“He came to himself and
said… ‘I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I
have sinned against heaven and before you.’” St. Luke 15:17-18
At first, of course, he blamed
everyone else. We would do the same,
sitting there by the pigs, our bellies gnawing with hunger. It had been quite a ride for a while: sharp
clothes, fancy meals, all the wine he could drink, fast women. He was on top of the world, a friend on every
corner. No rules, no boundaries, no
regrets. How in the world could it all
have come to pieces so quickly?
He blamed his parents, of course.[1] Half the inheritance--they’d promised that’s
what it amounted to, but it sure didn’t seem like very much. And what about that responsible brother of
his—if he’d have come to mind the books, well it wouldn’t have all slipped away
so quickly. He blamed all those who
called themselves his friends, and sponged on his good nature, all those who’d
tricked him into schemes and promised to pay him back in a month’s time. Who wouldn’t blame a thief—the dealer with
the weighted dice, the pickpocket who snatched the sack from his coat, the women
who left his bed before dawn. It was the
fault of tailors who made shiny clothes that wore thin too quickly, tavern men
who overcharged for cheap food. And this
wretched famine—who could have seen it coming.
This master he was serving—surely he could pay more. Surely he could find some work with more
dignity. He cursed his lot. He cursed his enemies. He cursed life itself, and then stared back
at the pigs, and he would have climbed down into the trough beside them if he
could.
He was miserable, of course. But there’s a kind of steadfastness that can
come with misery, especially when we are so certain it’s all someone else’s
fault.
