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.”

Staton:

“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:

Staton:

“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.

Paul Miller, in his book A Praying Life:

“An interviewer once asked Edith Schaeffer… ‘Who is the greatest Christian woman alive today?’ She replied, ‘We don’t know here name. She is dying of cancer somewhere in a hospital in Indian.”

No matter where you are, no matter what you feel you have or haven’t done for Christ, remember, that Christ doesn’t measure us the way the world or the church measures us.

He measures us through what his eyes see, not the “failures” the world sees, or the worst we want to believe in ourselves.

No matter who you are, where you are, don’t feel forgotten just because someone has forgotten you.

The famous preachers everyone raves over? The ones you must think, “They’re actually accomplishing stuff for Christ.” Sure, they are. And I thank God for them. Deeply. But do you think God is impressed by the crowds they draw? No, he looks at the heart the minister has.

We know this from Christ’s explicit and implicit teachings (“last is first” theme, his numerous parables, the people he honored etc), and we also know this from one of the verses I have to keep in mind a lot, as someone who’s keenly aware of his own failures, smallness, and penchant for guilt at “not doing enough for him.”

Psalm 147:10-11: “He takes no pleasure in the strength of a horse or in human might. No, the Lord’s delight is in those who fear him, those who put their hope in his unfailing love.”

Now, my heart is often far from him, I often lose hope in his unfailing love, and oh Lord, many times I live with indifference to his Lordship.

But… no matter where you are – if you are confined to a hospital bed, if you are confined to a restricted life where you’re unseen, and even if you’re suffering from guilt over your failures or your sins: This moment is this moment. And you and I can turn our hearts towards him, and that’s all God wants. That’s where it all begins and even if it’s in the midst of ending, of dying in that lonely hospital room, you have already become great in God’s kingdom.

Don’t listen to Christians who rebuke you for not “doing enough.” Christ says, “I did enough. Now let’s build our relationship.”

If you’re depressed, or struggle with any aspect of mental health…

For readers from the United States….

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.

I’ve had a difficult summer, physically, with both continued and new complications from my perforation a year ago. Of course, that hasn’t helped things mentally. We’re also going through a big change as a family, and so my posting has been sparse this summer.

Hopefully, I will get back to it in a few weeks once some logistical issues are concluded.

But I’ve been slowly reading two of my favorite chapters in the Bible, Matthew 1 and 2.

And I wanted to share this verse from you that I read this morning. I’m pretty sure you know it.

Matthew 2:1-2: “About that time some wise men from eastern lands arrived in Jerusalem, asking, ‘Where is the newborn king of the Jews. We saw his star as it rose, and we have come to worship him.”

Some translations omit “as it rose” and, instead, say the wise man saw Christ’s “star in the east”; this translation says “as it rose,” and scholars agree that “as it rose” or “when it rose” is best.

And that’s beautiful.

If you’re reading this blog you probably know a thing or two about dark times. Maybe you’re in one right now. Nothing good seems possible now or on the horizon.

Sure, others can talk about heaven, the hope of it and all that, but all that just feels like “all that.”

The night is so dark.

But if you can, look up. Look up when it’s quiet in your room, and it’s dark outside and in your mind.

There are stars.

And to see a star rising is to see life, and to see that a star has risen is to see that its potential has now turned into a fixed object of luminescence – one that will be there all night. One that will look down on you all night.

This star, the star of Christ, didn’t just rise in the dark for the wise men at the beginning.

It also rose from the grave for you and me, at the end of his life, and that star will never fall.

This star, the star of our Protector, rises in the night and watches over us as we’re sleepless. We just have to look up.

If we’re going to get through these nights, we can’t ever stop looking for that star. And if we find it, we may still feel the dark all around us. I can’t pretend otherwise.

But we do often feel comfort, despite the dark. The star is there.

God bless you, dear friends. Look for his rising star.

If you’re depressed, or struggle with any aspect of mental health…

For readers from the United States….

Find a psychiatrist here.

Find a therapist here.

For readers, internationally, seek help from a local resource.

For salvation, Christ and Christ alone.