Clergy/Leaders’ Mail-list No. 1-146 (Family Issues)

THE PRODIGAL FATHER

(A first person meditation on the parable of the Prodigal Son in Luke 15, by Steven Felker)

Every day I sat at that window. I think. I watch. I weep. I look.

How long has it been? I cannot count the days or months. But when it all started, that is burned in my heart….

My youngest son, the joy of my life, drew himself up and said, “Father, give me my share of the estate.” Why did he not simply slay me? It would have been less painful.

He knows that as the youngest of my two sons, he inherits a third of my estate upon my death. Until then my fields, herds, vineyards and business associations are his living. I have withheld nothing from him. How can he now say, “give me my share of the estate”? Such a demand is to so much say, “I wish you were dead,”

I did not say “No.” Legally, I had to honor the request, and I would not fight it. Somewhere, somehow, I have lost my son’s heart. I would give my whole estate to have it back. My son is gone.

So today, I sit at the window.

He made quite a splash when he got where he was going. It is just as well. He is held in contempt here. He has disgraced not only his own household, but his whole village with such unvarnished rebellion. He quickly sold all of his land and herds – – often at a loss. My neighbors both smirked at the bargains and clenched their jaws at his impudence. Perhaps there was a little fear that their own sons would follow his way.

Now the stories have dried up. His initial lavish lifestyle must have ended. His name is repulsive in the village. I hear it less and less often.

And of him, now I hear nothing. I fear for his life. Who else has he offended? Is it someone who would exact their vengeance in blood? Has he crossed a powerful man? Stolen foolishly? Is he wasting in prison or with disease? There is a difference between silence and quiet.

If he started out this morning, he should be in view by now. So today, again, I sit at the window. And I look for my son. On the road he left.

His older brother wishes for my death as well. He will not say it. I fear for him; his is a hardened pride. Every triumph he has in the market he thinks is his own doing. He forgets that I made, by God’s grace, the mountain he climbs. If I died, there would be one less mouth against his profits. It would be his land, his herds, his vineyards, his profits, his decisions, his honor and name. He would sit in my place in the gate. His lips honor me, but his heart is far from me.

When his brother left on his self destructing folly, there was no soft place in his heart. There was no plea, no tear for the obvious impending disaster that would befall his little brother.

He thinks I sit by this window because I am soft in the head. He does not know that I sit and look for the return of two lost sons. It is just that one of them has never left. He has everything I can give him except the most important thing. I give my love, but he will not receive it. Pride and love cannot share a heart.

And compassion keeps vigil alone at the window.

The village stirs. Young people are running pell-mell. I see homes emptying. What causes this commotion? Do my eyes deceive me? The figure on the road. I know that walk – more bent, mind you, but unmistakable! My son! My lost son! Is he coming home? Is he well? Can it be!?

The village! My God, the Village!

No one dishonors his father with impunity. They think with stones and rods, curses and spit they can uphold my “honor” against my son….

NO! This isn’t about honor – it is about love. NO! He will not run the gauntlet of village pride. NO! He will bear no more shame than he has already borne.

I must get there. I must intervene! I must race the crowd.

No elder of the village runs. To do so one must hitch up his robes in embarrassing exposure. No elder of dignity can do so. And run to such as this! They want me to snub. They want me to punish. They don’t understand – this is my son, who was dead and is alive again! I must be first to the gate!

I run. Let them mock me. Let me be shamed. Let his insults fall on me. Let me bear his disgrace. I will bear his sin. I will not sit at the window and wait to see if he will come begging of me – I will run!

Ugh!! Does he smell! Worn out by the good life, worn out by the hard life. Road weary. Heartbroken. It is a blur. He says something about sin, about being unworthy. I hear none of it. I am barking my own orders now to my servants, who lead the crowd in “defending” my honor. “My ring” “My robe” He will be honored! “Shoes! Get him shoes. Now!” Slaves go barefoot. Sons wear shoes!

The best will grace tonight’s table! The bucket calf – prepare it! My honored relations in the village – summon them. They will join my honored guest at the table tonight!

All is right. All is festive. My son is alive and home! Music! Tonight we dance.

But outside the window sits his brother – my eldest son. It could be his party, too. But he will not come.

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Rev. Steven Felker is pastor of Christ Chapel in Ithaca, NY (Composed with a great debt to Dr. Kenneth Bailey).