4 Lent, March 31, 2019
St. Paul’s Lynnfield
The Rev. Nancy E. Gossling
Let us pray:
Lord Jesus Christ, you
stretched out your arms of love on the hard wood of the cross that everyone
might come within the reach of your saving embrace: so clothe us in your Spirit
that we, reaching forth our hands in love, may bring those who do not know you
to the knowledge and love of you, for the honor of your name. Amen.
The gospel of Luke is famous for its
parables. It’s also known for balancing the feminine with the masculine. In
chapter 15 of Luke, the shepherd, who lost his one sheep, is followed
immediately by the woman, who lost her one coin, and then there is this parable
about the lost son. At our clergy conference last year, Dr. Amy Jill Levine
talked about parables, and made some suggestions. Ask questions. Read between
the lines. Play with the names that are given to the parables, she said.
In my Bible, today’s parable is
entitled “The Parable of the Prodigal and His Brother.” Most people think of it
as “The Return of the Prodigal Son.” Some scholars have called it “The Parable
of the Running Father” or “The Parable of the Forgiving Father.” Provocatively,
Dr. Levine wondered why it wasn’t called “The Parable of the Absent Parent.”
T.S. Eliot wrote about a journey in
his poem called “Little Gidding.” He wrote, “With the drawing of this Love and
the voice of this Calling, we shall not cease from exploration. And (at) the
end of all our exploring, we will arrive where we started, and know the place
for the first time.” (T. S. Eliot, “Little Gidding” (1942)) Is this not the story of the prodigal son, indeed the story of all of
us, who occasionally go exploring and get lost along the way? And when we
arrive home, do we not we see it in a whole new light? Is this not the story of
our human family? The story about freedom and forgiveness. The story about
parent and child. The story about God and us.
I find the word prodigal
interesting, and so I googled it. As an adjective, it is defined as “spending
money or resources freely and recklessly; being wastefully extravagant.” It
claims that
"prodigal
habits die hard." To be prodigal is to be irresponsible, self-indulgent, and
wanton. Clearly the younger son in Luke’s parable is described by this
definition. He took his father’s money and ran, hurting those he left behind.
Who among us does not know a prodigal son? Or who among us has been one
ourselves?
Defined
slightly differently, prodigal means “having or giving something on a lavish
scale.” For example "the dessert was crunchy with brown sugar and prodigal
with whipped cream." To be prodigal is to be generous, liberal, unsparing,
and bountiful, like the prodigal son’s father. Renamed, we might call this
parable “The Feast of the Prodigal Father.” Or “The Feast of the Generous
Parent.” “Bring out the best robe. Put a ring on his finger, sandals on his
feet, and kill the fatted calf” cried the prodigal father. Let us celebrate
with unsparing generosity. Let us lavishly feast together.
“Really?” said the older brother,
returning from the fields where he had been working hard for many years in the
family business. He too was the son of this prodigal father; and yet, unlike
his brother, he had not wished his father dead, nor asked for his inheritance
early, and then squandered the property with wine, women and song. This older
brother was still a family member in good standing, with sweat on his brow and
dirt under his nails, while his younger brother was living it up.
Eventually,
having lost everything, the younger brother was forced to become a hired hand,
a Jew feeding pigs and eating their pods in a foreign country. He got what he
deserved, I imagine the older brother thought to himself; and yet, their father
throws this very same prodigal son a lavish party! Perhaps the elder son
thought his brother was trying to manipulate his father once again, instead of
being truly repentant. Who wants to be a slave or a servant or even a hired
hand when you can be a favored son? Distancing himself from his brother, the
older son refused to go into the party that was in full swing. Standing there
in his work clothes, teeth clenched with resentment, hands in angry fists at
his side, the elder son fumed at his prodigal father.
In
a book called, The Return of the Prodigal Son, a Story of Homecoming, the late
Henri Nouwen wrote about a famous painting by Rembrandt. In this painting,
one’s eyes are initially drawn to the father and the prodigal son, who kneels
at his father’s feet. The son is wearing only the tattered undergarments of a
beggar. One foot is bare, and both feet are parallel to the hands of his
father, who has placed them upon the back of his younger son. In a dimmer
light, the older brother stands by, watching with hands closed across his
chest. The light in the painting shines most brightly on the father’s open
hands.
I
was intrigued by what Henri Nouwen had to say about the father’s hands, and I
remembered Dr. Levine’s comment about
the absent parent. Unlike the parable that Jesus tells in Luke, the mother of
these sons is actually painted into Rembrandt’s picture. She is leaning against
an archway in the dark, slightly off to the right behind the father. On closer
inspection we see that Rembrandt has painted the father’s two hands very
differently, one appears to be more masculine and the other more feminine. The
right hand is strong and muscular, and holding the son’s shoulder gently, with a firm grip. The left hand “does not hold or grasp. Rather, it is refined,
soft, and very tender, wanting to caress, to stroke, and to offer consolation.”
Both hands are open.
Two
weeks ago, my daughter Megan and her husband Josh became the parents of
fraternal twin boys. Born prematurely at 25 weeks, they are fragile and in need
of intensive care. Nathaniel was the smaller twin, and it was his move into the birth canal that precipitated the emergency C-section. His brother
Peter was the larger twin, and ended up being the first one to be lifted out of
Megan’s belly, into the open and loving hands of the medical team. Peter would
have been the younger brother, if Nathaniel had succeeded in his efforts, but
with the C-section, Peter became the older brother instead. In moments of
light-heartedness, we joke about their sibling rivalry that began before birth.
I
am fascinated by the hands of Peter and Nathaniel. Like his father, Peter has
arms that are extremely long for his age. When he was in utero, with ultrasound
technology, we could see him waving at us. In one live stream, he was seen fist
pumping, while sitting on top of his brother. Now in the NICU, he firmly grasps
his mother and his father’s finger, or the tube that provides him with oxygen.
He holds one hand up in what I thought was a high five; although my daughter
tells me that this is a signal for distress. Stop touching and poking me, he is
saying angrily. Leave me alone, so I can rest and grow.
When
Peter and Nathaniel become anxious and fearful, or they are hurting and scared,
they can’t tell us; but they do give us signs of their distress. Their blood
pressures go up, their heart rates increase, and their lungs demand more air.
When they are angry and frustrated with the way things are, they are comforted
by the loving hands of their mother and father. Gently holding them firmly,
consoling and caressing them tenderly, and loving them prodigally, Megan and
Josh offer their hands to their Minnesota twins. No longer sibling rivals, each
one can hear the familiar voice of their parent saying to them “You are my
beloved Son, upon whom my favor rests.”
Henry
Nouwen was prodigal in his writing, and wrote another book entitled “With Open
Hands.” Our hands are not always open, however, and for good reasons. Indeed
they can remain closed to protect us or folded in prayer. Shaking my fist at
God, perhaps even at a few politicians, I express my outrage over the loss of
life, a chronic illness, wanton self-centeredness, reckless choices, and my
grief at being a powerless parent and grandparent. As an explorer in this
foreign country, I want to find my way home, where open hands will receive me,
where strong and gentle hands will hold me, and where prodigal hands will love
me lavishly. I want to come home to a prodigal parent who will shout for joy
and celebrate my safe and sound return with a fatted calf.
We
are all siblings in this journey that we call life, and we shall not cease from
exploration. Fortunately, our God is
always running out to meet us, no matter what shape we’re in, or the various
feelings we may have, whether we are lost in a foreign country, working in the
fields, or standing right outside the house. Home is where the heart is and our
true home is with God, who is never absent but always present. We are all God’s
beloved children, upon whom God's favor rests.
Perhaps
then, we should call this story “The Parable of Healing Hands” or “The Parable
of the Prodigal Love of our Divine Parent.” For God so loved the world that God
gave God’s only Prodigal Son to the end that all who believe in Him will have
eternal life. Call this parable what you want. I call it amazing grace.
Joshua 5:9-12
2 Corinthians 5:16-21
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Psalm 32
