Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
The Rev. Candice B. Frazer
As many of you know, Banshee, also affectionately called Church Dog, died a few weeks ago. For seventeen years, Banshee was a cherished part of our lives. She was strong-willed, stubborn, fiercely loyal, and incredibly intelligent. Her nature was shaped by her breed mix: part Catahoula or Louisiana Cattle Dog, which accounted for her determination and stubbornness, and part blue tick hound, which often got her into trouble due to her nose and unrelenting curiosity. Banshee could track a scent like no other, and once she picked up a trail, it was nearly impossible to distract her.
One of Banshee’s favorite places in the world was the beach. Early on, I taught her a special whistle to call her back when we were there. This was especially important since there were no fences at the Frazer beach house, and I wanted to ensure she would return to me if I let her off-leash. We spent an entire summer working on that whistle. With the aid of a long lead and a steady stream of treats, Banshee eventually learned to respond to it. It was through this training that we developed a mutual trust.
Whenever we arrived at the beach, Banshee would eagerly jump out of the car and immediately begin sniffing the air. If she caught even the faintest scent of something, her whole demeanor would change. Her ears would perk up, her body would become still and focused, and then, she would start trotting toward the pier. This was the moment when we all knew: Banshee had smelled a dead fish, and if there was one thing Banshee loved more than anything, it was rolling in the remains of dead fish.
Now, for those of you who’ve had dogs that enjoy rolling in, well, unpleasant things, you know how utterly disgusting it can be. Many have speculated that dogs roll in such things to cover their scent, but I could never understand why she loved rolling in something so foul. Dead fish, with its putrid stench, was by far the worst. When a dog rolls in dead fish, they smell like dead fish, and it is enough to make anyone gag. So, when I noticed Banshee’s telltale signs of having detected that familiar, fishy scent, I knew I had to act quickly.
I would start by calling her back. My initial strategy was to call her name in a sing-song voice, clapping my hands in a playful manner, hoping to head her off before she reached the water. Sometimes she came immediately, and I would shower her with praise, scratching all of her favorite spots and telling her what a good dog she was. However, if she kept going—which, more often than not, she did—I had to ramp up my efforts. I would follow her down the beach, continuing to call her name and then begin whistling for her.
As soon as I whistled, she would freeze in her tracks. She was still pointed in the direction of the dead fish, but in that moment, she was facing a dilemma: Should she return to me, who had called her, or should she disobey and go claim her prize, the dead fish? If I was fortunate, she would quickly decide that the fish wasn’t worth the trouble and would trot back to me. When she did, I would shower her with praise, scratching her in all her favorite spots and telling her what a good dog she was.
But, more often than not, after that brief moment of contemplation, Banshee would choose the dead fish. She would ignore my whistling, continue sniffing along the beach, and dig through tall grasses until she finally found the source of the stench. Once she discovered it, there was no stopping her. She would immediately roll over onto it, all four paws raised high in the air, completely basking in the stinky delight. The sheer joy she displayed while doing this was almost comical.
In those moments, my only choice was to watch in utter disgust as she reveled in her filth. When she finally finished rolling in the dead fish, I would call her again using the same whistle, this time accompanied by the same playful, sing-song tone. Even though she had blatantly disobeyed me, choosing the fish over my command to return, I understood that if I called her with anger or frustration, she would have no reason to come. If I displayed irritation, Banshee would simply ignore me, knowing that it was better to keep searching for her treasure than to face my displeasure.
Instead, I learned that I had to maintain that calm, loving tone if I wanted her to return to me. I would continue calling her as though nothing had gone wrong, and eventually, Banshee would return, tail drooping and hanging her head but fully satisfied with her latest adventure. Once she reached me, I would lavish her with praise, scratching her in all her favorite places, and telling her what a good dog she was.
The word “prodigal” carries a specific meaning. It is often associated with reckless spending, a wasteful extravagance, and we most commonly think of it in relation to the younger son in the biblical parable. However, “prodigal” can also mean giving something on a lavish, extravagant scale. When viewed from this perspective, the parable could be called the “Parable of the Prodigal Father,” who lavishes love and gifts upon his returning son. Like the prodigal son, Banshee had squandered my patience on multiple occasions, yet she would always return to me smelling like a dead fish, and in those moments, I realized I had to change my response to her.
Initially, I didn’t always respond with praise and affection when Banshee rolled in dead fish. I was much more like the older brother displaying my displeasure of her behavior. The first few times she rolled in dead fish, I was genuinely frustrated. I would angrily call her, and more often than not, my anger only made things worse. She could sense my frustration, and she would run the other way, knowing she would be punished for her actions. When I caught her, I would swat her on the nose with my flip-flop, trying to correct her behavior, but instead of learning from this, she became more and more resistant to returning to me when I called. The more frustrated I became, the less likely she was to listen.
It took me a while to figure it out, but eventually, I learned that anger was not the solution. I had to stop focusing on what she had done wrong and begin focusing on what she did right—her ability to come when I called, her loyalty, her intelligence, and the trust we had built. Over time, I began to realize that this mirrored what St. Paul said about us—the ease with which we fall to our temptations—we do what we do not want to do. If I could figure this out about Banshee, how much more does God understand this about us?
The Prodigal Father’s reaction to his son was not one of judgment for his past mistakes. The son had already paid the price for his reckless spending by slopping around with pigs and nearly starving to death. He had experienced the natural consequences of his poor choices. But when the son returned, the father didn’t meet him with punishment. Instead, he met him with a celebration—a lavish display of love and acceptance. God, in the same way, always chooses to welcome us back with open arms when we return to Him, no matter how far we have strayed. We are called to do the same for one another.
Like the father in the parable, I learned that there was no need to punish Banshee for rolling in dead fish. She already knew I didn’t approve of it, and that I wouldn’t hold her mistakes against her forever. Yes, there were consequences for her actions—she had to endure a dreaded bath which she equated with being boiled in oil before she could be allowed back in the house—but it wasn’t a punishment, and it wasn’t because I was angry with her; it was simply a natural consequence of her choice. She loved to roll in dead fish, we don’t like the smell of dead fish. She loved to swim in the bay, but when I poured water on her with a hose, you’d think I was trying to drown her. Bath time was torture for her, but it was the necessary step for her to be reinstated into the family fold. And like us, she had to deal with the consequences of her actions.
In the same way, the younger son in the parable didn’t face punishment from God; his suffering was the natural consequence of his choices. The father understood that, and when the son returned, he was reunited to the family with a grand celebration.
Our choices come with consequences, but those consequences are not God’s punishment. They are simply a part of the reality we choose to live in. The prodigal son’s return was met with joy because his prodigal father knew that despite the poor choices the son had made, his return was a victory. And God, like the prodigal father, invites us to celebrate the return of those who have been lost.
In our relationships, whether with God or with one another, it’s essential that we focus on celebrating the good, not just condemning the bad. While we may not agree with the choices others make, we are still called to celebrate their return when they turn toward righteousness. Just like I learned to celebrate Banshee’s return, despite her stinky misadventures and no matter how much I disagree with her choice to roll in dead fish, we are invited to celebrate the return of others to the love of God.
Amen