The Duties of the Prodigal
In the parable of the Prodigal Son, a younger brother wastes his inheritance with wild and self-destructive living. When he comes home at last, repentant and ashamed, his father welcomes him with a party and rejoicing. The older brother, however, is furious, refusing to attend the welcome-home bash, and sulks outside. When his father goes out to plead with him to join the celebration, the elder’s anger boils over:
Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your property with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!’
“‘My son,’ the father said, ‘you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.’”
Many sermons and commentaries have been delivered about the Prodigal. Rembrandt put the story on canvas. Law & Order SVU referenced it in a recent episode. And the great theologian Henri Nouwen wrote perhaps his most famous book on the parable. In different ways, at different times, we are all shame-soaked Prodigals. But as Nouwen himself realized, most of us are also the hurt and confused Elder Brother: “It is hard for me to concede that this bitter, resentful, angry man might be closer to me in a spiritual way than the lustful younger brother. Yet the more I think about the elder son, the more I recognize myself in him.”
The father in the parable is, of course, God. The father runs to meet both boys outside, and plead with them to come in. The Prodigal enters in gratitude and wonder; we’re never told if the Elder Brother does finally join the party, but we’re asked to hope that he does. We are certainly advised to let love win out. It’s not easy, as Nouwen warns: “There are many elder sons and elder daughters who are lost while still at home...characterized by judgment and condemnation, anger and resentment, bitterness and jealousy - that are so pernicious and so damaging to the human heart.”
Regular readers will know I do not often offer New Testament commentary. I’m not planning on making it a habit. I am, however, keenly aware that I am a Prodigal. I think about it every time I come back to my family’s ranch, welcomed in by cousins and aunts, allowed to take my place in family meetings despite the countless ways I’ve embarrassed my kin. I had my one great big “fall” in 2013 that made the news, but for decades before that, going back to my teens, I had done other (slightly less notorious) things that troubled and worried my family. Getting kicked out of prep school, scrapes with the law, countless mental health hospitalizations, obscenely detailed oversharings in the media, and one danged divorce after another after another after another.
And yet, I still am welcomed home. I am welcomed into other places as well, by people who know my past, and who either overlook it or see it as an asset. They say kind things like “You wouldn’t be who you are if you hadn’t done all those things, and since we like who you are, maybe those things needed to happen.” They offer observations such as, “Your experiences have given you a unique insight, and we value that.” I like hearing that sort of encouragement. I am humbled and grateful to be invited to places and spaces from which, based on my past behavior, I should rightfully be banned or excluded.
In the Gospel of Luke, the Prodigal never makes amends to his Elder Brother. I like to imagine that as the party wound down, the younger brother walked over to the older and said, “Can we take a walk?” I like to imagine that the Prodigal not only said he was sorry for all the damage done, but that he told the Elder Brother that he knew that even a sincerely repentant return did not erase the past. I like to imagine the Prodigal said he would always respect his Elder Brother, and honor that that his sibling was faithful while he was reckless. Perhaps he would say, “Just because Dad has welcomed me home doesn’t mean that we’re on an equal footing. A lot of people will always remember what I did, and I’m at peace with that. I’m okay if you’re one of those people. I know it will take a long time for you to trust me, and it may never happen, but I’ll patiently do what I can to earn that trust.”
I regularly encounter people who will not work with me because of my past. I regularly encounter people who say that they can never trust me. I built my career as a blogger twenty years ago as “a reformed bad boy male feminist.” That ended badly. To put it in Christian terms, a great many people trusted my redemption, and were hurt and humiliated when it turned out that my redemption was, um, incomplete at best and utterly fraudulent at worst. There are plenty of people who assume whatever I do or say will be part of a grift or a scam. They point to my track record and say they cannot trust me in either personal or professional matters.
Sometimes they call me a narcissist or a sociopath. I am neither. I do not try and convince them otherwise. A Prodigal is not his own defense attorney.
It is my spiritual and psychological work to be okay with that mistrust. Forever.
It is also the job of the Prodigal, I think, to believe in his own redemption even if the world continues to doubt it. It is the job of the Prodigal to accept the unconditional welcome offered by his father while also accepting the ongoing mistrust of his brother. It is the job of the Prodigal to understand that redemption doesn’t always mean restoration. A one-time embezzler may be sincere in his repentance, but even if he is “welcomed home,” it is okay to reject his application for a bookkeeping gig. A professor who repeatedly slept with his young female students may be welcome as a friend and a colleague and a ghostwriter – but it is okay to say that you’ll never recommend him for another teaching gig.
I was a very good teacher. So what? I crossed a line, crossed it repeatedly, and lied about it for a very long time. I am grateful to be able to write a new story on a new page, but I don’t get to pretend that the old story no longer counts. I accept the “old story” earned me a lifetime ban from a profession at which I excelled.
(A note to my friends in the churches: when your pastor has an affair with an underage congregant, it is okay to work with him as he goes through a process of accountability. It is also okay to say to him, “Bob, you were a great preacher! But you crossed a line that permanently disqualifies you from certain ministries. We will always love you and welcome you but perhaps you will need to discover gifts that don’t involve working with young people. Ever.” If the Prodigal is really repentant, he’ll accept those terms. Daddy may have welcomed you back into the house, but if you wrecked his last car, he might not ever give you the keys to the new one.)
The Prodigal does not get to say to his brother, “Dad forgave me. What’s your problem? Where’s my welcome?”
The Prodigal – if he is a gentleman -- says, “I know that just because Dad is happy I’m home, it doesn’t mean you have to be. That tasty, fattened calf can’t wipe away the memory of what I did, for either you or me. I’m gonna do everything I can, though, to be worthy of the welcome I’ve been given. And whether you can ever accept me or not, I want you to know I respect you and all the work you did. You were faithful when I wasn’t. I will always honor that.”
If the Elder Brother’s bitterness is a sin, it is a sin against his father – not against the Prodigal. The sermons that get preached are aimed at those already in the pews, who are disproportionately those Elder Brothers. It is good to work on overcoming resentment. It is good to forgive. It is helpful, though, if those of us who did so much to foster resentment acknowledge the harm we did. It is good for those of us who are welcomed to one feast to remember that we are never entitled to be guests at other celebrations.
The Prodigal Gentleman goes where he is welcomed. He is always grateful for the welcomes he gets, and he is patient and polite when a welcome does not happen. We who get 267th chances do well to remember that though our redemption may be real and our efforts sincere, every open door is a gift, not a right. And every door that stays shut – or every resentful Elder Brother we encounter – is an opportunity to demonstrate humility, civility, repentance, and the total absence of entitlement.