The Return of the Prodigal Son (1773) by Pompeo Batoni
Those most worthy of love sometimes seem to be the ones who have the greatest difficulty feeling it.
In the parable of the Prodigal Son according to St.Luke, from the New Testament, the younger son has ever reason to fear that his father will reject him since, having asked for his inheritance before his father’s death, he has spent it all in riotous living and is now starving. He wants to share the hogs’ food and perhaps to be hired as one of his father’s servants.
But his father runs out to the highway to meet him, kills a fatted calf and creates a celebration.
The older son objects; he has always stayed at home and worked for his father but has never received even a goat.
The father explains that since the older son has always been with him, he has always benefitted from the patriarch’s bounty and therefore it is only fitting that the runaway son should be given a compensatory feast.
Like so many of the parables, this one used to stick in my throat. It seemed to imply that familiarity breeds contempt, or at least removes the possibility of celebration.
I see the parable now in a different light. The return of the prodigal recreates my faith in returns, generally—that the lost are never truly lost, or at least rarely.
I had a chance, too, to offer the amends we all need to make to those who wander from us, because their wanderings are to some extent the result of our actions, the demands and criticisms that flay the skin from these sensitive ones and produce—of course!—no positive results.
Making amends depends, though, on the amends-maker’s ability to forgive herself, recognizing that all our mistakes in judgement and our failures of love, understanding and compassion are signal marks of our human weakness: “those ills that flesh are heir to,” as Hamlet says. Otherwise the weight of guilt smothers our words.
Perhaps this is why the prodigal’s mother does not appear in the parable. It is too likely that she would be sobbing in her tent, overwhelmed by the memory of all her failures, as I from time to time am overwhelmed by the memory of a little boy in a blue bathrobe.
The poet Stephen Levine, who died a few days ago, maintained a website with his wife that has space for anonymous apologies. It’s worth looking into.
Heartbreaking post, Sallie
What has always disturbed me about the story of the prodigal son is the idea that the reformed and recovered miscreant is more valuable than the one who chooses to stay, resisting the desire to do the wrong thing. The assumption seems to be that the latter has neither the imagination or the courage to follow the path of the prodigal. But perhaps it takes more imagination and courage not to give in to narcissistic impulses and consider the impact on others of one’s actions?
Is it possible to interpret the prodigal son story as something as a parable? Just as this father received his missing son with love, in spite of whatever his “sin” was, so God helps us understand how we can forgive and forget.
I have a granddaughter who is estranged from her family, and can’t forgive herself, even though the family is ready to surround her with love whenever she is brave enough to return. It takes a lot of courage, bravery, and understanding on both sides of an issue to make those giant steps of reconnection and reconciliation. Every family has a story.
Oh I agree, that is the most widely accepted and apt interpretation of the story. It’s just this other aspect of it that has always bothered me, so forgive me for taking this chance to share it. Antiquity and scripture give us unending fuel for thought.
Deborah, you are absolutely correct. Like most people, we often just take the portion that proves our point, and disregard the rest.
Stephen Levine’s “Healing into Life and Death,” was extraordinarily helpful to me. Deeply personal, penetrating, heartbreaking piece. Thank you. Memory and regret…and forgiveness. We must forgive everything, ultimately. Especially the unforgivable.
Very touching story Sallie. Reunited but unsure what wonders ahead may outshine sorrows past. Your acceptance, acknowledgement – empowering, respectful. Your door’s open & compassion trumps inadvertent ‘critical tendencies’ heir to us all. Carry on!
Your post today came on the heels of my reading of Joan Chittister’s chapter on forgiveness in “The Gift of Years”. You offered real and personal meaning to one of her statements: “And it is our forgiveness of others that gives us the right to forgive ourselves for being less than we always wanted to be.” Thank you for sharing something that touched a nerve and clarified the real meaning of a parable that has always confused me.
(but not as confusing as the Laborers in the Vineyard !! 🙂
My favorite painting in the Hermitage in St. Petersburg is Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son. In it the father’s face is so transfigured with love he becomes almost translucent. I agree that the intensity of the love is what we might hope that a loving God would grant us filled as we are with imperfections.
Sallie Bingham can is a gifted wordsmith.
Sallie Bingham can is a gifted wordsmith.