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Luke 15:1-32

BY MONROE WRIGHT

Surely, after the Nativity Story, the second favorite Sunday school bathrobe drama is the Prodigal Son. If you are old enough, you have seen it represented several times.

After many cycles of the lectionary I have come to see the focal point of the parable not to be the loose-living son, but rather Father/God. Later in ministry I focused upon God happening to spot the son from afar. Then I came to understand that God was on a constant lookout for the wayward child.

“A wind too strong…” (Jeremiah 11:12) has wreaked havoc at one time or another in most of our lives. You feel spiritually disorientated.

Last spring my horse had more sense than I did. Bootsie was not walking up that steep mountainside. The sure way to avoid that path was to buck. I’m told that I went flying. Thankfully I cannot recall any of that trauma.

What was all too vivid was my loss of spiritual direction. Scripture, hymns, prayers had all faded. All that I could grasp those three months of recovery was “sweet Jesus, help me.” There were initial fears for life and limb and immobility. The most debilitating was anomie – loss of meaning – which was palpable.

A change of appointment and its move in the middle of all this added to my fears.

My anxiety did not dissipate quickly. A nurse who had patiently babied my fears through numerous wound dressings pulled me into reality from the pit of my self-pity. I was glum, fretting over the degree of recovery. She sharply reminded me of the riches of my life.

Following discharge, pessimism persisted. Home at last – to a living room decorated in an unintentional arrangement of chairs with un-hung pictures stacked in the corner. My perch was a comfortable chair with a makeshift stool to elevate both legs. I was frozen, struggling for not just comfort, but solace.

The final spiritual ah-ha was reading some excellent sermons. With my absence, laity at The United Church came forward to preach. When the Church Council had first thought of retaining a series of guest preachers, I suggested that invitations first be extended to members of the laity. They came forward.

From my perch in the comfortable chair, with a makeshift stool to elevate both legs – I read their sermons week-by-week. They were excellent. Their worth was that each spoke of their journey: prayer and faith and redemption and commission. These young and old saints spoke of lifelong spiritual formation and dramatic turning points.

For a pastor it is good to be a listener. For a banged-up cowboy it’s great to find refuge with old friends and in a new church. Even from the start of this recent adventure I had never been left alone.

Marty Dorst, the wrangler, was not only at the lead but was there behind after the fall. He was holding me up, sitting on that mountain-side, reassuring me that I was in good hands. And I had been – all along.

The Rev. Monroe Wright is pastor of The United Church in Washington, D.C.