I would have told the story from the cow’s perspective. We are all familiar with the parable of the
lost son and the layers of metaphor in that tale. To be honest, I am not sure that we have quite figured out what
Jesus meant by telling that story.
So, it was about this time of year, about ten or eleven
years ago, that I walked in and sat down and thought about that cow. The spiritual director I had been seeing
suggested that I try this. Evening
prayer, that is, not thinking about a cow.
As I recollect, it was probably a Tuesday or Wednesday. It was the middle of Lent. Growing up in the buckle of the Bible belt
south in a thoroughly low Protestant tradition, this was going to be a stretch
for me. In retrospect, the suggestion
was probably made to me so I would consider breathing and just being
still. I tend to shy away from those
people who talk about conscious breathing; I start to worry that a long
discussion about the healing properties of aromatherapy is around the corner,
and that will lead to a discussion on diminishing my carbon footprint, and then
that will lead to a discussion about only eating organic food and then the
power of going gluten-free, (which reminds me, I really must share the story of
gluten free communion wafers one day), and by that time I am hyperventilating
again because all those voices of anxiety, judgment, doom and guilt start
screaming. But, these conscious
breathers are probably on to something, if you try to follow your breath for a
while, it will ground you. Drinking a
glass of cold water or plunging your hands in ice has the same effect too. So does a harsh slap in the face and while
eating six peanut butter cookies in less than six minutes might not be the
healthiest choice, it has been known to ground me a time or two. Also, my friend Deborah, who grounds me all the time at work tends to remind me, "well...that might sound harsh..." or "Kathleen, the face, girl....the face..."
Rituals are very calming to me and rituals attached to
ancient church liturgy even more so. As I sat
down in the nave, I didn’t notice that I was the only one sitting in the
nave and everyone else was sitting in the choir. My first thought was, “Wow, what church has a choir sing on
Tuesday evening with so few people attending?”
My second thought was, “churches everywhere really are the same after
all, and the choir really is a sacred cow.” I was also kind of impressed that two priests showed up,
vested. As, the priest stepped down
from the choir and across the crossing, toward me, I thought, “how very kind he
is to come a personally welcome me.”
Still obsessing over the architecture and the ascetics of the place, I
had failed to realize, I was the only one sitting in the nave. While, I suspect, the priest was welcoming
me, he also was coming to tell me that it was the congregation sitting in
the choir and the service would be held there and I was welcome to join
them. He also kindly said I could sit
in the nave and just watch. I suppose
that tipped him off that I might not be Anglican. Since, then I have learned to pass for a good Anglican and once I
even passed for a Catholic for an entire weekend. I fooled a priest, who was
shocked to learn I was so thoroughly Protestant. Jokingly or maybe not, he told me I would come home one day. I am still trying to figure out what that means. And thus began my love affair with the Book
of Common Prayer and Anglican spirituality.
I have never mastered nor will I ever the finer points of
breathing and I can not even claim to have mastered the art of praying the
Psalms, (I always get confused about when to stand, when to cross myself, what
is said in unison, what is said in response, who leads and who follows), but I
do find comfort in the rite of Evening Prayer.
I find it comforting to pray what Jesus prayed. The psalms were his prayer book. He had them memorized. I also find it comforting to recite the
Apostle’s Creed, words that were written down in the fourth century. Words that still carry power and truth today.
The gospel reading for that particular night in Lent was the
parable of the lost son. Everyone
knows that story. Disney made it
popular with the Lion King. But that
night, the priest asked a very odd question.
In the story, who most represented you, who most represented God, and
who had the most to lose? My answer-
the fatted calf. No, I did not share my
answer aloud, as we always did in Sunday School growing up. I was trying to blend in. And I am pretty sure the fatted calf was not the answer he was looking for.
We can all relate to being lost and being found, the depth of parental love, sibling rivalry, anger at being unfairly treated, not getting what you deserved, and maybe even just how far God runs. But it was the calf that lost the most. I wondered and still do every time I hear that parable, if the calf was angry or if she tried to run away, or if she bit the father, or if it hurt when she bled, or did she imagine she would grow up to be momma cow and or does the cow tell us that the price of life and ultimately love is just that- death to self and what you thought life was going to be. The most striking and frustrating thing about the parables of Jesus is he does not tell us the meaning. And perhaps that is the point, the message of the Gospel is that you have everything you need to be fully human.
When God ran.
I think that might be a more fitting title than the lost son. God ran that day as the father running to
meet his lost son. God may have run
that day as the cow but choose to stand still at some point instead. And at times we have to be the cow that
chooses not to run. As older sons, we
sometimes need to see “God” running to us so we can invite him in to have
dinner. As lost sons, we sometimes need
to remember that it is “God” inside of us that causes us to come back home for
dinner.
Blessings during the last week of Lent,
Kathleen
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