Content To Be An Observer

What Else Is There to Say? 

What else is there to say? 

That’s what I’m stuck on.

I’m going to be preaching Jesus’ “Parable of the Prodigal Son” from Luke 15 this Sunday. As I sit in my study, stare at the books, and thumb through the commentaries, I run up against the puzzle that confounds everyone who reads, teaches, or preaches texts like these: what else is there to say? 

This famous story of exile and homecoming is so familiar that it’s easy for those who tell, proclaim, and unfold it to slip into cliche and “preachment.” And beneath that danger, I find another waiting for me: because I’ve studied, analyzed, and preached this passage more times than I can remember, it’s dangerously easy to view it from a distance without experiencing its Gospel reality. To re-tell it, convey it, and apply it, but not enter into myself. 

Because, what else is there to say? 

Content to be an Observer 

In a poignant and deeply personal meditation he wrote on this parable, and Rembrandt van Rijn’s famed painting of it, the Roman Catholic spiritual writer Henri Nouwen describes being at a similar place. Nouwen, at that point in his life, had just finished a productive career as a university professor, popular teacher and writer. In The Return of the Prodigal Son, he describes identifying most with the observers in the painting standing at the edges of the light which illumines the embrace of father and son: 

As I reflect on my own journey, I become more and more aware of how long I have played the role of observer. For years I had instructed students on the different aspects of the spiritual life, trying to help them see the importance of living it. But had I, myself, really ever dared to step into the center, kneel down, and let myself be held by a forgiving God?

This observation felt uncomfortably close to home. Settling for standing at the edge of this portrayal of God’s astounding favor, puzzling over what I should say about it. And never daring to step in, kneel down, and experience the gracious embrace it promises. 

All of us called to study, preach, and teach Holy Scripture feel this vocational pitfall sooner or later: we’re content to study and analyze the Bible, without setting foot on the holy ground to which it invites us. We talk about and explicate the Scriptures and yet never enter them, live them. We’re more consumed with what we’re saying about the text than whether we’re experiencing the company of the Trinity.

On The Inside Cover

Scrawled on the blank page inside the front cover of my Bible, I keep these lines from Martin Luther’s Larger Catechism nearby:

“The Word possesses such power whenever seriously considered, heeded, and put into practice, that it never remains barren of fruit. It always awakens new thoughts, new pleasures and devotions, and cleanses the heart and its meditations. (Q/A #43)

As I sit before these familiar-yet-holy words, I need to taste that reality again. 

This is why, alongside the traditional work of studying a passage and preparing sermon notes, several more ancient ways of engaging Scripture have become a lifeline for me: memorizing and internalizing the text, lectio divina and Ignatian meditation, journaling and silence. Perhaps if you identify with the same vocational danger, they’ll become helpful practices for you too. 

At the end of it, I don’t want to content myself to merely be an observer of God’s mighty acts in Christ.  And I don’t want to settle for just having something else to say about Scripture. I want to experience the embrace of the One to whom the text testifies.