For each generation there is a defining question.
● For my parent’s generation it might have been: Where were you when Pearl Harbor was bombed?
● For mine, there is the question: Where were you when Kennedy was assassinated?
● For the next generation: Where were you when the Federal Building was bombed?
● And for the youth of today, the question will be: Where were you when the World Trade Center was destroyed?
Yes, there are, of course, many other questions which define the outlines of our lives; but these four are the ones that focus our anxiety, our outrage, our sense of loss.
● Anxiety: concerning what will happen now? What will be the next tragedy? Is this only the beginning?
● Outrage: how could this have happened? How can we punish those who did this terrible act?
● Loss: whether of a single person who, at the time, embodied much of the new spirit of this country – Or loss of peace when we were forced to enter a world-wide conflict – Or the loss of many lives, of innocent people, young and old – in Oklahoma City, in New York City, in Washington, D.C., in the hills of Pennsylvania.
We continue to ask: Why does this happen – again and again? We ask ourselves, and one another: How can a loving God allow all of this to happen? And at the same time we ask: How can we prevent this from happening again? What drastic measures must we take to protect ourselves, those we love?
There are, of course, no easy answers if, in fact, there are any real answers, at all. Yet, in our search for answers – answers that will bring back our stability – many want to blame someone: individuals or groups of people. There are those who demand an enemy or, at the very least, a conspiracy of others bent upon our destruction. They demand an enemy through whom we can reduce our anxiety, vent our outrage and revenge our loss.
Our loss. Yes, in today’s gospel reading we heard about loss. And our first reaction might be: what in the world do these Bible stories have to do with the kinds of loss we have witnessed over these last days? How can the loss of a single sheep when there are still ninety-nine left, have any meaning for us here, today? How can the loss of a mere coin, even if it is ten percent of a woman’s wealth, be compared with the tragedy of the loss of thousands of people? And how can the story of the Prodigal Son tell us what we should do today – and tomorrow, in all of the tomorrows of our lives and of our children’s lives?
No, I do not equate the senseless death of people with the loss of a sheep or of a mere golden coin; nor even of the return of a son who was lost. But I do suggest that we give some thought, some prayerful reflection, to the conclusion of each of the stories we heard spoken by the one we call our loving Lord and Master.
In each story we heard that following each loss, each personal tragedy, there was a finding. And with each finding, there was a calling together of friends, of community, to celebrate the return. But our third story, Jesus’ tale of the return of the prodigal son, does not end on the happy note of such a celebration.
Instead we hear the cries of the elder son for what he considers to be justice. He demands what he believes is rightfully his; what he has earned for his on-going work and, perhaps, even his own suffering, while his younger brother was off squandering the family fortune.
And to this outcry the father responds: “My son, you are here with me always … everything I have is yours. But now we must celebrate and rejoice, because your brother was dead and has come to life again, he was lost and has been found.”
Are we, once more, being reminded in this parable that there are, indeed, losses in life, great tragedies of a personal nature; but somehow there is also an end to the loss, a return to stability, a recovery. And are we being reminded that an essential part of this recovery is the coming together of our friends, our community to share in the good that may come out of tragedy; to rejoice rather than to condemn; to celebrate that God remains with us even when searching for the lost sheep – or waiting for the return of the child who is lost.
Today in this diocese, and throughout the nation, we were scheduled to celebrate what is called “Catechetical Sunday” – a day to honor those who teach us about religion, about God, about Father, Son and Holy Spirit. Today was to have been a day for teachers. Instead, today really is a day for all of us. For all of us to live out our own lives as teachers. Teachers for our own children, for other children. Teachers also for adults, for all adults, for all peoples: Christian and non-Christian.
Today, we are teachers not for the formal things we say about God but, more importantly, for all the ways in which we live out our beliefs about God. Today – and really, every day – but especially during these days of trial and tribulation, each of us must live out our lives as examples of what we really and truly believe about our God.
We can fall victim, as did, perhaps, the elder son, victim to anxiety, outrage and loss. Or we can remember and live out the words of a loving father who whispers: “My child, you are here with me always, everything I have is yours.” Perhaps the true question is not: “Where were you when …? but rather, where are you now? Are you lost? Or have you returned to the arms of a loving shepherd, a loving father?“
Twenty-fourth Sunday in Ordinary: September 16, 2001
Ex 32:7-11, 13-14; 1 Tim 1:12-17; Lk 15: 1-32