A Prodigal Returns

February 14, 2018

Twenty eight years ago, I was a parishioner of The Church of the Nativity in Bartlett, Tennessee. I was the pastoral council president and participated in a weekend retreat at the church in preparation for the annual parish mission that was conducted by two visiting priests. During the retreat, each attendee shared something personal regarding his or her faith journey. My story was that of a modern day prodigal son.  To be honest, I was quite nervous. Following is the story I shared on the evening in which the topic was reconciliation. Following my testimony,  our pastor and the two visiting priests heard confessions. It was obvious that a number of parishioners had not been to confession in many years. I know this because some of my fellow parishioners expressed their appreciation for my personal story either verbally or in writing.  I was humbled by their responses.

                                                                A Prodigal Returns

Like many here tonight, I was born and raised Catholic. I attended Mater Dolorosa, a Catholic grammar school in New Orleans, which was run by Dominican nuns who drilled into my malleable mind the precepts of the Baltimore Catechism.  The fear of the Lord was instilled in me by those nuns. It was as if they held the Catechism in one hand and a ruler in the other. With the latter the nuns would inflict physical pain. With the former, they would inflict the fear of spiritual pain.

I learned of venial and mortal sins and the consequences of committing a grave offense against God.

“You can live your entire life in the state of sanctifying grace,” Sister Ruler-in-Hand warned, “but if you commit a mortal sin the day you die without the benefit of confession, you will burn in hell forever!”

The thought of living a virtuous life only to commit a mortal sin without the benefit of confession just before I died weighed heavily on me.  From an early age, these doctrines and beliefs were internalized in me and for years shaped my behavior.

But people change over time and sometimes not for the better. Despite the fear of eternal punishment for dying in the state of mortal sin, I strayed from my religion for several years, attending mass only twice a year, at Christmas and Easter. That was more as an obligation to my family than as an obligation to my Creator.

This change was subtle at first. It began during my teen years, that period of my life in which I tasted, to any degree, the freedom of choice. I began by missing mass occasionally. Then, those occasions became more frequent, until it seems that I rarely attended. Life was happening and religion seemed to get in the way.

During this time frame, I married my wife. We attended the requisite marriage preparation course and I listened to the presenters, but apparently their messages didn’t stick with me.

By my md twenties, I was too preoccupied with other areas or goals in my life, my career, college studies and other less worthy or perhaps less than honorable pursuits.

Before long, our oldest son was born and five years later, our second son was born.

When my wife and children went to Sunday mass, I remained at home, studying, reading, watching television or chasing other worldly pleasures. As far as being a Christian father was concerned, I wasn’t much of a role model. I wasn’t too interested in God at the time and I certainly didn’t find time in my life for Him.

Janice, my wife, was tolerant, patient and loving. She didn’t hassle me in any way. Instead, she prayed for me.

At the time, I didn’t appreciate intercessory prayers for another person, but I assure you tonight that praying for another can be a powerful testimony of love.

During that period of my life, I was high strung and quick to anger. Consequently, I wasn’t at peace with myself.

But, as time went on, something began to gnaw at me from within. Outwardly I appeared happy, but inside, I was miserable. Something was missing in my life and I recognized that feeling, but I didn’t know what it was I was missing.

After a long time, I sensed an urge to go to church.

My first attempt at returning to mass was a bummer. I suffered an anxiety attack right there in church and broke out in profuse perspiration.  I made it through the Gospel somehow, but I left church at the beginning of the homily, my shirt drenched and my hair matted.

I was convinced that all my neighbors and friends in attendance at mass knew I didn’t attend church and I felt as if every eye in church was upon me.

It was humiliating.

I decided I wouldn’t return to church the following week. Why suffer through another anxiety attack?

But, as Sunday approached, the gnawing feeling returned. I decided to try again.

The results were virtually identical to the previous week. Once again, I left mass early.

Believe it or not, this went on for a long time. I did manage, however, to last longer and longer each time I attended mass.  Still, I would eventually break out in a cold sweat. I begin to live with this problem, thinking that this was the only way I’d ever be able to attend mass. I also learned to avoid wearing light colored trousers because the perspiration was too obvious.

One Saturday evening, I attended mass alone at a different church. I sat in the rear pew – to easily escape if necessary.

Before mass began, an usher approached me.  He asked me to carry the communion hosts during the presentation of the gifts.

I nearly fainted. I hadn’t been to confession in years, much less received communion. I was in the state of sin and I certainly didn’t feel worthy to carry the hosts in my hands.

Inexplicably, I agreed.

As I walked down the aisle towards the waiting priest, I looked at what I held in the palms of my hands. I couldn’t help but think how sinful and unworthy I was to hold what I thought was the body, blood, soul and divinity of Christ. I was frightened. At any moment I expected to trip and spill what I was carrying onto the floor.

My knees wobbled. I shook. And yes, I perspired heavily. Little did I know that the hosts I carried were not yet consecrated; they were still simply bread.

God works in mysterious ways. A simple, innocuous request by an usher – a request made thousands of times each week – turned out to be a call to repentance.

The following Saturday, I was first in line for confession. It was my first confession in perhaps 7 – 8 years. It seemed like I was in the confessional for an hour or so, but it was more like 10 – 15 minutes. The priest was very comforting, compassionate and forgiving. I’m sure I had forgotten many sins, but he forgave those as well as those I could recall.

When I exited the confessional, I felt like an immense burden had been lifted from my shoulders. I lost a lot of excess baggage that Saturday evening.

I felt freedom again, but this time, it was true freedom.

During mass I received Christ in the Eucharist for the first time since our marriage. It was just a week or two before Christmas and I remember thinking at the time just how marvelous a Christmas present I had received. I was free from the bondage of sin.

I was excited. The anxiety attacks began to diminish. Finally, for all practical purposes, they ceased. Also, through God’s graces, I began to better control my temper and anger. I felt renewed and more at peace.

Sixteen years ago, God answered a wife’s prayers for her husband to return to his faith.

Through the power His love,

Through the power of prayer,

Through the incredible power of the Eucharist,

And, through the liberating power of the sacrament of reconciliation, another prodigal son had returned.

There are more prodigals in our lives. They need our prayerful support.

Every day in the privacy of my home, I thank the Lord for his love, mercy and compassion. I thank him for the sacrament of reconciliation.

I also thank him for the many blessings He’s given me: this parish community, three wonderful children and many other blessings.

I also thank Him each day for bringing into my life nearly twenty-nine years ago, a blessing named Janice.

Tonight, I would like to thank Him for giving me the courage to stand before you. I assure you, without Him, I wouldn’t be here.

Thank you.

Postscript:

Following my presentation, our pastor and two other priests heard confessions. I estimated that 80% - 90% of those who attended that night went to confession. As a penitent was absolved of his or her sins, the priest handed each a stone. Each penitent was instructed to drop or throw the stone into an aluminum bucket on the floor next to each priest. As the stones struck the bottom of the buckets, the sound could be heard throughout the church. The stones represented casting off the weight of sin. It was a remarkable sound.

Several years after my testimony, Jim, my older brother was suffering from terminal cancer. His last year was a painful one. He lived in Hurley, Wisconsin, a small town near Lake Superior. We spoke on the telephone once or twice a month. I’m never sure what to say to someone who is dying. Most often, I simply listened to him.

One day, during our conversation, Jim brought up the subject of religion, death and the afterlife. It was obvious he had given the topic some thought. Jim was brought up Catholic, but I didn’t know if he had continued to practice his faith. I didn’t ask him. I did mention my testimony at The Church of the Nativity in 1992. I briefly described my talk and he seemed interested. He asked me to send him a copy of my testimony. I mailed it to him, but the subject never came up again in our future conversations.

He died in August, 1996, at the young age of 55. I attended his funeral which was held in the only Catholic Church in Hurley.

Following the funeral, we gathered at my brother’s home. His wife pulled me to the side. She wanted to share something with me.

She pulled out the copy of my testimony that I had mailed to Jim. She told me that Jim cherished my story and read it several times. She said it meant a lot to him. I nearly broke down in tears. I was humbled. I could only hope that my story resonated with him and brought him some level of peace in his last few months.

One never knows the impact he or she might have on another. In my case, an usher was doing a job that he does every week. His request drove me to confession. My talk in 1992 affected several members of our parish community and some people returned to confession after a long absence.

 Pray for others. Pray for loved ones. Pray for those you don’t love so much. Pray for your enemies. Our prayers, our words and our actions often affect people in ways we don’t know and may never know. But, who knows. A prodigal somewhere just might take heed of your words and return.