SunMar142010
LUKE 15:1-3, 11-32
It’s not fair—patently, obviously not fair. That’s as clear as can be. With what possible justification could we say that what the father does in this astounding parable is just? A party for the one who’s wasted everything? An extravagant welcome when there hasn’t even been an apology? A total taking-for granted of the steady one who keeps the farm going, who never misses a day’s work, who plugs away at all the filthy, menial, relentless chores? And this totally unjust parable reveals God how exactly?
That may just be me, of course. I’m an older child, after all, the one who’s always tried to live by the letter of the law, the one who doesn’t take chances, the one who didn’t do the little rejection dance in his teen years, or ever, for that matter. If you’re like me, the father’s excessively lavish and gaudy welcome of the irresponsible younger child rubs you the wrong way. It just doesn’t seem fair.
And many of you probably are like me. Federated is a church of largely successful people, people who have played by the rules and done what’s right. We’ve stayed home, figuratively speaking, and done the chores and held the fort. For us, this story of Jesus’ reeks of unfairness. We think to ourselves, ‘If God is that tolerant of irresponsible, no-good wastrels, what am I doing cleaning up the kitchen, and holding down the high-paying job that’s so dull or grueling, and doing my best to get the kids through college, and obeying the law? God’s going to love me even if I go to Tahiti and blow the whole wad.’
But here’s the thing: as much as I may react that way, as much as I may see myself in that responsible older son, it occurs to me that there are countless people the world over—certainly including a number of you—who see themselves in that prodigal younger son. They’re the ones who rebelled in spades, who’ve been guilty of terrible indiscretions and betrayals, who made bad choices about drugs or alcohol and who now live with a deep regret. When they hear this story, they hear it totally differently. They’re the younger son, and, whether they’ve fully taken it in or not, they’re the ones who have been forgiven and understood and welcomed home by the One who has never stopped missing them. To them—to you—this story isn’t unfair. It’s manna from heaven.
So you and I may well react very differently to this story. But here’s another thing that gradually dawns on me: none of us is just one of the sons in this story. We’re all both sons. When I’m honest, I realize I wasn’t always the goody-two-shoes I like to think I was. I didn’t always do things just right. Far from it. Eighth grade. I’m sitting at the back of my social studies classroom, talking to my best friend, Steve Jacques. Suddenly Mrs. Liscomb says, “Hamilton?” I say, “Yes.” She says, “What’s the answer?” I say, “I don’t know. I wasn’t listening.” She says, “I know.” I say, “Then why’d you ask?” which draws uproarious laughter from my classmates, and a home visit from Mrs. Liscomb to see my parents.
I’m fifteen, living in Cambridge, England for a year, and my schoolmates and I are heading off on a trip—a full-day trip by train, ferry, and more train to Austria for a week’s ski vacation. I make it to London’s Victoria Station fine. And then, unbelievably, my train to Austria goes off without me. And I’m left alone in Victoria Station, reading magazines at a kiosk (and you can be sure it wasn’t The Economist or Foreign Policy Quarterly!). How do you think my parents greeted that news!? Oh, yeah—I’ve always been just perfect! The spotless older son—Not!
As a matter of fact, though—and this is how I begin to get this parable—my parents were surprisingly low-key about my missing that train. I don’t remember a loud shouting scene. I don’t remember them screaming at me, “How could you!” And the next day, I headed off by myself, all alone, on a cross-continent trip to a country whose language I didn’t speak. And when I remember that, I think, “Maybe I’m not just the responsible older son who’s being ignored and taken for granted. Maybe I’m also the error-prone younger son who’s made my share of mistakes, who’s hurt my share of people, who’s failed to live up to my best ideals, but who’s also been understood and forgiven and adored.”
The fact is, I’m both sons in this parable, and I suspect most of us are. We’ve all been responsible and done things we didn’t especially like doing, simply because they needed to be done. And we’ve all also blown our share of the inheritance, so to speak, wasting our time or resources or health or reputations with stupid choices and reckless failings. None of us is entirely pure or entirely evil. We’re a mixture.
In talking about this passage this week, Dan DeWeese astutely observed that, “The problem is, we want justice for other people, but we want mercy for ourselves.” And what the parable reminds us is that God’s mercy is not just for us. It’s for everyone. It’s a mercy that runs toward the younger son and lavishes him with hugs and gifts before the father knows whether the boy is the slightest bit sorry for what he’s done. It’s a mercy that says to the older boy, “all that is mine is yours” (15:31), a mercy that wishes for all the world that the hard-edged son would come in and join the party. We’re both sons—sometimes more one, sometimes more the other. And either way, mercy is ours.
And there’s yet one more thing to take in about this parable. Understandably, we focus on the sons in the story. They’re the ones in whom we see ourselves. We look at the tale anthropologically, that is, from a human point of view. The story, though, invites us to turn our gaze toward the father, to look at it theologically. Look at Rembrandt’s painting of this scene on the cover of your bulletin. It’s unfortunate that we call this the “Parable of the Prodigal Son,” as though it’s a story primarily about a reckless spendthrift. It isn’t. It’s a story, above all, about a father whose love knows no bounds. It’s a story about a father who forgives and welcomes and loves. “The Parable of the Generous Father” might be a far better title for this timeless gem.
Because it really is about the One who chases us and will not let us go. No matter what you and I do, the “hound of heaven” comes after us. Henri Nouwen, whose book on this parable (The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Meditation on Fathers, Brothers and Sons) is the focus of a number of Federated study groups this Lent, says that the central spiritual challenge facing us all is to hear and take in the fundamental truth that we are all the beloved: you’re the beloved; I’m the beloved. And God will keep running toward us with open arms until we take that in.
Nouwen uses the striking image of trapeze artists to open up this dimension of God. “The Flying Rodleighs are trapeze artists . . . When the circus came to Freiburg two years ago, my friends . . . invited me and my father to see the show. [I was] enraptured, [and eventually the trapeze artists and I] became good friends.
“One day I was sitting with Rodleigh, the leader of the troupe, in his caravan, talking about flying. He said, ‘As a flyer, I must have complete trust in my catcher. The public might think that I’m the great star of the trapeze, but the real star is Joe, my catcher. He has to be there for me with split-second precision and grab me out of the air as I come to him in the long jump.’ ‘How does it work,’ I asked. ‘The secret,’ Rodleigh said, ‘is that the flyer does nothing and the catcher does everything. When I fly to Joe, I have simply to stretch out my arms and hands and wait for him to catch me and pull me [to safety].’
“‘You do nothing!’ I said, surprised. ‘Nothing,’ Rodleigh repeated. ‘The worst thing the flyer can do is to try to catch the catcher. I am not supposed to catch Joe. It’s Joe’s task to catch me. If I grabbed Joe’s wrists, I might break them, or he might break mine, and that would be the end for both of us. A flyer must fly and a catcher must catch, and the flyer must trust, with outstretched arms, that his catcher will be there for him.’
“When Rodleigh said this with so much conviction, the words of Jesus flashed through my mind: ‘Father, into your hands I commend my spirit.’ . . . Remember that you are the beloved child of God. [God] will be there when you make your long jump. Don’t try to grab [God]; [God] will grab you. Just stretch out your arms and hands and trust, trust, trust” (http://www.spiritualityandpractice.com/books/excerpts.php?id=17109).
Younger son, older son, younger daughter, older daughter, mother, father, friend, competitor, sinner, saint: we jump, and God is the catcher. God wants to hold you and me, to forgive you and me, and to reconcile the broken fissures, of our faith and of our relationships. A wholeness, a unity, rooted in love: that’s what God is after.
And here’s the culminating revelation of this story: that’s what God invites us to be part of, as well—to accept our acceptance, to receive our forgiveness, and finally to make peace with those from whom we’re estranged. If God can seek us with all our faults, we can do no less than to seek the same everywhere we turn. Yes, we may well identify with one or both of the sons. But finally we’re called to become like the father—to become the ones who catch each other, who hold each other, who come to each other without judgment, without a predisposition that our role in life is to correct everybody else and make things right.
Your daughter comes home from school one day and says, “The teacher accused me of cheating.” Clearly cheating is wrong. But what’s your first reaction? Do you rush to judgment; assume she’s guilty; roll your eyes and wish she had better friends? Your son bombed in his first baseball game of the season, and it’s clear he wasn’t trying. Obviously our effort matters. But what do you say first? Do you berate him for his laziness; push him hard about what he did wrong; icily tell him he’d better do better next time? Your neighbor drunkenly knocks over your mail box. Clearly drunken driving is a scourge. But how do you approach her? Do you berate her for her grotesque irresponsibility, coldly dismiss her, and stalk off? Your father makes some bad investment decisions and loses a good bit of what would have been your inheritance. Of course good business decisions matter. But how do you greet the news? Do you snap at him; tell him he blew it; curtly or angrily dismiss him as an aging relic? What would it be like, in any of these scenes, not to condone what ought not be done, but still to go to the one who may well have erred, and, without any questions or judgment, embrace the person, literally or figuratively, and tell them how glad you are to see them? Hard as it sometimes is, wrong as it sometimes seems, we’re called to be the father in this story. Because, by the power of God, that’s what makes the world new.
As I neared my high school graduation, my school did what many schools do: it solicited quotations from each senior that could be put next to their yearbook photograph. You know the kind of thing people put there: witty one-liners, wise sayings, inscrutable gibberish. Well, around that time, I had heard a classmate of mine talking about a dream he had had in which he was a space ship flying around. He was not what you would call a cool kid, so I thought I’d be oh-so-clever, and mock him in my yearbook quotation by slyly referring to this dream of his.
What a disaster. Not because he ever said anything to me about it, and not because anyone else did, either, but simply because, as the years went on, I felt worse and worse about it. I couldn’t look at my yearbook, and felt deeply ashamed of myself every time I thought of what I’d done.
So finally, about twenty years after I graduated, I decided I had to write him and apologize. I called the school to see if they had his address, which they did, and sent him a note saying how sorry I was for my clumsy and mean-spirited attempt at wit.
He could have chosen not to answer my letter. He could have chosen to hold my deed against me forever. He could even—this was my worst nightmare—have sued me for libel and insured that my misdeed would continue to haunt me. Instead, he wrote me back. And this is what he said:
Dear Hamilton,
I do somewhat remember you from back when you were my . . . classmate and went by the name of “Ham.” You are correct in noting that we weren’t friends at the time, although we may have attended a class or two together . . .
What I had completely forgotten about, at least until I received your letter reminding me of it, was your quote in the . . . yearbook. And the only troubling thing about receiving your letter was to learn of the . . . years of hell you have put yourself through over something you wrote in a frivolous moment as a teenager. Your quote caused me no offense at the time . . ., and the fact that I had forgotten about it over the intervening . . . years undoubtedly means that it offends me even less now. Since no offense is or ever was taken, no apology . . . is or ever will be necessary. So please put your mind at ease, and feel free to look at your . . . yearbook again: it holds a few good memories for me, and it undoubtedly can do so for you, too.
Yours truly,
Lawrence Stalla
And while I have never completely let go of my egregious and hurtful betrayal, his forgiveness was incredibly important to me. I felt a new lightness, a profound weight taken from my back, as if I’d been given freedom to begin again. It was a huge gift, one I shall treasure always. I had been the sinful child, and, certainly without realizing it, he had been the gracious father, welcoming me home, forgiving me, making a space for me to live again. This is the chance we all have, again and again.
No, the story isn’t fair; it isn’t just. What it is is merciful. Again and again we have been loved despite our shortcomings. So, in gratitude, may we be filled with the spirit of that long ago father, to forgive and make new.