Jesus' prodigal parable is provocative

Blogga-logga-logga-doodle all day. Well, no, not really. What prompted a third post in one day? An exchange begun by my dear friend Fred with a comment on my last post. His first and subsequent comments provoked me (an utterly good thing- the provocation was not to anger). I am deeply appreciative of such exchanges. I realize that it is easy to come across as defensive, but it is not always the case that I am. While it is true that I am not going to abandon my position merely as the result of being challenged (like a boxer who, seeing his opponent come to the center of the ring when the bell rings for the first round, simply drops to the canvas), I welcome the chance to clarify, deepen, hone, sharpen, and, when warranted, abandon a speculative position in the confidence that I have come to a deeper understanding as the result of such an exchange.

I think it bears noting that the point I sought to make in my last post was quite simple: in order for there to have been a party in the first place, the prodigal son had to return to his father's house, that is, repent, have a change of mind/heart, turn around. This in no way violates the integrity of Jesus' parable. If the prodigal son had not come to the realization that he was better off working even as a servant for his father than he was in the far away country fighting pigs for food then we would have no parable. As obvious as this may sound, I am convinced that it is important to it point out. To apply this as I might in a homily, I could ask you, dear reader, the same question I pose to myself- What pig trough do you prefer to eat out of instead of being fed at the Lord's table?

That this point is important to comprehend is shown by Jesus' words at end of the first of the preceding two parables: "I tell you, in just the same way there will be more joy in heaven over one sinner who repents than over ninety-nine righteous people who have no need of repentance" (Luke 15:7). I do not think it is a case of engaging in so-called "scrip-torture" to see the irony in these words of Jesus- that there are not ninety-nine righteous people in the whole wide world who have no need of repentance. If there were, they, too, would rejoice heartily in the repentance of a single sinner because, well, they are righteous. The first two parables also show us that the Lord, while not violating our freedom, does not merely passively wait for us to return, but actively seeks us out.

I think I can describe my approach, without being too inaccurate, as an Ignatian one. It is interesting and useful, at least for me, to look at Jesus' most common parables, like that of the Prodigal Son, from the perspective of, say, the older brother, who is not an evil person, not by half.

Why? Several reasons, foremost among which is my tendency to be like the older brother. I think it is easy to over-identify with the prodigal and to oversimplify the story by just rushing to the conclusion, "We're all prodigals," and leaving matters there. What? Nobody ever acts like the older brother? It is certainly true that we are all prodigals. Despite that, we also tend to act like the older brother at times, sort of in the same ridiculous mode as Jonah. I also take this approach because the pre-canned grasp of the unveiling of God's kingdom in the parables often does not provoke a sense of wonder in me.

The older brother's response, if we are honest with ourselves, is very understandable to us, all too understandable, which is precisely the problem. In the end, I think we have to realize that we can't take the stance of the older brother because, like the prodigal, we are sinners in need of forgiveness, even before standing outside the party huffing and puffing, a ridiculous act, which only adds to our woes.

What we take away is up to us, but is no less important as a result. Jesus does not tell us whether the older brother went into the party and the inspired author does not tell us how many, if any, of the Pharisees that heard Jesus tell this parable changed their mind that day. Not to sound smug, but I really don't care because both of those things are beside the point. What matters to me? Whether and how the parable moves me and what resistance I offer to being thus moved. Even if I am not moved at all, or successfully resist the Lord's pull, He'll take another shot next Sunday. I am still trying to address the concern that far too often, in my view, the take away is that no response is required.

This brings me back to my main point: faith does not require a response, it is our response to God's initiative towards us. As such, it is a free (i.e., not compelled, pre-programmed, or inevitable) response, even if one, as we saw in Lumen fidei, that takes many surprising forms, arising, as it does, from real people living real lives in the real world.

Parable of the Prodigal Son extended

Just as Jesus did not extend the Parable of the Prodigal Son to tell us how the older, faithful son responded or reacted to his father's reassurance (i.e., whether he went into the party and celebrated or not), which arose from his complaint about the indulgent manner in which he welcomed back his errant brother, the Lord does not tell us a parallel story about what would have happened had the prodigal chosen, or felt compelled out of pride (i.e., unwillingness to acknowledge his mistake, to admit he was ashamed and guilty), to remain estranged from his father, his brother, and far away from home. But I think we can draw a parallel by way of inference and/or implication.

First, had the son felt himself unable to humbly return to his father and beg for his mercy, it would have done nothing to change how the father felt about his errant son. He would have loved him and kept hoping for his return, willing to extend mercy and love, willing to be reconciled, to welcome his son home. Second, this would not have changed things for son, however. He would have remained a swineherd, fighting the pigs for a share of their slop in order to keep body and soul together.

Extending Jesus' powerful parable in this way helps us to see, while it remains for Christ to judge and to determine our eternal destination, it challenges that lazy kind of universalism that we so easily fall into. If the ripe fruit of theological reflection is that everyone goes to heaven no matter what, then why worry about anything at all, let alone repenting? While it is true that we are utterly incapable of saving ourselves, it is necessary for us to grasp this and, like the prodigal, like St. Mary of Egypt, about whom I wrote yesterday on the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross, cry to God, who is the Father in Jesus' parable, for mercy. Otherwise we are merely offering cheap, or even counterfeit, grace. "This saying is trustworthy and deserves full acceptance: Christ Jesus came into the world to save sinners. Of these I am the foremost" (1 Tim 1:15).

As Dietrich Bonhoeffer explained it, "Cheap grace is the grace we bestow on ourselves. Cheap grace is the preaching of forgiveness without requiring repentance, baptism without church discipline, Communion without confession.... Cheap grace is grace without discipleship, grace without the cross, grace without Jesus Christ, living and incarnate." Or, as St. Paul wrote to the Corinthians: "For you have been purchased at a price. Therefore, glorify God in your body" (1 Cor 6:20). Faith is not something we possess, but is our response to God's call- God, who is the Father who runs to meet us, but who loves us enough to respect our freedom.

"Have mercy on me, O God"

Our readings for this Sunday are dominated by, and rightfully so, Jesus' telling the story of the Prodigal Son. Of course, we can all relate to the prodigal because, in a real sense, we are him. But what about the older brother, who, quite understandably, takes exception not so much to his father welcoming back his errant brother, but the lavish manner in which he does it? This is the aspect of this parable that is usually passed over silently. Yes, the older brother is wrong, as Jesus' words convey, but his feelings and expression of them are understandable, very reasonable. The father in the story is gracious and merciful to his dutiful son too. He urges him to join in the celebration even while reassuring him that his faithfulness will be rewarded. It is a summons to joy. Whether the faithful son continued to brood, or, accepting his father's reassurance, joined the party and rejoiced both at the return of his brother and his father's love, Jesus does not tell us.

There are two things Henri Nouwen observed in his book on this stunning parable that I think are worth handing on, two things that shed some light on the choice faced by the faithful son at the end of the story: "You don't think your way into a new kind of living. You live your way into a new kind of thinking" (echoes of the inaugural words of the Lord's ministry, "Be repenting and be believing"?- Mark 1:15) and "Joy does not simply happen to us. We have to choose joy and keep choosing it every day."

In His Parable of the Prodigal Son, Jesus not only highlights the fact, set forth in our second reading, that He "came into the world to save sinners" (1 Tim. 1:15), but gives us deep insight into how He accomplishes what He came into the world to do.

Our Responsorial Psalm today is Psalm 51, known as the Miserere mei deus (i.e., "Have mercy on me, O God"), the first Psalm of Morning Prayer each Friday, a day of penance. The Psalm begins:

Have mercy on me, O God, in your goodness;
in the greatness of your compassion wipe out my offense.
Thoroughly wash me from my guilt
and of my sin cleanse me.

While it easy for many of us to over-identify with the prodigal and to ignore the tendency we have to act and think like the older son, it is even easier to miss the larger point, which is the great love the father has for them both, which results in his gratuitously dispensing such amazing grace. If that does not cause you to rejoice and at least desire to live in a new way, I don't know what will.

Tradition must not become an empty shell

Most days driving home, or to the Cathedral, after work I listen to a local radio program on a Christian station in which two Evangelical pastors discuss the Bible book-by-book. A few weeks ago, as they were making their way through 1 Corinthians, they began to discuss the role of tradition in the life of the Christian Church. The more temperate and learned of the two exhibited what I think was a very balanced and even good grasp of tradition. He began by frankly admitting that tradition is inevitable and even valuable in the life of churches, even in their fairly large non-denominational denomination in which most view anything called "tradition" with great suspicion, or even contempt.

What prompted the discussion on tradition was the second verse of the chapter the two hosts were discussing: the eleventh chapter of 1 Corinthians, in which the apostle wrote- "I praise you because you remember me in everything and hold fast to the traditions, just as I handed them on to you." The trouble with any specific tradition, the pastor noted, is that it becomes perfunctory, performative, and, frankly, empty when it loses its connection with the reason it was deemed valuable enough to hand on in the first place; it becomes an end instead of a means.

Keep in mind that "tradition" comes from the Latin word tradere, which is a verb meaning the act of handing on. It also has a noun form- traditio- which is the content of what is handed on. The Greek word Paul used, paradosis, which, at root, means surrender, giving up, or giving over, can also be used to refer both to the act of handing on, the "giving over," and, logically, also to what is given over.

As Catholics we have many, many traditions and customs. As my example I will use a little custom- making the Sign of the Cross on our foreheads, over our lips, and hearts after the deacon, or, in his absence, the priest, prior to reading the Gospel passage for that day, says, "A reading from the holy Gospel according to [insert canonical Gospel here]." A non-Catholic, or someone in the process of becoming Catholic, will often ask, "What are you doing?," followed by, "Why do you do that?" Of course, this custom is nowhere called for in the rubrics and is not, at least to my knowledge, a universal practice. It is widespread, it seems, throughout the United States. I wonder how many people know, or say, any prayer connected with that gesture, such as, "May the word of the Lord be written in mind, be on my lips, and in my heart." I also wonder how many people realize that the reason for doing this, apart from asking the Lord to open us up to receive his word, is to remind ourselves to listen to what we are about to hear.

I won't presume to provide a guess, but I have no hesitation about giving an anecdotal answer based on my experience working with those who are in the period of inquiry as their first step towards becoming Catholic. Typically, when they ask Catholics these things, the person they ask simply does not know, they just do it. How many of our traditions seem to outsiders to have become, or, in the lives of many of the faithful, have actually become, disconnected from the reason(s) we do them, or any reason whatsoever? Perhaps asked a bit more directly, how many people have ever had someone help them, even if only by way of explaining it, make the connection in the first place?

Of course, the "tradition" to which St. Paul was mainly referring in 1 Corinthians 11 was that of the Eucharist. So, to round this out, here's something I posted almost seven years ago: "Our concern is that He should remain present."

Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross

Today we Exalt the Holy Cross of Christ. This is one of those feasts, like that of Sts Peter and Paul, the Assumption, to name just two, that is of ancient origin and so is celebrated by Christians in the East and West, both Catholic and Orthodox (excepting Old Calendar Orthodox) on the same day. Hence, it is an important feast.

It was on the Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross that St. Mary of Egypt had her life-changing encounter with Christ. An invisible force prevented her from the entering the Church in Jerusalem in which the True Cross was being elevated and venerated by the faithful. She tried going into the church several times, but each time she was stopped, unable to move forward. Shaken up, she went to a corner of the churchyard and was suddenly struck by the wickedness of her life and began to be contrite. Only then did she realize why she was not able to enter the church. She burst into tears and started to beat her breast. As she did so, she noticed a statue of the Blessed Virgin above the spot where she was standing. She began to implore our Blessed Mother to help her, to allow her to enter the church and venerate the Holy Cross. She promised to turn her life around and go wherever she might be led. After this, she was able to enter the church and to venerate the Cross. Afterwards, she was led across the Jordan River, where she spent the rest of her life as a hermit.

Writing in Simply Jesus, N.T. Wright notes something that is an appropriate reflection for today:

Celebrating Jesus the world's rightful king- as we see them doing in our earliest documents, the letters of Paul- was indeed a way of posing a challenge to Caesar and all other earthly "lords." But it was a different sort of challenge. It was not only the announcement of Jesus as the true king, albeit still the king-in-waiting, but the announcement of him as the true sort of king. Addressing the ambitious pair James and John, he put it like this: "Pagan rulers ... lord it over their subjects... But that's not how it's to be with you" (Matt.20:25-26 [ellipses in original]). And, as he said to Pilate, the kingdoms that are characteristic of "this world" make their way by violence, but his sort of kingdom doesn't do that (John 18:36). We all know the irony of empires that offer people peace, prosperity, freedom, and justice- and kill tens of thousands of people to make the point. Jesus's kingdom isn't like that. With him, the irony works the other way around. Jesus's death and his followers' suffering are the means by which his peace, freedom, and justice come to birth on earth as in heaven

With everything going on presently, this strikes me as a good reflection, especially as we continue to pray for peace in Syria, Egypt, the Holy Land, throughout the Middle East and, indeed, the world.

It's not enough to exalt the Cross as a ritual and liturgical act. If we don't exalt the Cross in our own lives, then all of that is but an empty gesture. Our worship should encourage and empower us for living- there must be a strong connection between the two. The twelfth chapter of the Letter to the Hebrews, which we covered in our next-to-last session on this book last Wednesday, teaches us quite well about the role the Cross plays in our sanctification. In verse seven we are exhorted: "Endure your trials as 'discipline'; God treats you as sons."

The Greek word used for "discipline" in Hebrews 12:7 is paideia. Paideia primarily refers to comprehensive training and education of children, but can be undertaken by adults, including intellectual and moral training, as well as training and care of the body. It is a feature of paidea to employ reproofs and to consist of whatever cultivates the soul, especially correcting mistakes and curbing passions. "Discipline," in this verse is not punishment, not by a long shot. The sacred author goes on to note that if you reject the Lord's paidea you are a nothos, that is, a "bastard," not a child.

Let's face it, Jesus does not beckon us to follow the path of least resistance, but summons us to take the path of greatest possible resistance, which is the path to inconceivable glory. It is only in the light of the Cross of Christ that we come to experience for ourselves the saving truth of its paradox and to know what St. Paul meant when he wrote, "when I am weak, then I am strong" (2 Cor 12:10).

I "pour contempt on all my pride"

In honor of tomorrow's ancient and venerable Feast of the Exaltation of the Holy Cross it strikes me that a great Friday tradition is the Choir of King's College, Cambridge singing "When I Survey the Wondrous Cross."

See, from his head, his hands, his feet,

sorrow and love flow mingled down.

Did e'er such love and sorrow meet,

or thorns compose so rich a crown.

As St. Paul wrote to the Church at Corinth: "The message of the cross is foolishness to those who are perishing, but to us who are being saved it is the power of God" (1 Cor 1:18).

Truth is not relative, but relational

Pope St. John Paul II’s insisted that we can know the Truth because the Truth is a person, Jesus Christ, who said of Himself, “I am the way and the truth and the life” (John 14:6). While this is an attractive thought, it needs to be worked out a bit lest it become an empty slogan.

One fruitful starting point for such a working out is Dietrich Bonhoeffer’s Ethics, which cannot be understood when separated from what has been described as “his christological understanding of reality.” For Bonhoeffer, ethics prescind “from the reality of God as revealed in Christ.” Of course, the same could be said for the philosophy of Karol Josef Wojtyla.

What brings this issue to the surface? A letter written by Pope Francis in response to an article written by the former editor of Italy’s most widely read daily newspaper, La Repubblica, Eugenio Scalfari, a self-professed atheist and secularist, but addressed to unbelievers. In the article to which Pope Francis’ letter is a response, Scalfari asked three questions.

One of the questions posed was about the nature of truth, asking if truth is absolute. Like Bonhoeffer and Wojtyla, Bergoglio described truth as a dynamic relationship between each Christian and Jesus. While this does not mean that truth is relative, it does mean it is relational. To one Jesus will not say, “Have an abortion” and to another “Don’t do it.” I am tempted here to digress about the various means Christ uses to speak to us (i.e., Scripture, the Church’s magisterium), but I will resist that temptation. We can know the truth because the truth is a person, one who actively seeks us, while at the same the time resting in the assurance that this person, Jesus Christ, "is the same yesterday, today, and forever" (Heb 13:8).

To be a Christian is to live in freedom, which means, among other things, not having truth imposed on you from without. Rather, it means being faithful to someone you love, letting your love for Him guide your actions and words (something far easier to write than to do). Faith is proposed, something issued as an invitation, like, "There's someone you simply must meet." It certainly does not mean remaining silent in the face of evil. Pope Francis dealt with this in his answer to another question posed by Scalfari about whether, or in what manner, a non-believer may sin (hearkening perhaps, to the distinction made by St. Paul in Romans between those who have the law and those who do not in the second chapter of Romans). To stick with the speaking/hearing metaphor, the ear that listens, as St. Paul also noted, is the human conscience. As the late Fr. Richard John Neuhaus used to insist, rather than What Would Jesus do, we need to ask, What would Jesus have me do?

The Holy Father went on to assert that we experience the truth as a living relationship. The Holy Father wrote, “We don’t own truth, but truth embraces us.”

I think it is safe to say that this living relationship has everything to do with Jesus’ two great commandments, loving God with our whole being and loving our neighbor as we love ourselves. This is the Christian answer, the answer that keeps us from reducing faith to mere morals. Christ is the answer that overcomes moralism, who keeps us from reducing truth to something external and static, a burden and chore, instead of liberation and joy.