Oh my Papa
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
I remember my father rocking me in the hammock of his arms singing, ‘O my papa, to me you are so wonderful’. And even then, searching for morsels of meaning, I thought he was singing what I should be singing to him.
Now I have a son, I realize that he was singing a gratitude song to his Father in heaven for this gift, coming after two daughters. And then, as written: sons go out to discover the sacred fire in their belly; how sons tend to become ungrateful wretches, disregarding norms; ‘everything we have is ours’ as we splurge our stuff onto the world.
With great charade, grow independent wings and bold facedly, fly in the face of ‘remember who used to hug and kiss you’; turn our backs on the memory and descend into the prodigal rot. But one day, one day, when we come to our senses and allow ‘our knuckles to scrape the ground of our native place’ (DW), we may be invited to have the feast of our life on the fatted calf.