Lent  4, March 10 2013
Josh 5:9, 10-12; 2 Cor 5:17-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

This is one of the most familiar Gospel stories for us.  But that familiarity is the enemy of understanding.  Ignatius of Loyola recommends this way of getting a fresh a fresh understanding of what the Bible is trying to tell us: that we put ourselves into a particular scene as a major or a minor character and imagine our way through the scene.

In the story of the prodigal son, most Christians have seen themselves as the prodigal son coming home to God, a sinner in need of God’s mercy.  “Prodigal” of course means spendthrift.  The prodigal son was a wastrel, not mean or violent, but thoughtless and foolish.

Of course, most of us have more in common with the other son.  We try to behave ourselves—here we are at a communion service.  We’re basically good people, not miserable sinners.  But like the prodigal’s brother, we might expect God to be a little more appreciative of our efforts on his behalf.

In reflecting on this parable recently, I decided to place myself in the story as the mother of the two young men.  (It’s allowed to make up characters, when you are reflecting on the Bible.)  When my own children were growing up, I was the disciplinarian in the family, and my husband was the softie.  I can still remember the time when my daughter came into the kitchen saying, “Mama, can I—oh never mind,” and then ran out again quickly, calling “Papa!”

So I picture myself as the farmer’s wife, and I imagine encountering my husband after the boy has returned home.  I’ve been busy in the kitchen organizing the homecoming meal with roasted fatted calf and all the trimmings.  Years ago when our son took his inheritance and left home, I managed to bite my tongue, but now I can’t stop myself.  “How could you have let him do it?  You knew what kind of a boy he always was.  How could let him throw away half of our farm and nearly starve himself to boot?  He could have died out there!  You should have said no!”

I imagine the farmer as a man a lot like my husband: gentle, compassionate, and wise.  And he says to me, “Wife [my husband doesn’t call me “Wife”], our older son just talked to me bitterly, as if he almost wanted me to send the boy back, as if we should not be glad that he’s alive.  And he even sounded as if he kind of envied his brother’s binge.

“Now you come to me complaining,” my husband continues.  “What would you have had me do?  Yes, I knew the boy was a screw-up.  And yes, I could have sheltered him here at home, against his will, and he would have been a problem for me all my life and for his brother after I’m gone.  So I set him free to learn for himself, if he could.  And I think he has.  At least I hope he will be a willing worker and even learn some prudence from his brother. There’s nothing like a little bitter experience to straighten a young man out.  Frankly, I worry more about the older boy. He needs to learn that our family is more important than him getting a reward for good behavior.  I hope that he will learn to be glad to have his brother back and they will be there for each other after we are gone.”

So I look at my two sons, the good son who I know I can always rely on, and the screw-up.  Maybe my younger actually has wised up.  Maybe he will take a page from his brother’s book now.  And I am very, very glad to have him back at home.