Seattle Mennonite Church
Luke 15:11-32
Let me tell you about my family. I am married and I have two sons. I love my sons. I love my husband. Yet my loving them does not make them love
each other well, and loving them only deepens the grief when they are estranged
or conflicted.
When he came of age, my younger son came to my husband and
made a demand, “Give me my half of my inheritance.” To hear it, I was aghast. I was aggrieved. I could barely believe it. I did not think that we had raised a son to
offer such disrespect and I questioned: Had we been too permissive? Had he always felt such entitlement? Where had I gone wrong?
Maybe you already understand this: he essentially was saying
to his father, to me, to his
community, ‘I wish you were dead. You’re
nothing to me.’ What kind of a son treats his parents like that? I was angry!
At my son and at my husband.
Because what does my husband do?
He gives in. He talks to the
neighbors to negotiate selling off land.
He liquidates some of our holdings.
He auctions livestock. He hands
over fully half (half!!) of our family’s livelihood to the boy! He was a boy!
Foolish and vain and ungrateful. And
ignorant and naïve.
I heard the neighbors.
I knew the gossip. The whole
village thought we were irresponsible, undisciplined parents. I was implicated in my crazy husband’s
actions too. They thought our whole
family was crazy, and who wouldn’t? Any
sane father would refuse! Would say,
‘Young man, your responsibility is here.
Your responsibility is to get married, have a family, to care for your
mother and for me in our old age. We
didn’t raise you so you could leave us. Shape
up! Go back to work.’ As the head of the
household he certainly would have had the right.
But he let him go. So
I had to let him go too. We all
did. My boy had declared us dead, but when
he left, it was as if he was the one who had died. To not hear from him, to not know where he
was or how he was faring. There was
nothing I could do. He could have
been dead for all we knew.
Just like when someone dies, there was a hole. I grieved.
And somehow life kept going, find a new normal.
Ever the responsible, my elder son just kept his head down,
diligent as always. It was a burden on
him. Now all the responsibility would be
his but he was resolute. A hard
worker. He’s a perfectionist - with
himself and with everyone else. Classic
older child, really. He never gives
himself a break, never takes a day off.
My husband would never have thought to suggest it. Life had found a new normal but it was a sort
of half-life.
I think the village saw this
too. We may have been irresponsible and
crazy, but my son was the one who had abandoned us. They saw the way our he cut us off and I knew
they had the qetsatsah[i]
all planned. If he would ever show his
face in the village again, the jar would be broken, the burned corn would be
spilled, his name would be proclaimed and he would be ritually broken off from
the community. No better than a
Gentile. I have to admit, I was angry
with him for leaving us but I was also grieved.
And I would be heartbroken were such a thing to happen.
It was hunger that put him back on the road to us. I knew
there had been famine not so very far from us. And sure enough that’s where the
young man went. Lost it all. Every last penny. I don’t know who saw him first, but my
husband got wind of it and I have never seen anything like it. He was out like a shot – arms pumping, legs
flying, kicking up dust. No way for a
grown man to act, the patriarch, the master of the house. He was making a fool of himself. I was glad to see the boy too. I could barely breathe, in fact. But the man was making himself
ridiculous. Again.
I’m sure that kid had his speech rehearsed. He was always a big of a schemer: “I have
sinned before heaven and before you…” A
hungry belly will do that. But before he
could get it all out, it was all robes and ring and sandals and fatted
calf. Musicians and dancing and
feast. Before he could speak the word to
his speech but before anyone could
organize the qetsatsah. That boy may have spent everything and learned
nothing, he may have been brought low and gone hungry, but he was not cut off. I’ll give my husband this: he thought
fast. He looked like an idiot giving up
all that property to a son that as good as proclaimed us dead. And he looked like an idiot to prevent that
son from being made as dead himself. He
brought the boy back.
I’m not sure my elder boy was so happy about that, though. In fact, I know he wasn’t. I mean, how does it make him look, after all. He
doesn’t like looking foolish. But it all happened so fast no one had even gone
to the field to get him so he arrived in the thick of it. And like it or not, it was his responsibility to go in, to honor his father’s decision, to
join his father as host. He didn’t like
it when his brother disrespected his dad but now what did he think he was
doing? Pouting and raging outside when
his father and brother were inside.
And again, my
husband, paying no mind to his duty and position, leaves the party to beg and
plead. And he got an earful: “This son
of yours spent all your money on
whores!” He almost spat it. And I mean…where did he get that idea?? None
of us know where the money actually went.
He hadn’t even talked to his brother yet – not that he acknowledged that
they were even related. His father is
trying to bring him around.
And here we all are.
Three lost boys – well, men – one lost and then found but maybe still
lost to any understanding of what he really did to us and what this welcome
back really means. One lost in his anger
and resentment, refusing to come in, to accept restoration for himself as well
as his brother. One lost to any semblance of dignity and decorum and authority of
position but wanting more than anything for both his boys to be restored. Willing to let all that go.
But I love them. God
help me, I will always love them. They are
my sons. He is my husband. And I pray:
God, in your mercy, restore what is lost.
Restore them to you and to each other.
May not my love but yours reconcile.
In your mercy may a way be made where it seems as if there is no
way. In your mercy, God, may my sons and
my husband find a place at the table and feast together.
[i]
Thanks to Barbara Brown Taylor’s essay, “The Parable of
the Dysfunctional Family” for introducing me to this notion of qetsatsah
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