The Prodigal Son
Rembrandt's "Return of the Prodigal Son"
The Bible bursts with images of God’s love. God is a shepherd searching for his lost sheep, the groom longing for his bride, a potter shaping our clay, a mother hen gathering a brood under her wings. God is a friend who lays down his life for others, and who weeps when his friends suffer. God is a vintner, tending us until we bear good fruit. God is a king inviting us to his son’s wedding banquet. God hears a blind man’s cry, and stops to ask: what do you want me to do for you? God notices hungry people, and offers them food. God notices sick people, and heals them. God notices lonely people, and visits them.
And finally, today, God is a father welcoming home his prodigal son and hosting a feast.
What do we do with this abundance of love, each example an invitation to love back?
The prodigal son’s opening response is a problem because he’s breaking the cycle. “Give me my inheritance now.” He’s taking the Father’s gift, something to receive with gratitude, and attempting to turn it into an entitlement, a possession. He’s taking the source of his identity, a relationship that should be about grace and generosity, and turning it in on himself. The self "curved in on itself" is one of the classic definitions of sin.
The prodigal departs for the far country. Bishop Barron says the prodigal has broken the laws of spiritual physics, interrupting what should be a cycle of grace with a cycle of selfishness. It stands to reason, then, that things are going to go haywire. Of course he feels empty, of course he tries to slake his restlessness in counterfeit ways.
But in his hunger, he remembers the Father. The good news is that in his brokenness, he still carries a morsel of memory and courage. We might be so deep in despair, that we’re tempted to think we can’t go home, but that’s not true. The prodigal has a distant memory of grace, still at work in him.
More good news: the father isn’t remote and aloof. Nor is he a domineering enforcer, relishing the chance to snare a rule-breaker. Not at all. He’s the father who sees the son from far off. He’s been looking, hoping. He never gave up. He runs out to meet his son for a glorious reunion, an embrace, a ring, and a feast.
Meanwhile, the older son, in theory, was always in the Father’s house. But he too has missed the point of being in a family home. He recounts his entitlements: “I served you…I obeyed…and yet you didn’t give me….” The older son is in a relationship of command and obedience, tit for tat, scrupulously tracking the rights and the justice due to him. He’s not in the loop of grace and giving either. Yet the Father replies: “Everything I have is yours…it’s all gift…if you’d only believe it! Come, be the host with me! Your life can be a celebration too!”
How did the older son respond? What did he do next? We are not told, but wouldn’t that be a great scene to unfold in our prayers.
We should be interested in the drama with both sons, because the truth is, at different times, we’ve all been both brothers. The selfish younger one. The self-righteous older one. Everyone has, at different stages of life, played self-centered games to assuage the ache. Various sins, various attempts to self-medicate when we're feeling incomplete, dissatisfied, entitled, restless. The big question is: can we take our complaints in life, and transcend the resentment, and awaken to God's presence in these moments.
We can be sure that the father grieved when the prodigal son originally left. We can be sure the father grieved when the older son, despite having never left, so badly misunderstood. But instead of getting angry and resentful, the father channels mercy and grace into the situation. Thus, whether we’re fallen away like either son, of whether we’re struggling with disappointment perhaps like the father - either way, grace, mercy, and love are really, in the end, the only way. Plus a little courage, to turn around and repent, like the prodigal.
From all of this, two further suggestions:
First, especially if it’s been a while, try and get to confession before Holy Week. The goal would be to follow this parable deeply, and put ourselves in the position of the repentant prodigal. Most parishes have their bulletins on their website. You can look up their times, and find somewhere convenient. All of the Philly shrines - Miraculous Medal, St. Rita's, St. John Neumann, Częstochowa, the cathedral, etc. - have generous schedules for confession, sometimes twice a day, seven days a week.
Along the same lines, my second suggestion is to develop the habit of arriving at Mass a little early, time enough to take a quiet interior inventory. We want to head into Mass with the same heart as the younger brother when he returned home, ready to change, ready to learn how to love. When we say the prayer of confession early in the Mass - “the Confiteor,” when we confess that we’ve done things, that we have neglected to do other things, that we’ve harbored thoughts that weren’t really of God - we want this prayer to be a living moment for us. It's too good to waste. Don't just go through the motions.
Confession before Eucharist – whether it’s in the sacrament of confession, or in the opening at Mass – matters because the attitude with which we receive the Eucharist normally effects how the grace of the Eucharist flows in us. If we’re arriving at Mass like the older brother – tight, routine, transactional - odds are we’re not going to feel any different after Communion. But what if, on the inside, we’re running to the Eucharist, like the repentant younger brother running to his father. Our heavenly father is waiting for us here on this altar, ready to welcome us into his grace. Amen.
