How many days in a row can you eat the same thing before you get sick of it? 2… 3 days? A week?
I’m a creature of extreme habit; so my tolerance for culinary monotony might be a little higher than average. But even I eventually get sick of eating the same thing, day in and day out. I think most of us probably know the feeling. If we’re fortunate, we’re able to change things up. We can choose something new when we’ve gotten sick of the old. “Eh, I’m sick of pizza; let’s get sushi instead.” But sometimes we don’t get a choice.
When I was homeless for a while as a teen, I didn’t have a lot of control over my menu planning. There were whole stretches of time where all I could really afford were chicken nuggets from Wendy’s. And dear Lord, did I get sick of chicken nuggets. It was a thrill when I was able to say, “Ugh I’m sick of chicken nuggets… but I can get something else instead!”
In today’s first reading, we get to hear about the day that the manna ceased for Israel. It’s a joyful occasion. Joshua’s just led them into the promised land, and they finally get to eat the fruits of the land. The writer only mentions manna in passing one small verse in a much larger book. But what a huge change for the Israelites! Can you imagine? We catch them at the end of their forty-year journey through the desert. This is an entirely different generation of Israelites than the ones that crossed through the Red Sea. They’ve been eating manna their whole lives. The same thing—day in and day out. Imagine how sick of it they must have been at this point.
And the prodigal son in the Gospel today! We see him filling his stomach with pig slop, because that’s the only option he has. He’s sick and tired of it. There’s only so many days you can eat food that’s only fit for pigs. He’s so sick of it that he daydreams about rations of bread like his servants used to get.
This isn’t a pattern that’s restricted to food, either. How many of us feel stuck in situations that make us think “GAH! I’m so sick of this!”? How many parts of our lives are starving us with the slop of sin and its consequences?
When I look at my own life, I can see the self-will that drove the prodigal son’s fling of folly and kept the Israelites wandering the wasteland. When I examine myself—and I mean truly examine myself—I can see my pigheaded selfishness and stubborn self-pity. Whenever I blow off a friend who needs me, whenever I snap at my spouse, I’m back in the pigsty with the prodigal son. And I’m sick of it.
When I look at my newsfeed and the state of the world, the fruits of our sins are just piled up around us. Civilians slaughtered by war-mongering greed. Black children gunned down out of pure hate and fear. A planet destroyed by our gluttonous apathy. Sometimes the only prayer we can muster is “Lord, I am so sick of this.”
It’s easy for us to slip into thinking this is simply how things are. So often we say, “I’m sick of this,” without looking towards a better life. Because that better life seems impossible. The Israelites understandably lament at times, “We’ll never get to the promised land!” The prodigal son could easily have groaned, “Even my father’s servants eat better than me,” and stayed there eating the slop with the pigs. It’s easy for us to lose perspective and get mired in the woes we’re so sick of. “I’m always going to struggle with this sin.” “The world is broken; that’s just the way it is.”
But the world doesn’t have to be the way that it is. We don’t have to content ourselves with the slop of sin and these situations we’re sick of. Reconciliation is possible. A better life is possible.
The prodigal son’s lament in the pig pen serves as a turning point—a conversion of heart. It prompts him to go back to his father in repentance. The pain of the old relationship he’d broken gives way to restored love between father and son. And the Israelites don’t keep wandering the desert forever. When they cross through the Jordan they remember God’s law. They circumcise their men. They celebrate the Passover. When God’s people repent and return to his covenant, their relationship is renewed as they reach their new home.
This kind of reconciliation is possible for us today, too. We don’t have to resign ourselves to the situation we’re in. We don’t have to make do with the slop that we’re sick of. God is beckoning us into something more in Christ. In Christ, God reconciles us to himself. In Christ, he does away with our sins. This old creation that we’re sick of is passing away, and God is promising us something new. New life—real change—awaits us, if we will turn from the slop of our sin and repent. This healing—this feeding—is on offer for us if we turn like the prodigal son and acknowledge our faults.
That is why Paul entreats us on behalf of Christ. Christ entreats us. He begs us. He begs you and me and the world: “Be reconciled to God. I know that you’re sick of your sin. I came for your sake to take that away. So turn from that slop. Be reconciled to God in me.” This ministry of reconciliation is important to God. So important that he entrusted it to his ambassador the Church on an ongoing basis forever. Every day—day in and day out—as often as we return to the slop of our sin, Christ holds out his arms through his Body the Church. He invites us into a new creation—that better life we thought was impossible, if we’re willing to leave the pigsty behind.
That’s what this season of Lent is for, friends. As we walk towards Easter, God beckons us to examine ourselves, to be fearless and thorough, and to acknowledge the mess that we’re in. He calls us to say, “I’m sick of this, Lord,” and turn toward him for forgiveness. And he promises us that he will grant that forgiveness, through the grace of the Sacraments that he gave to his Church. Through Baptism, through Eucharist, through Penance & Absolution, God offers to wipe the slop of sin from our mouths with his sleeve.
And he promises not only to feed us but to throw us an extravagant banquet. For so long and so often we feed ourselves with the pods fit only for pigs. But in the embrace of reconciliation, God gives us himself to eat. We will eat the fatted calf—the passover lamb—the fruit of the promised land. As we turn back to him from our brokenness and sin, God gives us the true bread: the bread of heaven which gives life to the world.
This is a feast we will never be sick of and a feast he will never tire of offering. No matter how many times we return to our slop, we can still turn to him in repentance and pray, “Lord, I am sick of this slop. Evermore give me your bread.”