10 March 2013
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
This week in worship we hear the familiar story of the
lost son, sometimes called the prodigal son. Prodigal doesn’t mean lost, it
means wasteful, and it is a label Jesus never used. The judgment was made by
biblical translators in the age of the Reformation. Yes, the son spent his
entire inheritance living large for a short time, like some professional
athletes featured in the ESPN documentary Broke.
The son in the parable blew it.
But the
father was also prodigal—wasteful—you might say. First, he gave half his
fortune away to a son who basically said, “Dad, you’re dead to me, so give me
my inheritance and I’m out of here.” The father had no obligation to give that
boy anything. In fact, according to the law, the father’s obligation was to
discipline the son harshly (All who curse father or mother shall be put to
death—Lev. 20:9). The father, you could say, wasted mercy, gave it away for
nothing. In terms of what the law required, he blew it.
The only
one who wasn’t prodigal was the older son, the one who stayed at home and did
what was required of him. He was the opposite of prodigal… he was stingy. He
withheld his approval, his forgiveness, and his presence at the feast given in
honor of his brother. He conserved his integrity and preserved his pride. He
acted just as the law required.
But man, he
really blew it.
I have been
a keeper of cats for many years. A cat fancier, a cat companion. Opener of the
cans. Scooper of the litter. Nobody really owns a cat and you have to have
lived with cats, I think, to understand that. Cats might be the inspiration for
the “Borrowers” of Mary Norton’s fiction. Human beans exist for borrowers,
Arrietty explained to the boy. I believe that’s the way cats feel about us
“round ears.”
Anyway, one
day, one of these cats who lived with us had to go to the vet, and the other
cat, when she realized that she was alone, except for the human, sniffed the
spot where she had last seen her cat-sister and then let out a mournful yowl.
She went about the house calling for her sister, and then curled up in the
closet and went to sleep. It was pitiful. I felt bad for her, but and tried to
comfort her, but she was inconsolable.
A few hours
later when the “away” cat returned from the vet, I prepared myself for a
heartwarming reunion. The cat who was left behind came running to the door the
moment she heard the car in the drive. And when the cat carrier was opened, and
her sister stepped out, they touched noses, and then…
Hst! She gave her a swat and ran away.
I don’t
think cats have much long term memory.
It was as
if a strange new cat came back from
the vet, and not the companion for whom she had grieved.
That image
came to mind when I pondered the story of the two brothers in the parable.
How long
did it take for the older one to forget that the younger brother was his
childhood playmate, and his own flesh and blood? Sibling rivalry is natural,
but so is sibling affection. I can barely remember, but I can still remember,
how much I missed my brother and sister when the summer was over and they went
back to school for the whole long day. I remember waiting for them, at the top
of the hill which they had to climb to get home from Grant School, and the
great joy I felt as we walked the rest of the way home together, hand in hand.
But, I also
remember how, much later, I waited and waited for my sister go back to school,
back to her dorm room at Illinois State University, so I could have my room to
myself again!
What
happens to us as we grow up and grow old? We seem to move from some natural
sense of attachment to people, to detachment. From barely sensing where one of
us ends and the other begins, to delineating boundaries with masking tape on
the bedroom floor. It’s not a fault or a flaw, it just is what it is—a natural
observable human phenomenon, an adaptation that may even be necessary for the
survival of the species. That’s just the way it is.
Someone
asked me this week what I thought of original sin. I don’t think about it much.
I believe in original blessing. That’s where I put my trust. The first story of
creation resounds with the refrain, “and it was good.” Behold it was very good!
We were created and declared good, and so we are, when we are genuine.
I love the
way the story goes, the turn of phrase, when the younger son “came to himself.”
He was out there, living la vida loca,
and then, when he came to himself he decided to go home. When he came to
himself he realized that it would be better to be a slave in his father’s house
than to be estranged.
I believe
that is what theologians used to call original sin-- that estrangement, that
malignant form of self-differentiation, that extreme detachment. And repentance
would be coming to oneself, recovering that original state of relationship with
God by being in good relationship with others.
And that is
what the older son, and the Pharisees and scribes for whom Jesus told the
parable, missed out on. They thought that righteousness was about being good
and following rules, but they forgot the reason behind the rules. God created the
law, the book tells us, because more than anything God wants to be in
relationship with us. To know as we are known, to love as we are loved by God.
And the only way we can truly experience a relationship with God is through our
relationship with others.
It’s not
about being good, it’s about being in relationship.
The older
son is good, but he is missing out on the party because of his own self-imposed
estrangement.
The parable
ends with the father’s plea. Come in, join the party, rejoice with me.
Well, will
we go in? Will we enter into the experience of the realm of God, or will we
remain outside, estranged, alone. That is the question we must ask ourselves
every day. Will we choose relationship, or not? The door remains open. That is
the good news. Thanks be to God.
