Hunger Brings Us Home by Fran Salone-Pelletier

Readings: Joshua 5:9, 10-12; 2 Corinthians 5:17–21; Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

Have you ever stopped to wonder why Laetare (“Rejoicing”) Sunday is placed in the midst of the most solemn penitential season of our liturgical year? Is it psychologically sound to break Lent’s somber pattern to prepare us for entrance into even deeper solemnity as Holy Week approaches? Understanding that liturgy is in some sense a theater of remembrance, is it dramatically appropriate to change the mood and then recommit participants to deeper drama?

Perhaps the answer is all of the above—and none of the above. Perhaps the sudden impact serves as a sharp reminder that we are, after all, people of joy.

We are a people who see the crocus pushing its way through snowy barriers. We take note of unexpected sprigs of green emerging from the tiniest of sidewalk cracks. We are a people who laugh in the midst of our tears, who find hope in the darkest despair. We are “fools for Christ” commissioned to pull comedy out of crisis. We are Laetare lovers sent to lighten life’s burdens with joy.

Where do we get our wellspring of happiness? Are we simply fools, or foolishly simple? Or does our joyfulness spring from the fact that sometime, somewhere, somehow, we tasted God and saw goodness? I think that this is the case.

Each of us, at some point in our lives, decides to strike out on our own. We demand our share of God’s estate. Unbelievably bold in our request that God give us the property promised as inheritance, we seek it now. Maybe our presumption is that all will go well without God. Maybe we just figure that we know enough, are strong enough, have enough personal resources to be totally independent. Perhaps we decide that we no longer need to stay home or be near to our God. It could be that we, like children of every age, want to assert our independence and individuality. We protest that we do not like our parent God and want to belong to another family.

Whatever the motivation, having tasted and experienced God’s goodness, we “collect all [our] belongings and set off to a distant country” (Luke 15:13). And God lets us go. God always lets us go, freely—perhaps wantonly—on our way. But never does God forget us.

We have a wonderful time spending all our resources. It is fun doing our own thing, singing our own song, squandering everything and retaining no remembrance of the past nor care for the future. Spend we do until we are spent in the process. Empty and broken, drained of energy and restless for lost vitality, we begin to hunger for peace and replenishment. Having depleted our giftedness, we ache for solitude and return to service. Having hungered to be gifted, we now realize how hungry we are for the giver.

It is as if a severe famine has broken out  and we are in dire need (Luke 15:14). We try to meet that need by attaching ourselves to those who have much, but it doesn’t work. We long to fill our bellies with the husks that are fodder for the pigs—any crumb of happiness will do. We grasp at whatever might stop the gnawing hunger for what we used to know and have and enjoy. Rock bottom is where we are.

Starving, we know there is plenty of food back home. Why should we stay away simply because of senseless pride? To return home is the only sane decision. Preparing our homecoming speech, we are ready to admit to foolishness. “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your child; treat me as you would treat one of your hired workers” (Luke 15:18-19). Armed with profound repentance, we strike out for home.

But the words are never spoken. The prepared speech is unnecessary. Of prime importance is our decision to return. While we are yet a long way from home, our parent God catches sight of us and is deeply moved. God runs out to meet us en route, throws arms around our neck, and lavishes kisses on us. At that moment, we feel the impact of unconditional love.

God asks no questions, presses no guilt, makes no demands. God simply celebrates our homecoming. “Let us celebrate with a feast, because this child of mine was dead, and has come to life again; he was lost, and has been found” (Luke 15:23-24).

Ah, but there is another member of the family who does not see as God sees, another child who has tasted of God’s goodness and dutifully stayed home, never even uttering thoughts of leaving to seek another path.

I am also that child. I slaved for God. I did what I was supposed to do and never was there a celebration for my efforts. Why should I rejoice in the return of a vagabond? I am not a prodigal—nor was I ever one. Life is hard and serious and gives us little reason to shout for joy. If there is any celebration, it should be for people who do what is right.

While standing firm in my judgment, niggling questions begin disturbing me. Have I not also taken my inheritance and brought it to the distant land of solemn self-righteousness? Haven’t I squandered God’s generosity by pinching it into judgment of others? Haven’t I spent God’s love until I twisted it into jealousy? Haven’t I allowed myself to be eaten up with hatred? Haven’t I been so starved for love that I have forgotten God’s promise? “You are with me always; everything I have is yours” (Luke 15:31).

This is our story, yours and mine. We are prodigal and pompous, present and absent, hoarding and spending, hungry and asking to be fed.

Lent allows us to concentrate on dying, reparation, and penance. Yet sometimes the most profound mortality we experience is the death of whatever short-circuits our ability to rejoice in ourselves and others. To chip away at that hard core is to become reconciled with God, in and through each other.

On Laetare Sunday we celebrate the life contained in those deaths. We rejoice because we are coming home to become a new people, a new creation in Christ with all reproach removed. “Lost ones,” we have been found and entrusted, as ambassadors for Christ, with the message of reconciliation. Having hungered to be gifted, we now realize how hungry we are for the Giver. ♦

Fran Salone-Pelletier holds a master’s degree in theology. She is the author of a trilogy of scriptural meditations, Awakening to God: The Sunday Readings in Our Lives, in which a version of this reflection originally appeared. She is also a religious educator, retreat leader, lecturer, and grandmother of four. Reach her at hope5@atmc.net.

Image: Detail from Sir John Everett Millais, The Prodigal Son, 1864