Suggested Reading

Luke 15:11–32, The Prodigal Child

Then Jesus said, “There was a person who had two children. The younger one said to their parent, ‘Give me my share of the inheritance.’ So, the parent divided the property between them.

“A few days later, the younger child gathered all they had and traveled to a distant land, where they squandered their wealth in reckless living. After they had spent everything, a severe famine spread throughout that country, and they began to need help. So they hired themselves out to a citizen of that country, who sent them to the fields to feed the pigs. They longed to fill their stomachs with the food the pigs were eating, but no one gave them anything.

“Then they came to their senses and said, ‘How many of my parents’ hired workers have more than enough to eat, and here I am starving! I will get up and go to my parents and say, “I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your child. Treat me like one of your hired workers.”’ So they set off and went to their parents.

“But while they were still far off, their parent saw them and were filled with compassion. They ran to their child, embraced them, and kissed them. The child said, ‘Parent, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your child.’

“But the parent said to the servants, ‘Quickly, bring out the best robe and put it on my child! Put a ring on their finger and sandals on their feet! Bring the fatted calf and prepare a feast! Let us eat and celebrate, for this child of mine was dead and is alive again; they were lost and now are found!’ And they began to celebrate.

“Now, the elder child was in the field, and as they approached the house, they heard music and dancing. They called one of the servants and asked what was happening. The servant replied, ‘Your sibling has returned, and your parent has prepared the fatted calf because they have come back safe and sound.’

“Then, the elder child became angry and refused to go in. Their parent came out and pleaded with them. But they answered, ‘Look! For all these years, I have worked for you like a servant and never disobeyed your commands, yet you have never given me even a small feast with my friends. But when this child of yours comes back after wasting your resources, you throw them a party!’

“The parent said, ‘My beloved child, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because your sibling was dead and has come back to life; they were lost and have been found.’”

Sermon

Addiction, Grace, and the Long Road Home

The author has granted their permission for this sermon to be shared. When you deliver it, you might remind the congregation that all of the “I” language belongs to Rev. Phoenix Bell-Shelton Biggs.

Addiction is often misunderstood. It’s not just about substances; it’s about seeking relief from pain. Addiction thrives in isolation and shame—two things that are deeply opposed to the message of Jesus. Jesus consistently reached out to the marginalized, offering grace instead of judgment, belonging instead of exile. The Parable of the Prodigal Child and addiction share a profound connection in themes of isolation, shame, and the redemptive power of love and community.

Just as the prodigal child found themselves lost and alone, addiction often leads people into a spiral of self-destruction and despair. Yet the parent in the parable embodies the boundless grace of God—running to embrace the child with love rather than condemnation. Healing from addiction is not simply breaking a habit; it’s rediscovering connection, acceptance, and a place at the table of grace.

The younger child leaves home in pursuit of freedom and fulfillment—much as addiction can begin as a way to escape pain or find relief. The reckless living and eventual desperation of the younger child mirror the cycle of addiction: an initial search for escape that leads to deeper suffering. When the younger child loses everything, they are left alone, hungry, and ashamed—separated from family and community. Addiction, too, thrives in that space of isolation and self-condemnation, where a person feels unworthy of love or belonging. The younger child’s words—“I am no longer worthy to be called your child”—echo the deep shame experienced by many struggling with addiction.

But the turning point in both addiction recovery and the parable is the presence of unconditional love. The parent does not respond with punishment or rejection but runs toward the child with open arms. This is the Jesus way: Love, not shame, heals. True transformation comes not through judgment but through radical acceptance and reconnection to community.

Too often, our society’s instinct is the elder child’s reaction—resentment, suspicion, the calculus of fairness: Why throw a feast for someone who “wasted” their life? But the parent reminds us that restoration matters more than resentment. This is a call for all of us to extend grace rather than condemnation, to understand that healing requires community and celebration, not extra shame.

A friend once said something to me that I couldn’t articulate at the time but that shifted everything: “I wasn’t trying to ruin my life—I was trying to survive it.” That line changed how I saw myself and how I saw others. Addiction isn’t always—or even usually—about making bad choices for the sake of harm. It’s often about surviving trauma, systemic oppression, and wounds carried for too long.

For me, those wounds showed up early. As a teen, I was bullied for being perceived as queer. I remember nights lying awake, crying until sleep—if sleep came at all. I remember waking with a dread that I would have to face those bullies again. I remember wishing to fade away so the pain might stop. Those experiences sank under my skin and became trauma. At my lowest, I didn’t know whether I wanted to live. Thoughts of suicide felt like a friend; I thought self-harm eased the pain. But these were masks, the ways my pain tried to tell me something I couldn’t otherwise name: that I felt unworthy of love, dignity, or life.

I remember the notes on the dresser, the empty bottle, the pills in hand. I remember the hush and the screaming and the praying. And I remember the love of a friend who sat with me through that night and said, “You weren’t trying to ruin your life—you were trying to survive it.” That moment of being seen—without judgment—began a long, slow way back.

Today I can say, plainly: I am okay. I do not need your grief or to be coddled as I share this. Counseling, spiritual direction, and a loving community do wonders; I am okay now. But I would be lying if I didn’t name that there was a time when I was not. Naming that truth is part of honoring the journey and refusing the shame that would keep it hidden.

As a chaplain, I sat with someone who had relapsed. They said, “I thought I was doing so well, and now I’m back at square one. I guess I just don’t know what it looks like to be not addicted. I want to, but I don’t.” I reminded them that they were not back at square one; they were back in the community. They were being honest and reaching for help—and that is what matters in that moment. That is what grace looks like.

What if faith communities were places that rushed toward people instead of making them prove themselves first? Jesus ate with outcasts, touched lepers, and broke boundaries that kept people isolated. If Jesus modeled sanctuary, then our congregations can, too. Systems of oppression contribute to suffering; true liberation means dismantling those systems and creating spaces of safety, dignity, and support.

So how do we, as a faith community, show up for those struggling?

• Do we offer space for recovery groups and meetings?
• Do we advocate for harm-reduction policies that meet people where they are?
• Do we challenge stigma when it shows up in our conversations, committees, and worship?

The world often tells people in recovery they must earn their worth. But the Gospel says: You are already loved. You are already worthy. Our calling is to name that loudly and often.

adrienne maree brown writes, “Before there was any harm, there was a miracle.” I believe that before there was addiction, there was Love, grace, compassion, and community. I also believe that Love, compassion, and community must be present in addiction and recovery. Recovery is resurrection—each step toward healing is a miracle. The long road home from addiction is one of belonging.

Wherever you are on your path—whether you are in recovery, loving someone through addiction, or learning how to hold space for another—I want to offer you these words from my life, woven here because they are true:

I think about times in my own life when I have needed a second chance. When I wondered if I was worthy of love, grace found me every time. That’s the kind of love we are called to embody. A love that doesn’t wait for people to “fix themselves” before embracing them.

I believe in a church that doesn’t wait for people to “get their lives together” before welcoming them home. I believe in a faith that runs to meet people where they are, as they are. That’s the kind of love we’re called to.

Wherever you are on your journey—whether you are in recovery, loving someone through addiction, or simply learning what it means to hold space—I bless you with the reminder that you are already loved. You are already worthy. You are not alone.

Let us be a people who rush towards love. Let us be a table where those who have been excluded or ashamed can come and be welcomed back. Let us remember that grace is not earned—it is given. Let us practice resurrection by showing up: offering our presence, not our verdict; our hands, not our judgments; our feasts, not our cold calculations of fairness.

May we be the community that says, with the parent in the parable, “Bring the best robe, put a ring on their hand, and prepare a feast.” May we be the place that receives the lost, honors the courage of those seeking help, and celebrates each miracle—no matter how small—that brings someone back into the circle of belonging.

Amen.