Fourth Sunday In Lent
Preaching
Lectionary Preaching Workbook
Series VII, Cycle C
Object:
Theme For The Day
Discipleship is the journey from "give me" to "make me."
Old Testament Lesson
Joshua 5:9-12
When The Manna Runs Out
All through the wilderness journey, the Lord has provided manna for the Israelites to eat. Now, Joshua has led them across the Jordan (which the Lord has dried up especially for the occasion, recalling the passage through the Red Sea), into the promised land. Their first Passover takes place while the people are camped at Gilgal, shortly after all the Israelite men have received the rite of circumcision. For the first time, the people eat the produce of the land, and on that very day the manna no longer falls. They no longer need it: They are in the land of milk and honey.
New Testament Lesson
2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Anyone In Christ Is A New Creation
Speaking of some unnamed opponents who have sought to usurp Paul's apostolic authority by claiming ecstatic spiritual gifts, Paul refuses to get into a "can you top this" competition with them (vv. 11-15). As this passage opens, he continues the argument, remarking that he no longer seeks to view anyone from a human point of view. Anyone who is in Christ is "a new creation" (v. 17), he points out. In Christ, God is reconciling with the world (vv. 18-19). Our role is to be "ambassadors for Christ," sharing this good news with others. In an earlier time in his life, Paul is suggesting, he might have been more upset about his opponents' attack on his pastoral authority. Now he is living from the reality of Christ's new creation, and the task of serving as his ambassador prevents him from pursuing a personal agenda. He speaks for Christ, now, and cannot be concerned with his own prerogatives.
The Gospel
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
The Parable Of The Prodigal Son
Borrowing the introduction from the parable of the lost sheep (vv. 1-3; see Proper 19), the lectionary uses these several verses to introduce the parable of the prodigal son. This parable is the third in a series of three (the other two being the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the lost coin). Some have suggested this should be called, "The Parable of the Two Brothers," because it is at least as much the story of the son who stayed at home as the story of the son who ran away, wasting his family's assets in self-gratification. Others have suggested it should be called, "The Parable of the Loving Father," because the father's generosity and willingness to forgive, despite an unbelievable series of insults from his youngest son, is the real message of the story. Whatever we choose to call it, this well-known parable of Jesus -- one of his best loved -- continues to surprise. But then, that is as it should be, for grace is always unmerited, always surprising -- and that is precisely Jesus' point.
Preaching Possibilities
Very often, the only way to understand Jesus' parables is to leave our modern world behind, and try to enter into the thought processes of another people, in another time. Such is the journey we have to make, if Jesus' parable of the prodigal son is to speak to us, as it spoke to his listeners of old.
"There was a man who had two sons." One son -- the youngest -- comes to his father and demands his share of the inheritance. Now that may sound odd to our ears, but it's not unheard of. Sometimes, in our culture, parents will transfer part of their estate to their children, years before their death. They do this to avoid inheritance taxes, or to "spend down" their money, so health care expenses won't eat into their assets.
To the ears of a Middle Easterner of the first century, though, those would have been fighting words. This ungrateful son is dealing his father the ultimate insult. It's as though he were saying to him, "Drop dead!"
Amazingly, the father complies. He divides his estate between his two sons. (Notice the older one doesn't object; he's not much better than his brother, when it comes to parental respect.)
The younger son takes the money and runs. He heads off to "a far country." To Jewish ears, that would have meant he goes off to live with the Gentiles. Not only does he take his father's money, but he abandons everything the old man has ever taught him. He grinds his father's faith into the dirt.
And what does he do with the money? He "squanders his property in dissolute living." That's a concise way of saying he starts partying one day, and doesn't stop until he's sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by his furniture. Even more reprehensible, when he finds himself down and out, this youngest son takes a job that would be utterly abhorrent to Jesus' Jewish listeners: He herds pigs. It's not the fact that he's doing agricultural labor that's distasteful; it's the fact that, to Jews, pigs are ritually unclean. Leviticus 11:8 says of pigs, "Of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall not touch; they are unclean for you." For a Jew of the time of Jesus, to work herding pigs is to no longer be a Jew.
More than that, when the prodigal son gets hungry, he yearns to fill his stomach with the pods the pigs are eating. These are probably carob pods. They're edible by humans, though not very appetizing in their raw state. To Jesus' listeners, this means the faithless young man is not only herding those unclean animals; he wishes he were a pig. If he hasn't already made himself morally reprehensible by demanding his share of the inheritance, he surely has by now.
It's common for people of our culture, when studying this parable, to focus on its financial aspects. We see the younger son's sin primarily as economic -- as having wasted his father's money. The word "prodigal," from the unofficial English name of the parable (which doesn't occur in the scriptures) means "spendthrift." Yet, as the incident of the pigsty reminds us, the prodigal son's sin is also one of apostasy -- of rejecting all the values of his community.
Perhaps the modern equivalent would be a son of our nation's elite who descends into drug addiction. This modern wayward son is driven not only to shooting up, but also to dealing drugs in order to maintain his desperate habit. Maybe, as he trudges up his father's driveway, this penitent's got a thick file at the police station. Maybe he's not only clad in ragged, cast-off clothing, but also has needle tracks up and down his arms and a court summons in his pocket. Sure, he's preparing to say to his father, "make me one of your hired hands" -- to work in a legitimate job for a change -- but can he make his resolution stick? Can his father trust him to be as good as his word? That's how far he's fallen.
There is -- quite simply -- no farther a first-century Jew can wander, no lower he can sink, than the place where this unhappy young man finds himself. He's like Jonah, trapped in the belly of a great fish at the bottom of the sea. He's burned every bridge behind him. He has no reason to expect that any neighbor from his village would give him the slightest welcome were he to return home. They'd be more likely to spit on him.
Yet return home he does, armed with a desperate speech he's memorized by heart. In that speech he makes no claim whatsoever to restoration as his father's son. All he asks for is a job as a day laborer, a migrant worker -- a person who lives on the fringes of society and picks up odd jobs when he can find them. He who once had full citizenship, but cast it away, will now be happy to become an illegal alien.
"Make me one of your hired hands," he plans to beg his father. His transformation is now complete. This haughty young man, who once demanded of his father, "Give me -- give me my share of the inheritance," is now imploring him, "Make me -- make me one of your day laborers."
This is precisely the transformation any follower of Jesus Christ must go through, at the moment of conversion, that moment of deciding to become a disciple. "Give me," our natural, sinful self demands of the world -- and of God. "Give me all the happiness that is my due." But there's a strange thing about that sort of happiness: it never satisfies. It's like drinking seawater to try to slake our thirst.
Finally, when every earthly well of meaning has run dry, we come to the conclusion that "Give me" gets us nowhere. The only way to true and lasting joy is to say not "Give me," but "Make me." Make me, O God, make me what you would have me be.
Such is the request the prodigal son repeats to himself, over and over, as he walks the long and dusty road to his father's farm. He knows not what reception he will receive, and he's fully prepared for the worst.
What the son is utterly unprepared for is the sight that greets him, as he draws near to his father's house. There, charging down the road in his direction as fast as he can run, is his father. It's a most uncharacteristic role for a first-century Jewish landowner. Such men are never seen running. They are the village elders, men of dignity and deliberation. They stand and wait for others to come to them.
Yet, the prodigal's father is throwing protocol to the winds. He's overflowing with joy to see his youngest son, after all those years. Even more than that, he's probably running because he wants to get to the boy before his fellow villagers do -- for they would very likely have beat him and abused him and turned him from his path.
Before any of that can happen, the father cries out for a robe, and a ring, and sandals for his son's feet. The fine robe and the ring testify that here is no a day laborer, but a man of substance and privilege. The sandals signify that he is not a slave, for slaves in that day typically go barefoot, just as this destitute young man is probably walking barefoot down the road.
The father calls for the fatted calf to be slain. It's a feast -- and not only for him and his two sons, but for the entire village. There's no refrigeration in those days; the only way to preserve meat is to keep in on the hoof. If you slaughter one of your livestock, you'd better invite all the neighbors over for that's the only way the meat will get eaten before it spoils.
For the father, and both his sons, the slaying of the fatted calf has further significance. It's the means by which the father's declaring to the entire village that his outcast son has now been welcomed back into the family circle. He's under his father's protection. No one will dare mock or insult him now. The son's grave offense is forgotten. The joy of reconciliation awaits.
Prayer For The Day
Throughout the whole creation
I see God's loving care
For everyone in every land,
God's children everywhere.
Wherever I may wander,
wherever I may be,
I'm certain of my Maker's love,
God's care is over me.
-- Ann B. Snow, "Wherever I May Wander," 1959
To Illustrate
In a favorite Calvin and Hobbes comic, perennial bad-boy Calvin turns to his faithful friend Hobbes and admits, "I feel bad I called Susie names and hurt her feelings. I'm sorry I did that."
Hobbes -- ever the voice of reason -- replies, "Maybe you should apologize to her."
Calvin thinks for a moment, then responds, "I keep hoping there's a less obvious solution."
We've all felt that way, when it comes to making an apology. There is that stomach-churning moment when it dawns on us that we've done wrong, followed by the even more difficult moment when we realize we've got to make amends.
Such is the experience of a certain younger son, living in a far country.
***
[God says] "I have called you by name, from the very beginning. You are mine and I am yours. You are my beloved, on you my favor rests. I have molded you in the depths of the earth and knitted you together in your mother's womb. I have carved you in the palms of my hands and hidden you in the shadow of my embrace. I look at you with infinite tenderness and care for you with a care more intimate than that of a mother for her child. I have counted every hair on your head and guided you at every step. Wherever you go, I go with you, and wherever you rest, I keep watch. I will give you food that will satisfy all your hunger and drink that will quench all your thirst. I will not hide my face from you. You know me as your own as I know you as my own. You belong to me. I am your father, your mother, your brothers, your sister, your lover and your spouse ... yes, even your child ... wherever you are I will be. Nothing will ever separate us. We are one."
-- Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World (New York: Crossroad, 1992)
***
G. K. Chesterton once wrote, "It is not always wrong even to go, like Dante, to the brink of the lowest promontory and look down at hell. It is when you look up at hell that a serious miscalculation has probably been made." The prodigal son, in his pigsty, is in the unenviable position of looking up at hell.
***
It's only natural, for those new to the faith, to look on God as a sort of Santa Claus figure -- primarily a granter of wishes. The prayers uttered by those lacking in spiritual maturity are very often "give me" prayers. Whether those prayers are asking for health, or wealth, or happiness, the message is the same: "God, give me what I want."
By contrast, the prayers of the spiritually mature are more likely to be "make me" prayers. In the words of Kathleen Norris, "I have learned that prayer is not asking for what you think you want but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine" (Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith [New York: Riverhead], 1999).
It's no easy thing to utter that sort of prayer. Typically, the first time in life any of us are able to do it is when we've hit rock bottom, when we've exhausted every other remedy, and there's nowhere else to turn. Yet when you or I finally do push pride aside and acknowledge our utter dependence on God, we discover that, as the hymn puts it:
There's a wideness in God's mercy, like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in God's justice, that is more than liberty.
***
Some years ago I came across an idea that helped clarify and deepen my understanding of forgiveness. Forgiveness means relinquishment. It's that simple. To relinquish something is to release whatever power it holds over us. If I forgive someone for a wrong done to me, I no longer allow that event to determine how I treat the other person. I may remember the wrong or I may forget it, but either way I have disarmed it. It no longer determines my actions, thoughts, or words. Forgiveness in this sense is rarely easy or quick. How often do we say, we forgive another person, but still hold a secret grudge? Because of its difficulty, forgiveness has to be practiced. It is less an act than a way of living, a discipline, a cultivated skill. I think this is why Jesus told his students to forgive seventy times seven (Matthew 18:21). True forgiveness often comes only at the end of an inner struggle.
-- Mark Muesse, "The Parable of the Slighted Son," 2004, http://www.explorefaith.org/forgive/muesse.html
***
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
-- From the poem, "Happiness," by Jane Kenyon, from Otherwise: New & Selected Poems (St. Paul, Minnesota: Graywolf Press, 1997)
Discipleship is the journey from "give me" to "make me."
Old Testament Lesson
Joshua 5:9-12
When The Manna Runs Out
All through the wilderness journey, the Lord has provided manna for the Israelites to eat. Now, Joshua has led them across the Jordan (which the Lord has dried up especially for the occasion, recalling the passage through the Red Sea), into the promised land. Their first Passover takes place while the people are camped at Gilgal, shortly after all the Israelite men have received the rite of circumcision. For the first time, the people eat the produce of the land, and on that very day the manna no longer falls. They no longer need it: They are in the land of milk and honey.
New Testament Lesson
2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Anyone In Christ Is A New Creation
Speaking of some unnamed opponents who have sought to usurp Paul's apostolic authority by claiming ecstatic spiritual gifts, Paul refuses to get into a "can you top this" competition with them (vv. 11-15). As this passage opens, he continues the argument, remarking that he no longer seeks to view anyone from a human point of view. Anyone who is in Christ is "a new creation" (v. 17), he points out. In Christ, God is reconciling with the world (vv. 18-19). Our role is to be "ambassadors for Christ," sharing this good news with others. In an earlier time in his life, Paul is suggesting, he might have been more upset about his opponents' attack on his pastoral authority. Now he is living from the reality of Christ's new creation, and the task of serving as his ambassador prevents him from pursuing a personal agenda. He speaks for Christ, now, and cannot be concerned with his own prerogatives.
The Gospel
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
The Parable Of The Prodigal Son
Borrowing the introduction from the parable of the lost sheep (vv. 1-3; see Proper 19), the lectionary uses these several verses to introduce the parable of the prodigal son. This parable is the third in a series of three (the other two being the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the lost coin). Some have suggested this should be called, "The Parable of the Two Brothers," because it is at least as much the story of the son who stayed at home as the story of the son who ran away, wasting his family's assets in self-gratification. Others have suggested it should be called, "The Parable of the Loving Father," because the father's generosity and willingness to forgive, despite an unbelievable series of insults from his youngest son, is the real message of the story. Whatever we choose to call it, this well-known parable of Jesus -- one of his best loved -- continues to surprise. But then, that is as it should be, for grace is always unmerited, always surprising -- and that is precisely Jesus' point.
Preaching Possibilities
Very often, the only way to understand Jesus' parables is to leave our modern world behind, and try to enter into the thought processes of another people, in another time. Such is the journey we have to make, if Jesus' parable of the prodigal son is to speak to us, as it spoke to his listeners of old.
"There was a man who had two sons." One son -- the youngest -- comes to his father and demands his share of the inheritance. Now that may sound odd to our ears, but it's not unheard of. Sometimes, in our culture, parents will transfer part of their estate to their children, years before their death. They do this to avoid inheritance taxes, or to "spend down" their money, so health care expenses won't eat into their assets.
To the ears of a Middle Easterner of the first century, though, those would have been fighting words. This ungrateful son is dealing his father the ultimate insult. It's as though he were saying to him, "Drop dead!"
Amazingly, the father complies. He divides his estate between his two sons. (Notice the older one doesn't object; he's not much better than his brother, when it comes to parental respect.)
The younger son takes the money and runs. He heads off to "a far country." To Jewish ears, that would have meant he goes off to live with the Gentiles. Not only does he take his father's money, but he abandons everything the old man has ever taught him. He grinds his father's faith into the dirt.
And what does he do with the money? He "squanders his property in dissolute living." That's a concise way of saying he starts partying one day, and doesn't stop until he's sitting on the sidewalk, surrounded by his furniture. Even more reprehensible, when he finds himself down and out, this youngest son takes a job that would be utterly abhorrent to Jesus' Jewish listeners: He herds pigs. It's not the fact that he's doing agricultural labor that's distasteful; it's the fact that, to Jews, pigs are ritually unclean. Leviticus 11:8 says of pigs, "Of their flesh you shall not eat, and their carcasses you shall not touch; they are unclean for you." For a Jew of the time of Jesus, to work herding pigs is to no longer be a Jew.
More than that, when the prodigal son gets hungry, he yearns to fill his stomach with the pods the pigs are eating. These are probably carob pods. They're edible by humans, though not very appetizing in their raw state. To Jesus' listeners, this means the faithless young man is not only herding those unclean animals; he wishes he were a pig. If he hasn't already made himself morally reprehensible by demanding his share of the inheritance, he surely has by now.
It's common for people of our culture, when studying this parable, to focus on its financial aspects. We see the younger son's sin primarily as economic -- as having wasted his father's money. The word "prodigal," from the unofficial English name of the parable (which doesn't occur in the scriptures) means "spendthrift." Yet, as the incident of the pigsty reminds us, the prodigal son's sin is also one of apostasy -- of rejecting all the values of his community.
Perhaps the modern equivalent would be a son of our nation's elite who descends into drug addiction. This modern wayward son is driven not only to shooting up, but also to dealing drugs in order to maintain his desperate habit. Maybe, as he trudges up his father's driveway, this penitent's got a thick file at the police station. Maybe he's not only clad in ragged, cast-off clothing, but also has needle tracks up and down his arms and a court summons in his pocket. Sure, he's preparing to say to his father, "make me one of your hired hands" -- to work in a legitimate job for a change -- but can he make his resolution stick? Can his father trust him to be as good as his word? That's how far he's fallen.
There is -- quite simply -- no farther a first-century Jew can wander, no lower he can sink, than the place where this unhappy young man finds himself. He's like Jonah, trapped in the belly of a great fish at the bottom of the sea. He's burned every bridge behind him. He has no reason to expect that any neighbor from his village would give him the slightest welcome were he to return home. They'd be more likely to spit on him.
Yet return home he does, armed with a desperate speech he's memorized by heart. In that speech he makes no claim whatsoever to restoration as his father's son. All he asks for is a job as a day laborer, a migrant worker -- a person who lives on the fringes of society and picks up odd jobs when he can find them. He who once had full citizenship, but cast it away, will now be happy to become an illegal alien.
"Make me one of your hired hands," he plans to beg his father. His transformation is now complete. This haughty young man, who once demanded of his father, "Give me -- give me my share of the inheritance," is now imploring him, "Make me -- make me one of your day laborers."
This is precisely the transformation any follower of Jesus Christ must go through, at the moment of conversion, that moment of deciding to become a disciple. "Give me," our natural, sinful self demands of the world -- and of God. "Give me all the happiness that is my due." But there's a strange thing about that sort of happiness: it never satisfies. It's like drinking seawater to try to slake our thirst.
Finally, when every earthly well of meaning has run dry, we come to the conclusion that "Give me" gets us nowhere. The only way to true and lasting joy is to say not "Give me," but "Make me." Make me, O God, make me what you would have me be.
Such is the request the prodigal son repeats to himself, over and over, as he walks the long and dusty road to his father's farm. He knows not what reception he will receive, and he's fully prepared for the worst.
What the son is utterly unprepared for is the sight that greets him, as he draws near to his father's house. There, charging down the road in his direction as fast as he can run, is his father. It's a most uncharacteristic role for a first-century Jewish landowner. Such men are never seen running. They are the village elders, men of dignity and deliberation. They stand and wait for others to come to them.
Yet, the prodigal's father is throwing protocol to the winds. He's overflowing with joy to see his youngest son, after all those years. Even more than that, he's probably running because he wants to get to the boy before his fellow villagers do -- for they would very likely have beat him and abused him and turned him from his path.
Before any of that can happen, the father cries out for a robe, and a ring, and sandals for his son's feet. The fine robe and the ring testify that here is no a day laborer, but a man of substance and privilege. The sandals signify that he is not a slave, for slaves in that day typically go barefoot, just as this destitute young man is probably walking barefoot down the road.
The father calls for the fatted calf to be slain. It's a feast -- and not only for him and his two sons, but for the entire village. There's no refrigeration in those days; the only way to preserve meat is to keep in on the hoof. If you slaughter one of your livestock, you'd better invite all the neighbors over for that's the only way the meat will get eaten before it spoils.
For the father, and both his sons, the slaying of the fatted calf has further significance. It's the means by which the father's declaring to the entire village that his outcast son has now been welcomed back into the family circle. He's under his father's protection. No one will dare mock or insult him now. The son's grave offense is forgotten. The joy of reconciliation awaits.
Prayer For The Day
Throughout the whole creation
I see God's loving care
For everyone in every land,
God's children everywhere.
Wherever I may wander,
wherever I may be,
I'm certain of my Maker's love,
God's care is over me.
-- Ann B. Snow, "Wherever I May Wander," 1959
To Illustrate
In a favorite Calvin and Hobbes comic, perennial bad-boy Calvin turns to his faithful friend Hobbes and admits, "I feel bad I called Susie names and hurt her feelings. I'm sorry I did that."
Hobbes -- ever the voice of reason -- replies, "Maybe you should apologize to her."
Calvin thinks for a moment, then responds, "I keep hoping there's a less obvious solution."
We've all felt that way, when it comes to making an apology. There is that stomach-churning moment when it dawns on us that we've done wrong, followed by the even more difficult moment when we realize we've got to make amends.
Such is the experience of a certain younger son, living in a far country.
***
[God says] "I have called you by name, from the very beginning. You are mine and I am yours. You are my beloved, on you my favor rests. I have molded you in the depths of the earth and knitted you together in your mother's womb. I have carved you in the palms of my hands and hidden you in the shadow of my embrace. I look at you with infinite tenderness and care for you with a care more intimate than that of a mother for her child. I have counted every hair on your head and guided you at every step. Wherever you go, I go with you, and wherever you rest, I keep watch. I will give you food that will satisfy all your hunger and drink that will quench all your thirst. I will not hide my face from you. You know me as your own as I know you as my own. You belong to me. I am your father, your mother, your brothers, your sister, your lover and your spouse ... yes, even your child ... wherever you are I will be. Nothing will ever separate us. We are one."
-- Henri J. M. Nouwen, The Life of the Beloved: Spiritual Living in a Secular World (New York: Crossroad, 1992)
***
G. K. Chesterton once wrote, "It is not always wrong even to go, like Dante, to the brink of the lowest promontory and look down at hell. It is when you look up at hell that a serious miscalculation has probably been made." The prodigal son, in his pigsty, is in the unenviable position of looking up at hell.
***
It's only natural, for those new to the faith, to look on God as a sort of Santa Claus figure -- primarily a granter of wishes. The prayers uttered by those lacking in spiritual maturity are very often "give me" prayers. Whether those prayers are asking for health, or wealth, or happiness, the message is the same: "God, give me what I want."
By contrast, the prayers of the spiritually mature are more likely to be "make me" prayers. In the words of Kathleen Norris, "I have learned that prayer is not asking for what you think you want but asking to be changed in ways you can't imagine" (Amazing Grace: A Vocabulary of Faith [New York: Riverhead], 1999).
It's no easy thing to utter that sort of prayer. Typically, the first time in life any of us are able to do it is when we've hit rock bottom, when we've exhausted every other remedy, and there's nowhere else to turn. Yet when you or I finally do push pride aside and acknowledge our utter dependence on God, we discover that, as the hymn puts it:
There's a wideness in God's mercy, like the wideness of the sea;
there's a kindness in God's justice, that is more than liberty.
***
Some years ago I came across an idea that helped clarify and deepen my understanding of forgiveness. Forgiveness means relinquishment. It's that simple. To relinquish something is to release whatever power it holds over us. If I forgive someone for a wrong done to me, I no longer allow that event to determine how I treat the other person. I may remember the wrong or I may forget it, but either way I have disarmed it. It no longer determines my actions, thoughts, or words. Forgiveness in this sense is rarely easy or quick. How often do we say, we forgive another person, but still hold a secret grudge? Because of its difficulty, forgiveness has to be practiced. It is less an act than a way of living, a discipline, a cultivated skill. I think this is why Jesus told his students to forgive seventy times seven (Matthew 18:21). True forgiveness often comes only at the end of an inner struggle.
-- Mark Muesse, "The Parable of the Slighted Son," 2004, http://www.explorefaith.org/forgive/muesse.html
***
There's just no accounting for happiness,
or the way it turns up like a prodigal
who comes back to the dust at your feet
having squandered a fortune far away.
And how can you not forgive?
You make a feast in honor of what
was lost, and take from its place the finest
garment, which you saved for an occasion
you could not imagine, and you weep night and day
to know that you were not abandoned,
that happiness saved its most extreme form
for you alone.
-- From the poem, "Happiness," by Jane Kenyon, from Otherwise: New & Selected Poems (St. Paul, Minnesota: Graywolf Press, 1997)
