March 31, 2019; Prodigal; Rebecca Ellenson; ICCM
There was a man who had two
sons… It is “fiction,” of
course. Or at least it is not “the truth” in the ways we are most accustomed
to thinking of “truth,” for we are told right up front that Jesus is
telling stories now.
And yet, the characters, setting and plot are so familiar to us that it IS
real. And it is TRUE in all the ways
that matter. It is a universal story. It
is a story like so many other biblical of other fathers and other sons. Think,
for instance, of Isaac and Esau and Jacob.
Remember all those sons of Jacob — especially Joseph — second to the
youngest of that clan. And surely, don’t forget David, who was the youngest of
seven or eight sons of Jesse. Again, and
again, the Biblical witness offers us stories of fathers and sons.
So when Jesus began, “There was a man who had two sons…” his listeners would have
been able to identify quickly with the characters. And they would have also remembered all those
other fathers and all those other sons. They probably expected the drama to
play out around the story of the younger son
- They knew the story of Jacob the younger twin and his need to flee his brother Esau’s wrath after having cheated him out of his birthright.
- They were well acquainted with Joseph, the second to the youngest and his tendency to lord his father’s favoritism over his older brothers.
- And David was always in their minds, both his profound gifts, and also his profound failures.
As in the parable Jesus told,
eventually each of those younger sons found their way back home — either
literally or figuratively. And in their returning, each was an example of the
power and the grace of God. The same is
true in the story we’re looking at today.
The parable of the man with
two sons is told primarily for those who identify with the older son. At the
beginning of the chapter we hear the grumbling of the faithful, the Pharisees
and the scribes, voicing their distress that “this fellow welcomes sinners
and eats with them.” This story is
aimed at all of us who forget it is only because of the power of God at work in
the lives of Jacob and Joseph and David, or even our own lives, that any of us
may be called ‘righteous.’
I recently read a review of a book, by Jeanne Bishop, titled, Change of Heart: Justice, Mercy, and Making Peace with my
Sister’s Killer. Bishop draws on our
gospel today as a tool for her process of forgiveness and reconciliation. The author’s story is similar to that of a
couple I knew quite well, who lost a child in 1991 in a horrible crime. My friends, Don and Mary Streufert’s then 18-year-old
daughter was brutally murdered by two men.
Don and Mary and their other daughter, Emily, endured
an excruciating dialogue process with the two men, guided by a mediator from a
restorative justice project of the University of Minnesota. They wanted to
express their feelings and get answers to questions unaddressed during the
trial.
The Strueferts were members of the church I served in Duluth and Don and I later worked together in an ex-offender re-entry program. He became an expert at restorative justice
and reconciliation, but he didn’t set out to forgive, initially. But, over time he began to experience
something like forgiveness. It was
something happening inside him that had nothing to do with the behavior of the
two men. He says, “seeing our common humanity is a watershed decision. I’m as
human as those two men. I’ve come to see there’s a man there. There is care.
One of the killers expressed remorse.”
My friends were able to move from profound brokenness to healing. Just like the author, Jeanne Bishop, their journey was rooted in and directed by their faith. In Bishop’s description about her own need for reconciliation, she drew upon the story of the prodigal son. In her first attempt to reach out to the man who murdered her sister she wrote him a letter where she says:
You and I are no different in the eyes of God. I am someone who has fallen short and hurt God’s heart; I have sinned, to use that Biblical word, just as you have. You are a child of God, created in God’s image, just as I am. God loves you every bit as much as me; nothing you have done could ever stop God from loving you. The division I have made between us — you, guilty murderer, me, innocent victims’ family member — was a false divide. I was wrong to do that. The only thing that could possibly pay for the loss of Nancy, her husband and their baby is this nearly-impossible thing: that you would make your way home to God, the way the Prodigal Son in one of Jesus’ parables finds his way home.
The parallel she draws is not exactly the same, of
course. There is no grisly murder in the story Jesus tells. There is, however,
profound brokenness in the relationship the two brothers share as the older one
feeds his own sense of self-righteousness which has been building for his
entire life. Oh yes, his deep resentment appears to have him seeing
himself as “fundamentally different from the other.” As better,
somehow. As more deserving, more worthy.
The Streuferts and Jeanne Bishop only found any semblance of wholeness again AS
they sought to move towards reconciliation with the ones who took so much from them.
I know this was also the case in at least some of the other stories those
first listeners must have had echoing in their memories as Jesus spoke.
Think of Joseph’s brothers whose remorse was real enough that they would do all
they could to protect their youngest brother Benjamin. And whose lives were not
really ‘whole again’ until they were united once more with the brother they had
wronged. One could certainly argue that this was doubly the case for Joseph who
clearly had nursed his resentment against his older brothers all those years
— and who never even made an attempt to be in touch with his aging father. And think of Esau, who in the end, met his
brother, Jacob, on his way home — and welcomed him with open arms.
Indeed, the saddest part of the story Jesus shares today is not that the younger
brother had strayed, but that the older brother is allowing himself to remain
bound up in his own bitter self-righteousness, in his own resentment. There is
profound joy in the story when the younger son finds his way home. Only the
father’s joy will not be complete until his older son finds his way home as
well. Home to that place where love is the first and final arbiter of all that
matters.
Home. Where we are meant to remember that God’s power is at work in all of us.
All of us. And where we will only find the wholeness God intends for us when we
extend that wholeness to others. Most especially, perhaps, those who have hurt
us most of all.
Forgiveness is powerful. And it is very
hard. Today, March 31st, is the hardest day of each year for me. 40 years ago on this date I was deeply hurt
by another person. Each year that has
passed I’ve had a sort of trigger reaction. I have worked hard to process the
experience. In the early years I suffered
from active PTSD and sought the support of counselors, pastors and support
groups. I’m proud and relieved and
grateful when I say that I’ve let go of the fear, and most of the resentment and
anger. But not a year goes by that I don’t
feel the residue of an assault that changed the course of my life. This year, I’m asking myself if I really want
the wholeness that comes by recognizing God’s love even for the person whose
actions still affect me.
This familiar parable is incomplete. We do not know if the older brother ever finds his way inside to the party. If he ever finds his way ‘home.’ I imagine Jesus left the plot dangling right there so that all of us might somehow experience the invitation as well. As Esau did. As Joseph and his brothers did. As Jeanne Bishop and Don and Mary Streufert did. As I am experiencing that invitation yet again. I expect Jesus did not tell us the ending of this parable because we each need to write our own ending, even now.
Who hasn’t heard the prodigal son story a hundred times? We think we know what it means, but it is so powerful the message in this text. It pushes us to the limits of understanding God’s grace. I’m sure each of you have a grudge you’re holding, a hurt you can’t let go of, a place of brokenness that runs deep. Even our current polarization in political terms encourages us to vilify the other. So what shall it be?
- Shall we, set aside own bitter pride and celebrate the God’s who forgiveness knows no bounds? Shall we go inside, and join the celebration after all?
- Will we accept this invitation to wholeness which can only be ours if we recognize God’s love even for those who have hurt us most of all?
- Or shall we continue to deny the power, the grace, the love of God for the ones we have deemed to be somehow ‘fundamentally different’ from us?
- Shall we sacrifice our own potential wholeness to prove a point which was never God’s point at all?
Indeed, how will this story end?