The Prodigal
The call me the “prodigal,” and I guess that name suits me better than any other, for indeed that’s what I am: reckless . . . wasteful. And I guess there are a few other names you could add to the list, like black sheep of the family . . . ingrate . . . drunkard . . . sinner. But there is one name, though, that I never appreciated and one I fear I’ve lost forever. That name is “son.”
I’ll admit to you that I’ve always been headstrong. I’ve always been selfish and self-centered. That always seems to be the root of it, doesn’t it? I’ve always had to have things go my own way. I’ve always had to have what I wanted, when I wanted it, in the way I wanted it. So I guess it’s not all too surprising that I did what I did. A lot of people in my predicament would point a finger, blame others. But I have no one to blame but myself. I've been travelling a road toward self-destruction practically my whole life.
I’ve had a lot of time to think about it. There’s nothing much else to do while tending swine all day but think. There’s nothing like rolling around in the mud with a bunch of pigs to set your priorities right. The thing is, I had it all and now I have nothing. I've sunk about as low as one person can sink. But it’s not the money. And it’s not that I’m hungry. It’s a lot more. For you see, I didn’t just squander my inheritance, I squandered my father’s love and trust. Money somehow I can recoup; food I can always scrounge for. But my father’s love . . . I just don’t know if I’ll ever be able to get that back.
Yes, I hunger. I do long to fill my stomach with the pods on which the swine are fed. But I hunger much more for my father . . . for his love and forgiveness . . . for him to make things right again like he used to when I was young. Yet I know that I am the one that has to make things right this time.
And so, I go back to my father. Perhaps I have a chance at his forgiveness. If he won’t take me back as his son, perhaps at least he’ll have me as his servant. I know that my father is tender and compassionate. He is slow to anger and rich in kindness and faithfulness. He is known to forgive faults and transgressions and sins. Today I will test where my father’s real wealth lies. Today I will see just how rich my father truly is!
Believe me, I’m not here looking for your sympathy, but neither do I want your judgment. For look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you’ll find a little bit of the prodigal there too. Some of you out there, are you really so much different from me? Yes, I squandered my inheritance, but are there gifts that you too waste? Gifts misused? Gifts unused? Gifts not even recognized? Yes, I was a drunk. But are some of you perhaps inebriated with a sense of your own self-importance or with power? Yes, I went to prostitutes. But what are the false loves that you chase after? . . . Money? Possessions? Prestige? Look within yourselves, my friends, and perhaps you will find a bit of me. Perhaps the road home is a journey we both need to take.
And so, I’m off. Wish me luck. I don’t know how all of this is going to turn out. The journey is a long one. But it’s worth it when you have a father like mine!
