Returning to the Prodigal

There was a man with two sons. Thus begins the familiar parable from today’s gospel. When Canon St. Louis and I sat down back in June to set a date for a special service for reconciliation and healing, I would like to say that we scoured and searched through the lectionary to decide which Sunday would be most appropriate. We didn’t. We just wanted to offer such a special service at the mid point in Lent. To our surprise and wonder we discovered these lessons for today: a father welcomes home his lost son, and the apostle Paul writes of how if anyone is in Christ they are a new creation and everything old has passed away. In the epistle we learn that we are called not be to bystanders or even witnesses, but ambassadors, representatives of reconciliation in our broken world.

I am certainly not alone when I say that the parable of the prodigal son has captivated me for years. I cannot imagine the Christian faith without this unforgettable story. The best stories, from Aesop’s fables to the Brothers Grimm fairy tales, are those with universal and timeless messages, not hemmed in by dates and context. Today we hear again one of scripture’s greatest stories of love and loss, leaving and returning, jealousy and regret, second thoughts and new beginnings.

The set up for the story comes as critics of Jesus offer up a batch of their predictable grumbling as to why Jesus would spend so much time with sinners – actually eating and drinking with them. Isn’t it interesting that then as now what really bothers people is how Jesus and those who follow Jesus take seriously the work of embracing and including those easily excluded or discounted. People then and now can be right when it comes to interpreting the letter of the law and be wrong about its spirit and purpose.

When challenged, Jesus answers his critics indirectly by citing how wonderful it is to find that which is lost -- such as a sheep that wandered off from the other 99 and was later found, and a woman who discovered her lost coin. What Jesus sought to do was to crack open a new way of believing. He paints a picture of a compassionate God who longs to welcome back those who have gone astray. The best way he knew to make this point was to live it out himself by spending time with those who knew a thing or two about hard knocks, bad decisions, bottoming out and getting lost – and the joy of being welcomed back.

Throughout this Lenten season, during this season of fasting, we as a community have been feasting on the life of renowned spiritual writer and priest Henri Nouwen. Our speakers, all of whom thus far knew Nouwen personally at different stages of his life, have not only shared with us why he connected so with those who knew him and read his books, but they have also given us a picture of a complex, conflicted man. It has been an important insight for those of us who look at our own lives and wonder at times how God can use ordinary people as you and me to further God’s mission to reconcile the world to God’s self. For those who may not feel so holy at times, whose prayer life is shaky if not barren, who doubt more than believe, who don’t follow through on things when we said we would and hold onto grudges far too long, who desperately want to hear from God and those near us that we matter, it can give us solace in a way to learn that this great man that made such an impact for so many could be many of the things we can be -- and then some. In his own words Nouwen could be jealous, angry, touchy, sullen, self-righteous, complaining, resentful. (pg. 20 Return of the Prodigal Son) Those who knew him closest speak of his needy tendencies, his longing to be accepted by his father, his inability to care for himself in daily life, his restlessness. He was a priest who found it hard to pray. He was a pastor who needed to be cared for. He was a healer, who had carried a woundedness deep inside.

It was Rembrandt’s famous painting The Return of the Prodigal Son that captured Nouwen’s soul and helped produce one his most popular books. In it Nouwen sets himself before the painting, drinks in its shapes and tones, and puts himself inside the parable itself. He invites the reader to walk through the story and imagine the story from the vantage points of the main characters: the younger brother, then the older brother, and finally the father. He resists casting one character or scenario above or against the other. He does not romanticize the rebel nor castigate the faithful. What I have taken from this Lenten series is that at the heart of Nouwen’s spirituality is the sense of journey and movement. We are not to stand still in comfortable places. We are all on a journey with Christ that if we stay aware may lead us from loneliness to solitude, from hostility to hospitality, from illusion to prayer.

How do you hear this parable at this stage in your lives? Do you hear from the point of view of the younger brother? Have you spent some time in a distant country, so to speak, far away from what you most know? Have you been given something too early and squandered it away? Do you relate to the older brother? Have you never strayed far from home, always colored within the lines, and did what was expected and hoped of you?

I remember as a child I was given a homemade baseball bat by my grandfather when I was around 8 or 9 years old. I could not know at the time how valuable this bat was to him. He grew up poor on a farm in rural Michigan and this bat was one of the first things he ever made. I remember the joy of being given this gift, but I also vaguely remember that I wasn’t really ready to appreciate its full meaning. I didn’t want to just look at the bat in my room; I wanted to play with it. But quickly I tossed it aside and one day our car ran over this treasured bat in the garage and snapped it in two. Of course I felt terrible about what happened, and my grandfather never let me forget it. But what I took away from this experience was this: I was too young to truly appreciate and care for what I was given. Though my grandfather meant well when he gave the bat to me, there was a shaky, uncertain backdrop to the gift.

In today’s society there is intense pressure to give and receive before conditions are always right. Parents feel pressure to give their children material things before the young ones really know how to care for them. We are primed to ask for and receive what we want not what we truly need to experience real joy. Many teenagers are given drivers’ licenses as a rite of passage when many of them are not fully ready to focus on the duties and the risks. The stock market continues its wild up and down ride, partly based on the sober reality that too many buyers with bad credit have received mortgages for houses they cannot afford. We live in a “no money down” culture and we shouldn’t be surprised when things get wobbly at the slightest hint of insecurity.

God in God’s compassionate mystery often presents openings to us before we have eyes to see fully. We may get a glimpse here and there, but are not at the stage when we can respond to God’s invitation. But what the parable of the prodigal demonstrates is that God does not stop inviting, hinting, pointing, and pulling us toward him. The welcome mat is never pulled, the invitation never rescinded and the door is always open and the light always left on. With God, we do not hear “I told you so” as we are prone to repeat to those who have failed or disappointed us.

Many respond to this parable by feeling like the older brother, unable to share in the joy of the father’s welcome of his returning son. Henri Nouwen could feel what the elder brother felt. He writes how he felt when challenged by a friend, who had recently become a Christian, for not being very prayerful. (pg. 70). He raged in his thoughts: “How dare he teach me a lesson about prayer! For years he has lived a carefree and undisciplined life, while I since childhood have scrupulously lived the life of faith. Now he is converted and starts telling me how to behave!” His inner resentment became his lostness.

The apostle Paul wrote to the Corinthians about the change that takes place when Christ enters our lives. For everything old to pass away and for the new to take hold, we have to stop looking at others from a human point of view. We begin to look at others the way God looks at us. Which really brings us full circle about why Jesus told this parable to the Pharisees and scribes, the so-called religious experts of their day. Jesus drew near the so-called sinners of the day because they knew where they stood. Tax collectors were despised, women were marginalized, lepers were avoided, and the sick were blamed. They were all lost in their own way and they all wanted more. Throughout the gospels Jesus responds in moving ways when people open themselves up and confess that they have nowhere else to turn but to God.

For all those who seek healing and reconciliation, like the lost son, we have to be willing to turn around and begin to make our way home. God does not make us return. God does not force us to our knees. But a gift is no gift unless it is given and received. Somehow and somewhere there has to be a desire to put away old resentments, jealousies and pain. For reconciliation to occur there has to be a desire to move. For growth to occur, we have to make room for change. For healing to take place, we have to want to be made whole again. The parable tells us how the younger son, down and out and knowing of his mistakes, “set off and went to his father.”

May our prayer and hope be that we may know what it feels like to experience the unconditional love of the Father. But not just experience, we need to put it into practice in our lives. This is not easy. It is the hardest thing to do in this life. We may not do it completely or consistently, but the moments we can love the way God loves, and forgive the way God forgives, we know for certain that our journey has begun.