The Extravagant Son and Father . . .

Image by Liz Lemon Swindle

The Experience of Spirit . . . Spirituality and Storytelling . . .

By John Shea                                                                       

A Reflection for the Fourth Sunday of Lent

On the hill beside his home the Father waits.  He has been there before.  He sees his son coming from a distance and lifting his robes above his knees he runs to greet him. The servants who are out in the field watch the old man running past them, his breath short, his eyes never wavering.  By the time the younger son sees him, the father is on top of him. He embraces his son and weeps down his neck.             
                                     
“O Father,” said the son, his arms never leaving his side.
“Bring the robe,” said the Father.  The servants had gathered around.

“I have sinned.”
“Bring the ring.”

“Against heaven.”
“Bring the sandals.”

“And against you.”
“Kill the fatted calf.”

“Do not take me back.”
“Call in the musicians.”

“As a son.”
“My SON,” and these words the father whispered into his ear, “was dead and has come back to life.”

“But as a hired hand.”
“My SON was lost and is now found.”

The party had no choice but to begin.  The older brother was out in the fields. He had worked late as usual.  The sweat of the endless day dripped down his face.  When he drew near the house, he stopped at the top of the hill.  He heard the sounds of rejoicing and dancing.  He grabbed one of the servant boys and asked him what was happening.  The boy said, “Your younger brother has returned and his father has killed the fatted calf and is rejoicing.

“Go, and tell my father I will not party with him,” said the older brother.
The servant boy entered the house and within moments the father came out of his home.  He pulled his robe above his knees and, out of breath but with his eyes unwavering, climbed up the hill to where his older son was standing.

“O my beloved son!” the father said, and embracing him, he wept upon his neck.
“All these years,” said the older brother, his arms at his sides. 
“I have slaved for you.”
“O my beloved son!” said the Father.  And with the sleeve of his robe he wiped the sweat from his son’s forehead.

“And you have never given me a calf so that I might party with my friends.  But this son of yours comes groveling home having squandered your inheritance with prostitutes; and for him, for him you kill the fatted calf.”

“O my beloved son!” said the father a third time.  “You have been with me always and all I have is yours.  But if any son of mine was lost, surely this feast will find him.  If any brother you know is dead, surely this party will bring him to life.” 

Then the father kissed both of the earth-hardened hands of his oldest son.

Suddenly the father was old.  He was a tired man.  He turned and moved back down the hill.  When he reached the bottom, he noticed his younger son had come out of the house.  The robe he had put on him had slid off one shoulder.  The ring he had given him had been too large for his starved finger and barely clung to the knuckle.  The leather of the sandals had already cut a ridge on his ankles.  The father looked back up at his oldest son.  He seemed to be frowning.  The sweat was still on him.  Between them both stood the father.

The music from the party, that at the moment none of them were at, drifted from the house and hung in the air between the three of them.  Suddenly the father was no longer tired.  He lifted his robes, and there between the son on the hill and the son outside the house, the joy of his heart overflowed into his feet.  In broken rhythm be began to dance, hoping the music he could not resist would find the hearts of the two brothers and bring his sons, his true inheritance, back to him. . . .
 

The Prodigal Son by Carrie Marsh

The Spirituality of Multi-tasking!

 

 

Two Drops of Oil

Spiritual Story by Paulo Coelho

A merchant sent his son to learn the Secret of Happiness from the wisest of men. The young man wandered through the desert for forty days until he reached a beautiful castle at the top of a mountain. There lived the sage that the young man was looking for.

 However, instead of finding a holy man, our hero entered a room and saw a great deal of activity; merchants coming and going, people chatting in the corners, a small orchestra playing sweet melodies, and there was a table laden with the most delectable dishes of that part of the world.

 The wise man talked to everybody, and the young man had to wait for two hours until it was time for his audience.

With considerable patience, he listened attentively to the reason for the boy's visit, but told him that at that moment he did not have the time to explain to him the Secret of Happiness.

He suggested that the young man take a stroll around his palace and come back in two hours' time.

"However, I want to ask you a favor," he added, handing the boy a teaspoon, in which he poured two drops of oil. "While you walk, carry this spoon and don't let the oil spill."
The young man began to climb up and down the palace staircases, always keeping his eyes fixed on the spoon. At the end of two hours he returned to the presence of the wise man.

 "So," asked the sage, "did you see the Persian tapestries hanging in my dining room? Did you see the garden that the Master of Gardeners took ten years to create? Did you notice the beautiful parchments in my library?" Embarrassed, the young man confessed that he had seen nothing. His only concern was not to spill the drops of oil that the wise man had entrusted to him.

"So, go back and see the wonders of my world," said the wise man. "You can't trust a man if you don't know his house."

Now more at ease, the young man took the spoon and strolled again through the palace, this time paying attention to all the works of art that hung from the ceiling and walls. He saw the gardens, the mountains all around the palace, the delicacy of the flowers, the taste with which each work of art was placed in its niche. Returning to the sage, he reported in detail all that he had seen.

"But where are the two drops of oil that I entrusted to you?" asked the sage.
Looking down at the spoon, the young man realized that he had spilled the oil.

 "Well, that is the only advice I have to give you," said the sage of sages. "The Secret of Happiness lies in looking at all the wonders of the world and never forgetting the two drops of oil in the spoon."

Poetry & Prayer . . .

 

Ready for Spring (by Annette L. Sherwood, 2013)

 I stand here watching
 waiting, listening
 in early Spring
 I see the tiny bud
 shooting up from
 the tip of the branch
 in anticipation, I remain still

 I take in the cold air,
 watching a few snowflakes fall by,
 even feeling some of them
 melt on my cheek
 I breathe in this Holy moment

 I did not plant the seed,
 nor spend effort to encourage
 original years of growth
 No, that was not my work
 only yours, Dear One I stand here with you now,
 holding your hand,
 awaiting Spring

 We’ve made it through
 another harsh spell,
 cold, windy, bare
 facing together a New Season,
 we stand in a patch of wet snow
 as it melts at our feet

 Here I am, to Rejoice with you
 as we experience New Growth
 little buds are formed,
 the flowering has already begun
 together or apart, we delight
 and share this moment
 knowing New Life,
 fresh perspective, and green leaves
 are arriving,
 even as the last storm is passing…

Spring starts blossoming now

 The winter of our hearts will
 begin to fade into cold
 distant memories

 Joy begins sprouting
 with our eyes,
 in our smiles,
 as it softens our hearts,
 leading us to laughter

 Hope enters,
 which we know
 will bud,
 into the flower,
 and then the seed,
 gently dropping to feed the birds

 The passing order of this Season
 feels like it is rooting us on
 toward New Life

 Before long,
 these cold days will pass away
 into warm ones with
 mild breezes
 and
 Easter Blessings
 carrying a new promise for Life

 In Gratitude,
 I bear witness
 to Your Beautiful Spring
 and Celebrate!

Prayer in the Poem . . .



Image by sjh/osu

 

Walking My Path
by Annette L. Sherwood 2013)

Seeking God in my own time and place
there is something Holy in my seeking
My seeking –
the unknown path I walk
steady and slow my pace
sure – and steady
purposeful steps taken
I feel each one touch the ground
there is a holiness to it –
I feel it-
the confidence comes from
accepting my own rhythm –
with Grace of the creative universe
- slow - and constantly moving
steady, strong, sure
as obstacles come to me
I wait, pause, reflect,
and then take my own trusted
course of action –
not always welcomed
and yet – my assured path
step, step
I move again
comfortable within myself
assured that I have wisdom
in God’s guidance
listening and leading
moving deeper within
leaving some behind
with a prayer for peace
and taking another brave step toward
Wonder, Awe, Unknown –
where God dwells
beyond my understanding

The Umbrella Prayer . . .

As a drought continued for what seemed an eternity, a small community of farmers was in a quandary as to what to do. Rain was important to keep their crops healthy and sustain the way of life of the townspeople.

As the problem became more acute, a local pastor called a prayer meeting to ask for rain. Many people arrived. The pastor greeted most of them as they filed in. As he walked to the front of the church to officially begin the meeting he noticed most people were chatting across the aisles and socializing with friends.

When he reached the front his thoughts were on quieting the attendees and starting the meeting. His eyes scanned the crowd as he asked for quiet. He noticed an eleven year-old girl sitting quietly in the front row. Her face was beaming with excitement. Next to her, poised and ready for use, was a bright red umbrella. The little girl's beauty and innocence made the pastor smile as he realized how much faith she possessed. No one else in the congregation had brought an umbrella. All came to pray for rain, but the little girl had come expecting God to answer.

Terror and Transformation . . .

 

The Dew Drop 
    Peter Hughes     

As the sun rose, a dew drop became aware of its surroundings. There it sat on a leaf, catching the sunlight and throwing it back out. Proud of its simple beauty, it was very content. Around it were other dew drops, some on the same leaf and some on other leaves round about. The dew drop was sure that it was the best, the most special dew drop of them all.

Ah, it was good to be a dew drop.The wind rose and the plant began to shake, tipping the leaf. Terror gripped the dew drop as gravity pulled it towards the edge of the leaf, towards the unknown. Why? Why was this happening? Things were comfortable. Things were safe. Why did they have to change? Why? Why?

The dew drop reached the edge of the leaf. It was terrified, certain that it would be smashed into a thousand pieces below, sure that this was the end. The day had only just begun and the end had come so quickly. It seemed so unfair. It seemed so meaningless. It tried desperately to do whatever it could to cling to the leaf, but it was no use.

Finally, it let go, surrendering to the pull of gravity. Down, down it fell. Below there seemed to be a mirror. A reflection of itself seemed to be coming up to meet the dew drop. Closer and closer they came together until finally...

And then the fear transformed into deep joy as the tiny dew drop merged with the vastness that was the pond. Now the dew drop was no more, but it was not destroyed.

It had become one with the whole.
 

Transfiguration, Transformation!

 

Servant Freed!
I stand in the darkened fissure of the stable,
lit only by the glowing face of the boy-child.
Parent eyes glistening with holy wonder,
while heavened stars point to
mangered Messiah.
I listen, I wonder, I breathe,
for I am only servant.

I stand in the darkened temple portico
observing those of the Law encircling
the teacher-child.
His face radiates with
purpose and passion about God’s call!
I listen, I wonder, I breathe,
for I am only servant.

I stand in the Cana garden among
the six stoneware water jars.
His mother moving his mission,
“Do whatever he tells you.”
Waters of purification touched
with words of transformation
become intoxicating wedding wine.
Speak these words over me . . .
Fill me to the brim with courage as
I listen, as I wonder, as I breathe,
For I am only servant.

I stand along the steep grassy edges of the
partial rocky hillside,
His face emits energy with each spoken,
“Blessed are you!”
I listen, I wonder, I breathe,
for I am only servant.

I stand in the upper room, corner-concealed,
yet his eyes beckon me to move
within his touch.
His carpentered hands accept each foot
as with the artistry of fitting rough hewn wood.
With tender, soothing, healing – intimate
knowing, he bends to wash my feet.
Upon this embrace – God-light, God-love
streams into my very soul –
I listen and hear within me:
Untie her.
What do you want me to do for you?
Pick up your mat.
I do not condemn you.
You are worth more than many sparrows.
You are no longer servant – you are friend.
I wonder, I breathe . . .
sjh