends, or as I have come to more accurately describe them, my new acquaintances, were committed only to my money, and as my finances dwindled, so did their attentiveness. I could only speculate what new thrill had quickly displaced me. At first I thought it coincidental that they chose other diversions. Now I am a wiser fool. Humbled by the situation, I was alone and penniless, and without the prospect of the situation improving I found myself working as swine herder, a keeper of pigs. My life of frivolity had been reduced to one of futility, and my home, a filthy wasteland of muck and mire. I looked to my employer for compassion, for encouragement, and found only the hollow eyes of one who, like me, was concerned only for his own survival. I found myself holding back from the pigs enough food to stifle the grumblings in my belly. In the stench of that sty I realized I was about as far from home in the abstract sense as I could ever be. As I surveyed my surroundings, I thought of the contrast of my life on my own, and the life I enjoyed in my father's house. I had not conquered the world, the world had conquered me. In my effort to find myself, I had lost all sense of who I really was. I knew defeat, but could I openly admit it? Could this repentant son find forgiveness in his father's arms? And for the first time I wondered, why did my father let me go? Was he as glad to be rid of me as I was to be going? Or was it something else, something much deeper than I could see, or even comprehend? The memories of home overwhelmed me, and the tears formed rivers in the filth of my surroundings. As I took in the desolation of my surroundings, I remembered that my father treated even his servants with love and respect. I was torn. Torn between going and staying, torn between pride and repentance, torn between hope and despair, and ultimately, torn between life, (pause) and death. I knew then what I had to do. Sometimes, going home is a hard way to go, but I would go home. What would I say? What could I say to let him know how I feel? I would tell him that I was sorry, but those words seemed so shallow. They could not reflect the depth of shame and remorse that I had experienced. And could he even find it in his heart to forgive me? I would tell him that I was not worthy to be called his son. And I was not. I feared that he would agree, and would dismiss me before the words could stop flowing. I could ask him for a job as one of his hired hands, but could I be so bold as to assume that I might even find a place for me there? I began the journey home, daily struggling with the prudence of my decision. The scenery is familiar to me now. And my steps quicken, almost unconsciously. My breathing becomes more rapid as the intensity of my fear increases with each step closer to home. Fear slows my steps, but the desire for security and belonging draws me like a magnet to home, the essence of my being. At times my fear had almost repelled me back to my nomadic existence, where the insatiable search for acceptance found no sanctuary. But always I closed my eyes to block out the face of fear. And with my eyes closed, I envisioned the homecoming, a welcoming back. No, it is too much to ask. This time voices hurl me back into reality. A figure is running toward me. He seems much too old to be my father. But even in his advanced age, his feet are flying down the road, barely touching the dusty path. Hesitantly at first, I lengthen my stride, and I know in my heart that it is him. Arms outstretched, we soon become an entanglement of embracing, fearing release, lest we lose each other once again. As the well-rehearsed words begin to pour from my lips, my father's voice muffles them in his excited arrangements for a party. The fatted calf, his best ring? Joy illuminates his face like a candle in the darkness, and tears flowed from his eyes, forming rivers in the crevices in his face formed by time. I was lost, but now I am found. I was dead, but I am alive. I have come home to be received once again in my father's arms. My older brother is not quite as joyful as the others. Now he feels the resentment I felt in my youth. And I am sorry. Like me, he felt our father's love had to be earned, and he had been diligent. He did not realize the wealth that was available to him only for the asking. I had gone away, I had hurt the people I loved, and still, I am my father's son. I am loved. It is a hard thing to comprehend. For my father, it is as if I never left. But for me, I cannot forget what that journey taught me: those arms will always be stretched open in love, always waiting, for me to come home. You can email Susan at ------------------------------------------------------- Honorable Mention Sermons "What's Your Favorite Bible Verse?" by Charley Jones of Evington, Virginia For information on our 2004 Writing Contest, please click here. |