You probably know Christ’s parable about the “prodigal son,” and if not, here’s the passage.
Charles Dickens called it “the greatest story every told,” and as Gary Heikkila notes, its influence among poets, musicians, artists etc. is immense.
I can’t think of a more beautiful parable, and neither could Henri Nouwen who devoted a masterful book, Return of the Prodigal Son, to it.
Christ’s use of a familial story, with an ostensibly human father, moves us into the heart of theology in a way that more abstract phrases like “vicarious substitution” just can’t. Even simple words like “mercy” grow stale.
I’ve been reading Tyler Staton’s Searching for Enough, and he offers a contextual framework that makes the story even more moving.
Staton points out that when Jesus told of the looming reunion between the father and his wayward won, “everyone in that original crowd thought they knew where the story was going.”
“The meeting between the father and son mirrors a kezazah ceremony. Among first-century Jews, if a son humiliated his father by rejecting him, bringing shame not only on him but on the entire family name and then had the audacity to show his face in the wider community again, he was greeted by a village-wide ceremony.
The entire community gathered on the border of the village, while the rebellious son stood opposite them. Then one representative would step forward, smash a clay pot on the ground and let out a full-throated scream, ‘You are now cut off from your people!’
The clay pot represented the community’s view of the rebellious individual – totally broken, irredeemable, no longer useful for any purpose.
The English word ostracize…. is derived from the ancient Greek term ostrakizo, meaning ‘to banish by the vote of the people written on a potsherd’. The modern concept of being ostracized is derived from the Hebrew kezazah ceremony.
When the father ran out to greet the son – family members, friends, day laborers from the community all gathering around – the original listeners would’ve been thinking, Here it comes. The breaking of the clay pot. Finally the father can distance himself from his son’s embarassing behavior. Finally the father can stop wearing the shame of his offspring. Finally he can get a bit of closure on this parental nightmare.
Then it happens. He [The father] wraps his arm around his son. He slips a signet ring onto his finger, symbolizing rule and authority over the estate. He wraps a robe around his shoulders, the sort of robe worn by the ruler of the house.
He wasn’t interested in undressing himself of his son’s shame. The father was prepared to wear that shame to the grave.”
Wow.
I love Staton’s comment that, in the context of the crowd’s expected exile of the son, “the father was prepared to wear that shame to the grave.”
In other words, the shame that was the son’s now belonged to the father…. and isn’t that the way that Christ bore our shame both on the cross and how he lived?
Pastor Rory Shiner writes for the Gospel Coalition, “As the church fathers never tired of reminding us, that which Jesus did not assume, he could not heal…. Jesus suffered ‘outside the city gate’. That is, his suffering included exclusion from the esteem of the community.”
Finally, Staton finishes his commentary on the father’s “shame” by noting that Tim Keller titled his book The Prodigal God for a very important reason:
“The father was the reckless one. The father was the prodigal. Jesus is doing his best to make sure that we are not dealing with an authoritative overseer…. we are dealing with a prodigal God. God does not treat us as we deserve.”
According to that crowd’s standards, The Father’s love was foolish.
And yes, according to the Greeks, the Gospel of the cross was foolish. In much of the world, it remains utterly foolish.
As Christians, it might not seem foolish, but it can feel fantasy.
“Are we simply naive?” we wonder.
But Christ’s love was not a fantastical apparition. He invited Thomas to see his scars. And, like the “foolish father,” he is there, waiting for you and me, ready to clothe us — whatever the rest of the world or even the church thinks of us. They might see us, naked, in shame. We might see us that way. Christ? Nope.
Remember – we are all equal before God. The older brother in the story forgot that.
We often do, too.
We are all sinners, Christ came for us, and each of us is his child – no matter how lost or wayward or distant his grasp seems.
That’s hard to believe. There’s a depressive, doubtful, pessimistic and bleak part of us that sometimes wonders whether we’ll find it in God. Basil Hume said that Christians often find it easier to believe that God exists than that he loves us.
How true.
It takes faith.
In Isaiah 50:10, God says, “If you are walking in darkness, without a ray of light, trust in the Lord and rely on your God.”
In Hebrew, that word “rely” is closer to “lean.”
My faith will always be weak, but as much as we can, we should remember to rely and lean on God’s mercy and love, as shown in the prodigal story.
And thank God for that.
This world is a harsh place.
Sometimes you and I feel that humans are a little more merciful than God (oh, we won’t say that out loud, will we?). When we ask forgiveness of someone, more often than not, we get it.
The truth is that the crowd that heard Christ’s story was human and religious and, in that culture and context, ready for the son’s shaming and calling it his just reward. Most of our friends – both Christian and not – would have been, as well.
We might all imagine ourselves merciful, but isn’t it easy for humans to say, “Well, that’s what you get for XYZ.”
The “you made your bed, now lie in it” ethos really doesn’t lie far from many Christian cultures or communities.
If even Christians can treat us like that (let alone the rest of the world), then it’s no wonder that we have such trouble conceptualizing a God who simply forgives and forgets, who gives us full smiles and glory any time we ask his forgiveness.
It’s too good to be true, we think.
But the Gospel was called the Good News, and btw, God doesn’t mislabel things.
Remember, as Brennan Manning wrote, “take sides with Him, against our own self-evaluation.”
Here’s Keith.
