Becoming the Father: Another Look at the Parable of the Lost Son
The Parable of the Lost Son (Luke 15:1-4, 11-32) is one that is so familiar to us that we might tend to hear the beginning of the gospel being proclaimed and tune it out because it’s already one we think we know so well. This Lent, I was asked to give a mission on the theme, “Rescue Me, O Lord, “ and chose this parable as the focus of the three days of presentations. Spending that much time with one gospel was grace-filled time for me. It would be impossible to sum up the three days in this blog post, so I will focus on one small portion of the presentation – “Becoming the Father.”
Before reading further, please take some time to read the parable slowly – even out loud if you can. Pay close attention to the words and the actions of the father. What do you notice about him? When the younger son asks for a share of the estate (essentially saying to his father, “I wish you were dead.”), what does the father do? When the younger son comes back after squandering his inheritance, what does the father say and do? When the older son refuses to enter the house and celebrate, what does the father say and do?
Sometimes, we are so focused on these sons that we do not realize how very remarkable the father’s words and actions are. Let’s try to enter the mind of the first-century hearers of this parable as they listened to Jesus proclaim the story. (We are led in this discussion by the work of Kenneth Bailey, an expert in Middle Eastern New Testament studies, who has spent many years studying this parable.)
Giving the share of the estate: There is no evidence in Middle Eastern literature that any son would ask for an inheritance from a father who is still in good health! The father could choose to share his estate while he was still alive, but by law the son cannot dispose of the estate while the father is still alive. The father must be able to use the estate to live.
Running to greet the younger son upon his return: Be very clear about the fact that a Middle Eastern man never – ever – ran! If he were to run, he would have to lift up his tunic so he would not trip. If he did this, he would show his bare legs. In that culture, it was humiliating and shameful for a man to show his bare legs!
Attempting to bring the older son into the celebration: It is the older son’s responsibility to help his father host the celebration. His refusal to do so should result in very strong punishment from his father. However, the father goes out to him and pleads with him.
Consider the unusual nature of these three actions of the father. Consider the extravagance of his love in order to get his sons back. Consider the extravagance if God’s love for you and the love you are expected to give others by “becoming the father.”
In his book, The Return of the Prodigal Son, the late Henri Nouwen gives us insight into this. He says that our identification with the two sons is so understandable and so profoundly human. They are so broken. It feels good to be able to say, “These sons are like me.” It gives a sense of being understood. But how does it feel to say: “The father is like me?” Do I want to be not just the one who is being forgiven, but also the one who forgives; not just the one who is being welcomed home, but also the one who welcomes home; not just the one who receives compassion, but the one who offers it as well?
Nouwen concludes, “Whether you are the younger son or the elder son, you have to realize that you are called to become the father. For indeed, I am the younger son; I am the elder son; and I am on the way to becoming the father. . . . My final vocation is indeed to become the father and to live out his divine compassion in my daily life. Though I am both the younger and the elder son, I am not to remain them, but to become the father. It is a hard and lonely step . . . but it is a step that is essential for the fulfillment of the spiritual journey.”
How do I work toward becoming the father? Having experienced the father’s unexpected, unconditional, extravagant love, can I let go of those things that distress me about others so as to be able to enjoy them and be grateful for who they are? Do I know that I am a child so loved by the father that I am inspired to see others as they are? Do I give others permission to be who they are without conditions? Do I surrender my unrealistic expectations in order to be really grateful for the presence of others, no matter how much they do not act as I want them to? Can I “be with” those I love without needing to shape them according to my standards? Can I accept that they are different from me and that they think and act in their own ways and make different choices than I might make?
As we are more than halfway through Lent and approaching Holy Week, can we come up with small, practical ways to help to work toward becoming the father? Pauline von Mallinckrodt (1817-1881), founder of the Sisters of Christian Charity, offers some practical insight. Writing in 1852 to one of the religious superiors who was having difficulties with some sisters in her convent, she said: “We cannot expect that others have none but good qualities; they have their faults, too. This remains an imperfect world – heaven alone will bring perfection. It is a work of mercy to endure patiently whatever cannot be corrected in our neighbor.” Isn’t this the true stance of someone on the journey toward becoming the father?
Another practical way toward becoming the father is to give up the negative stories we tell ourselves about other people’s motives for their actions and tell ourselves alternative stories. Dr. Dan Gottlieb is a psychologist in Philadelphia who is paralyzed from the chest down due to an automobile accident in 1979. In his 2008 book, Letters to Sam: A Grandfather’s Lessons on Love, Loss and the Gifts of Life, he wrote:
“Last month, on a very windy day, I was returning from a lecture I had given to a group in Fort Washington. I was beginning to feel unwell. I was feeling increasing spasms in my legs and back and became anxious as I anticipated a difficult ride back to my office. Making matters worse, I knew I had to travel two of the most treacherous high-speed roads near Philadelphia – the four-lane Schuylkill Expressway and the six-lane Blue Route. You’ve been in my van, so you know how it’s been outfitted with everything I need to drive. But you probably don’t realize that I often drive more slowly than other people. That’s because I have difficulty with body control. I’m especially careful on windy days when the van can be buffeted by sudden gusts. And if I’m having problems with spasms or high blood pressure, I stay way over in the right hand lane and drive well below the speed limit. When I’m driving slowly, people behind me tend to get impatient. They speed up to my car, blow their horns, drive by, stare at me angrily. . . .
. . . On this particular day, I was driving by myself. At first, I drove slowly along back roads. Whenever someone approached, I pulled over and let them pass. But as I neared the Blue Route, I became more frightened. I knew I would be hearing a lot of horns and seeing a lot of those long fingers. And then I did something I had never done in the twenty-four years that I have been driving my van. I decided to put on my flashers. I drove the Blue Route and the Schuylkill Expressway at 35 miles per hour. Now…Guess what happened? Nothing! No horns, [no yelling], no staring . . . But why? When I put on my flashers, I was saying to the other drivers, “I have a problem here – I am vulnerable and doing the best I can.” And everyone understood. Several times, in my rearview mirror I saw drivers who wanted to pass. They couldn’t get around me because of the stream of passing traffic. But instead of honking or tailgating, they waited for the other cars to pass, knowing the driver in front of them was in some way weak. Sam, there is something about vulnerability that elicits compassion. It is in our hard wiring. I see it every day when people help me by holding doors, pouring cream in my coffee, or assist me when I put on my coat. Sometimes I feel sad because from my wheelchair perspective, I see the best in people. But those who appear strong and invulnerably typically are not exposed to the kindness I see daily. Sometimes situations call for us to act strong and brave even when we don't feel that way. But those are a few and far between. More often, there is a better pay-off if you don't pretend you feel strong when you feel weak, or pretend that you are brave when you’re scared. I really believe the world might be a safer place if everyone who felt vulnerable wore flashers that said, “I have a problem and I’m doing the best I can. Please be patient!”
If we want to truly rise with Jesus on Easter, we must consider how we treat our brothers and sisters, who are all vulnerable in some way. They should not need to wear flashers to remind us that we should be patient with them. If we are to become the father, we must run to them, clothe them with the best clothes and make them our honored guests. Most importantly, we must not demand excuses or explanations – just show immense joy in them. When becoming the father, what counts is here and now, where all that fills our heart is gratitude for the presence of our brothers and sisters in our lives.
