The Prodigal Son

A Homily for the Fourth Sunday of Lent

If I were an artist,

I would paint a portrait

of the prodigal son.

I would endeavor to capture the emotion of that moment when he returns home

and falls into the arms of his loving father.

.

I would paint him wearing a ragged shirt and,

through shreds of cloth,

I would depict protruding ribs

encasing his empty stomach. 

His feet would be bare and swollen

from his long journey home.

 

And the knuckles on his hands would be scabbed 

with wounds from barroom brawls

and fights with members of rival gangs.

 

But--now comes the hard part--how would I depict 

the expression on his face?

How would I capture the transformation of his soul

the moment that his father

wraps his arms around his shoulders?

 

Would the boy's eyes be open 

and filled with relief?

Or would they be closed

with tears flowing down his cheeks?

 

Would he struggle to stand beneath the weight

of such unwarranted love?

 

***

 

When I was a small boy,

each night at bedtime, 

my father would lift me up

to touch the feet of Jesus on the crucifix

that hung on the wall of my bedroom.

 

This recollection 

is one of my earliest and most cherished memories.

And this memory has become a prayer...

a prayer that, at the end of my life,

I will reach to touch the feet of Christ

--no longer covered with blood--

but bearing scars inflicted by my sins.

 

At that moment, 

I pray that the memory 

of my father’s grip on my chest

will be transformed into  a tight embrace...

the forgiving embrace 

of the Son of God.

My Savior...your Savior...the Savior of all the world.