A confession: yesterday’s reflection notwithstanding, I am not a fan of the hugely generous gesture, someone sacrificing everything to help someone else or to serve God. I don’t have the impulses of a Mother Teresa; I probably would have told St. Francis of Assisi, “Why don’t you leave most of it behind? Why all of it? Don’t you want a little insurance?” Everything in moderation, right? Even sacrificial giving.
So I’m not in particularly nice company this week – for the person in our story who articulates this more pragmatic way of thinking about resources is none other than Judas:
But Judas Iscariot, one of his disciples (the one who was about to betray him), said, ‘Why was this perfume not sold for three hundred denarii and the money given to the poor?’
In an aside, John tells us that Judas didn’t actually care about the poor, but wanted to steal the offering for himself. How about we give him the benefit of the doubt? Let’s say he actually did care about the poor. He actually did care about the radical equality that Jesus was preaching. He actually did want to see the revolution come to pass. To someone with economic justice on his mind, Mary’s extravagant gesture could seem an unconscionable waste of resources. Three hundred denarii’s worth of high-priced perfumed oil on one person’s feet? Stinking up the whole house?
It is outrageous, when you think about it as stewardship. It makes no sense. About as much sense as it made for God to offer up that One who was most precious to him, his only begotten Son. About as much sense as it made for that Son to take upon himself the consequence of catastrophic estrangement which was our due as those who rebelled against God; to give up his position, his dignity, his life.
One grey and rainy Good Friday I found myself in Union Square after the three-hour preaching of the Cross at Grace Church. Everything was dingy and dirty; everybody looked harried and downcast, me included. And I thought, “For this? You gave it all for this miserable lot? What a waste.”
Yes, what a waste; what ridiculous extravagance, to kill the Son of God so that we might be free to love God for eternity. As that beautiful hymn, My Song is Love Unknown, says, “Love to the loveless shown, that they might lovely be. Oh, who am I, that for my sake, my Lord should take frail flesh and die?”
Becoming a person who can offer it all starts with our willingness to accept that Christ has given it all for us. To accept that we are that precious to God, that God finds us worthy because God said so, not because of anything we think or do or say. Perhaps today we might meditate on that extravagant, profligate, wasteful, over-the-top love lavished upon us, try to let it soak into our bones, into our spirits, into all the dents the world’s “no’s” have left in us.
You are beloved, beyond measure, beyond sense. Deal with it!
3-8-16 - Extravagant Love
There are some who posit that Jesus of Nazareth was not the celibate religious leader depicted in the Gospels, that he was intimately involved with, perhaps even married to Mary Magdalene. Certainly, a married religious leader would have been acceptable in that place and time, but the Gospels convey not the slightest suggestion that Jesus was romantically linked to anyone.
And had he been, my candidate for the identity of the lucky girl would be not Mary of Magdala, but Mary of Bethany. She’s the one who neglected her household duties to sit at his feet, taking in his teaching while her sister prepared a meal alone (Luke 10:38-42). Later, when Jesus finally arrived days after their brother Lazarus had died, he asks for Mary. And when she comes to him and gently rebukes him for having arrived too late, it is her tears, and those of onlookers, which appear to move him to action (John 11). There is no reason to imagine their connection went beyond friendship, but it seems to have been a deep connection.
This is evident in the enormous intimacy and generosity of Mary’s gesture at the dinner in her home in this week's story:
Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.
This act is shocking on several levels. First, there is the intimacy of anointing Jesus’ feet, well beyond the expected hospitality of washing the feet of one’s guests. Mary's using her hair to wipe the oil suggests such physical closeness it must have made onlookers uncomfortable. And to kneel at someone’s feet and tend to them with your own hands and hair is a posture of profound worship and devotion.
Then there is the shocking extravagance, wastefulness even, of using the entire jar of ointment. Nard was extremely precious and very potent; no one would need a whole jar for one use. Learning that the house was filled with the fragrance tells us how excessive this gesture was.
But its very excess is what commends Mary’s action to us. She holds nothing back, not for economy nor for propriety. She acts upon her instinctive knowledge that Jesus’ time among them is coming to an end, and she seizes the opportunity to demonstrate her great love for him while he is yet with her. We are in a different situation – Jesus is not going anywhere; in fact, we’re waiting for him to return in fullness. But our time in this world is limited. Don’t we want to fully embrace God’s love in the here and now?
Where in our lives do we hold back on expressing our love for Jesus, for God? Do we content ourselves with the hour or so a week we spend in church; the amounts we pledge that stretch our budgets but little; short prayers at the beginning and end of the day and anytime a crisis arises in between?
And in what ways do we lavish our time and resources on God and God’s people? Can we think of times when we have left nothing in reserve? Those are occasions to rejoice in.
Mary demonstrated her extravagant worship in both quality and quantity. She held nothing back, lavishing love and care on her Lord. How might we love Jesus the way she did?
And had he been, my candidate for the identity of the lucky girl would be not Mary of Magdala, but Mary of Bethany. She’s the one who neglected her household duties to sit at his feet, taking in his teaching while her sister prepared a meal alone (Luke 10:38-42). Later, when Jesus finally arrived days after their brother Lazarus had died, he asks for Mary. And when she comes to him and gently rebukes him for having arrived too late, it is her tears, and those of onlookers, which appear to move him to action (John 11). There is no reason to imagine their connection went beyond friendship, but it seems to have been a deep connection.
This is evident in the enormous intimacy and generosity of Mary’s gesture at the dinner in her home in this week's story:
Mary took a pound of costly perfume made of pure nard, anointed Jesus’ feet, and wiped them with her hair. The house was filled with the fragrance of the perfume.
This act is shocking on several levels. First, there is the intimacy of anointing Jesus’ feet, well beyond the expected hospitality of washing the feet of one’s guests. Mary's using her hair to wipe the oil suggests such physical closeness it must have made onlookers uncomfortable. And to kneel at someone’s feet and tend to them with your own hands and hair is a posture of profound worship and devotion.
Then there is the shocking extravagance, wastefulness even, of using the entire jar of ointment. Nard was extremely precious and very potent; no one would need a whole jar for one use. Learning that the house was filled with the fragrance tells us how excessive this gesture was.
But its very excess is what commends Mary’s action to us. She holds nothing back, not for economy nor for propriety. She acts upon her instinctive knowledge that Jesus’ time among them is coming to an end, and she seizes the opportunity to demonstrate her great love for him while he is yet with her. We are in a different situation – Jesus is not going anywhere; in fact, we’re waiting for him to return in fullness. But our time in this world is limited. Don’t we want to fully embrace God’s love in the here and now?
Where in our lives do we hold back on expressing our love for Jesus, for God? Do we content ourselves with the hour or so a week we spend in church; the amounts we pledge that stretch our budgets but little; short prayers at the beginning and end of the day and anytime a crisis arises in between?
And in what ways do we lavish our time and resources on God and God’s people? Can we think of times when we have left nothing in reserve? Those are occasions to rejoice in.
Mary demonstrated her extravagant worship in both quality and quantity. She held nothing back, lavishing love and care on her Lord. How might we love Jesus the way she did?
3-7-16 - That Family in Bethany
The gospels say little about Jesus’ friendships. We see some of his interaction with disciples, but other than a few exchanges with Peter, those tend to be group encounters. Yet there is one family, at least according to Luke and John, with whom Jesus had a particularly close relationship: the two sisters and one brother from Bethany who appear in at least three stories in those two gospels.
Our passage this week begins with an almost comically understated reference to Jesus' connection with this family: Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him.
This casual aside about Lazarus – “Oh, you know who I mean, the guy Jesus raised from the dead” is followed by the prosaic, “They gave a dinner for him.” Let's hope they did a lot more than that!
We are told that Martha served, which might seem an inconsequential detail were it not for that brief but penetrating vignette in Luke’s gospel about another time Martha cooked and served dinner for Jesus, and got a little lesson in priorities. We learn so much about her in that story, and here she is, serving dinner yet again.
The other sister, Mary, is the main character in this week’s reading, and we’ll introduce her tomorrow. What intrigues me as we begin to explore this short tale is the glimpse it gives us into Jesus’ social life. He had thousands of followers, and some close associates, but his peripatetic life and the increasing danger in which he found himself – John tells us this is six days before the Passover, the final Passover Jesus will celebrate in his worldly life – no doubt made it difficult to form and maintain friendships. This household seems to have been a place of refuge and friendship for him, and his humanity is more vivid for me seeing him rooted in this web of sibling relationships with three distinct personalities.
If we think of Jesus often at the dinner table of that family in Bethany, we might more easily imagine him as a guest at our table. And I believe that is where he wants to be - invited into our homes and lives, welcome at the table as we eat, on the couch as we relax, accompanying us as we work and exercise and play and recharge and interact with the people in our lives. This story reminds us that Jesus’ love is universal, and also always particular as we receive him.
He came for you, and for me. And as George Herbert so memorably articulated it, he expects us to eat with him.
Love (III) - George Herbert (1593-1633)
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
Our passage this week begins with an almost comically understated reference to Jesus' connection with this family: Six days before the Passover Jesus came to Bethany, the home of Lazarus, whom he had raised from the dead. There they gave a dinner for him. Martha served, and Lazarus was one of those at the table with him.
This casual aside about Lazarus – “Oh, you know who I mean, the guy Jesus raised from the dead” is followed by the prosaic, “They gave a dinner for him.” Let's hope they did a lot more than that!
We are told that Martha served, which might seem an inconsequential detail were it not for that brief but penetrating vignette in Luke’s gospel about another time Martha cooked and served dinner for Jesus, and got a little lesson in priorities. We learn so much about her in that story, and here she is, serving dinner yet again.
The other sister, Mary, is the main character in this week’s reading, and we’ll introduce her tomorrow. What intrigues me as we begin to explore this short tale is the glimpse it gives us into Jesus’ social life. He had thousands of followers, and some close associates, but his peripatetic life and the increasing danger in which he found himself – John tells us this is six days before the Passover, the final Passover Jesus will celebrate in his worldly life – no doubt made it difficult to form and maintain friendships. This household seems to have been a place of refuge and friendship for him, and his humanity is more vivid for me seeing him rooted in this web of sibling relationships with three distinct personalities.
If we think of Jesus often at the dinner table of that family in Bethany, we might more easily imagine him as a guest at our table. And I believe that is where he wants to be - invited into our homes and lives, welcome at the table as we eat, on the couch as we relax, accompanying us as we work and exercise and play and recharge and interact with the people in our lives. This story reminds us that Jesus’ love is universal, and also always particular as we receive him.
He came for you, and for me. And as George Herbert so memorably articulated it, he expects us to eat with him.
Love (III) - George Herbert (1593-1633)
Love bade me welcome. Yet my soul drew back
Guilty of dust and sin.
But quick-eyed Love, observing me grow slack
From my first entrance in,
Drew nearer to me, sweetly questioning,
If I lacked any thing.
A guest, I answered, worthy to be here:
Love said, You shall be he.
I the unkind, ungrateful? Ah my dear,
I cannot look on thee.
Love took my hand, and smiling did reply,
Who made the eyes but I?
Truth Lord, but I have marred them: let my shame
Go where it doth deserve.
And know you not, says Love, who bore the blame?
My dear, then I will serve.
You must sit down, says Love, and taste my meat:
So I did sit and eat.
3-4-16 - Found and Lost
It has been hard to pack all we might say about this powerful parable into five days. (To go deeper, I recommend Henri Nouwen’s classic, The Return of the Prodigal Son, which explores this story and especially its three main characters through the lens of Rembrandt’s painting of the same name.)
We haven’t spent nearly enough time on this “prodigal father,” whose extravagant forgiveness and restoration of his wastral son stikes some as no less wasteful as that son’s squandering of his inheritance. First among those who feel that way is the father’s elder son, who gets wind of the reunion and is horrified:
‘Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!”
For the second time that day, the father goes out to meet a son where he is, not waiting for him to come in. He loves his sons equally – and that in itself is a affront to this elder boy who has faithfully served and done everything right. In his view, his father should love him more, for he has earned it.
And in this view, he has a lot of company. When I ask people to whom they relate in this parable, most say the older brother. We like fairness. We like earning our way. Yet Jesus made it clear in parable after parable that the Realm of God is not a place of fairness but of grace. Grace extended to others, undeserving others – and, of course, grace by its definition comes to the undeserving – can make us feel cheated.
But God’s economy is one of abundance. Had the elder brother asked for a party, he could have had one every week. But how can he expect the father to love his other son less? The father’s love is a full measure, pressed down, over- flowing. As I once sensed God say to me in prayer, “I already love you the most. There is nothing you have to do, or can do, to make me love you more – I love you the most already.”
Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”’
Jesus leaves the story unresolved. Does the elder son relent, allow grace to flow into him? Or does he define himself “lost” by his hardness of heart, like the religious leaders to whom Jesus was likely referring? And what about us? Are we willing to count ourselves “found” if the company includes people we would have trouble forgiving? What if we let God do it for us?
We haven’t spent nearly enough time on this “prodigal father,” whose extravagant forgiveness and restoration of his wastral son stikes some as no less wasteful as that son’s squandering of his inheritance. First among those who feel that way is the father’s elder son, who gets wind of the reunion and is horrified:
‘Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” Then he became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, “Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!”
For the second time that day, the father goes out to meet a son where he is, not waiting for him to come in. He loves his sons equally – and that in itself is a affront to this elder boy who has faithfully served and done everything right. In his view, his father should love him more, for he has earned it.
And in this view, he has a lot of company. When I ask people to whom they relate in this parable, most say the older brother. We like fairness. We like earning our way. Yet Jesus made it clear in parable after parable that the Realm of God is not a place of fairness but of grace. Grace extended to others, undeserving others – and, of course, grace by its definition comes to the undeserving – can make us feel cheated.
But God’s economy is one of abundance. Had the elder brother asked for a party, he could have had one every week. But how can he expect the father to love his other son less? The father’s love is a full measure, pressed down, over- flowing. As I once sensed God say to me in prayer, “I already love you the most. There is nothing you have to do, or can do, to make me love you more – I love you the most already.”
Then the father said to him, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.”’
Jesus leaves the story unresolved. Does the elder son relent, allow grace to flow into him? Or does he define himself “lost” by his hardness of heart, like the religious leaders to whom Jesus was likely referring? And what about us? Are we willing to count ourselves “found” if the company includes people we would have trouble forgiving? What if we let God do it for us?
3-3-16 - Home Comes to Us
When I was young I was enthralled with the movie Love Story, with its famous tagline, “Love means never having to say you’re sorry.” That kind of statement can pretty much only be made after someone’s just said, “I’m sorry…” I’d be more likely to say, “Love means always having to say you’re sorry,” by which I mean we need always be aware of the ways in which we hurt or fail to notice our loved ones’ feelings. Learning to say you’re sorry quickly and naturally is one of the building blocks of a healthy relationship.
But working up to “I’m sorry” is often a struggle. Once we’ve wrestled away our self-justifications and acknowledged the need, we often find ourselves rehearsing, trying to find the right words. That’s exactly what the young man in Jesus’ story does: writes his speech ahead of time.
“I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” So he set off and went to his father.
When we head off to ask forgiveness of another person, we can never be sure of the reception we’ll get. This young man, who’d in effect disowned his father, probably caused him to liquidate assets at a loss, may have assumed his father had disowned him. When we offer repentance, we have to simply offer it, and be willing to lay it down and walk away. We can’t compel forgiveness or even a hearing.
Ah, but Jesus tells us that it’s different with God. If this story is a picture of what the realm of God is like, we should take notice of what happens next: forgiveness doesn’t wait for this young man to express his sorrow. Forgiveness is out in the road, waiting for him. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him.
The son tries to make his speech, but his father is way ahead of him: But the father said to his slaves, “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”
Was the father looking down that road every day, hoping against hope to see his son return? Did he even care if the boy was sorry, or did he only want to be reunited with his beloved? Does God really love us that much?
Jesus said “yes.” Jesus showed us “yes,” just how much God loves us. Jesus left Home and came into our road to wait for us. We don’t even have to get home – Home comes to us, with royal robes and sandals for our tired feet. This is one “I’m sorry” for which we don’t have to doubt the reception.
We only need to turn ourselves toward home.
But working up to “I’m sorry” is often a struggle. Once we’ve wrestled away our self-justifications and acknowledged the need, we often find ourselves rehearsing, trying to find the right words. That’s exactly what the young man in Jesus’ story does: writes his speech ahead of time.
“I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’” So he set off and went to his father.
When we head off to ask forgiveness of another person, we can never be sure of the reception we’ll get. This young man, who’d in effect disowned his father, probably caused him to liquidate assets at a loss, may have assumed his father had disowned him. When we offer repentance, we have to simply offer it, and be willing to lay it down and walk away. We can’t compel forgiveness or even a hearing.
Ah, but Jesus tells us that it’s different with God. If this story is a picture of what the realm of God is like, we should take notice of what happens next: forgiveness doesn’t wait for this young man to express his sorrow. Forgiveness is out in the road, waiting for him. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him.
The son tries to make his speech, but his father is way ahead of him: But the father said to his slaves, “Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”
Was the father looking down that road every day, hoping against hope to see his son return? Did he even care if the boy was sorry, or did he only want to be reunited with his beloved? Does God really love us that much?
Jesus said “yes.” Jesus showed us “yes,” just how much God loves us. Jesus left Home and came into our road to wait for us. We don’t even have to get home – Home comes to us, with royal robes and sandals for our tired feet. This is one “I’m sorry” for which we don’t have to doubt the reception.
We only need to turn ourselves toward home.
3-2-16 - Return to Self
This week's gospel story works well with people in recovery from addiction. They can relate to a guy who leaves home, loses everything and finds himself starving in a pig pen. Millenia before 12-step groups were developed, Jesus found perfect language to describe hitting bottom:
When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ ” So he set off and went to his father.
The line that always grabs me is “But when he came to himself….” It so economically describes what happens when we’ve gone off the rails, deep into toxic behaviors or thinking – it’s like we’ve parted ways with our true self. The first step of reconciliation is to return to ourselves and welcome ourselves home.
This young man suddenly saw himself and his surroundings clearly. He recognized the truth of what had happened, where his choices had brought him. Sure, he didn’t cause the famine, but the choices he’d made since leaving home had left him with no resources to weather it. And when he saw himself for who he was, he remembered who he had been, the status he had given up when he estranged himself from his family. In a moment of true humility, he also saw clearly that he had forfeited that status forever. Formulating a plan to get out of his dire straits, he did not presume to regain his sonship, but resolved to beg the mercy of his father to allow him to be a servant in his old house.
True repentance begins when we stop blaming other people, our history and circumstances for where we find ourselves now. That can be one of the hardest steps to take, to accept where we are, regardless of whose choices helped get us there. Certainly our own choices played a part, and that’s where we start the road toward reconciliation.
This morning I invite us to take stock of what “pig pens” we endure in our lives. Where are we stuck in patterns that keep us from thriving? Who do we need to forgive or get out of the way of? What are we clinging to? What are we using to anesthetize us from pain and the real work of healing into which the Spirit invites us?
I’m pretty good at wallowing. And maybe too good at compartmentalizing myself. But Jesus invites me, with this young man, to take the risk of true humility and clarity. And when I've reconnected with my deepest self, he invites me to find my way home.
When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, “How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.’ ” So he set off and went to his father.
The line that always grabs me is “But when he came to himself….” It so economically describes what happens when we’ve gone off the rails, deep into toxic behaviors or thinking – it’s like we’ve parted ways with our true self. The first step of reconciliation is to return to ourselves and welcome ourselves home.
This young man suddenly saw himself and his surroundings clearly. He recognized the truth of what had happened, where his choices had brought him. Sure, he didn’t cause the famine, but the choices he’d made since leaving home had left him with no resources to weather it. And when he saw himself for who he was, he remembered who he had been, the status he had given up when he estranged himself from his family. In a moment of true humility, he also saw clearly that he had forfeited that status forever. Formulating a plan to get out of his dire straits, he did not presume to regain his sonship, but resolved to beg the mercy of his father to allow him to be a servant in his old house.
True repentance begins when we stop blaming other people, our history and circumstances for where we find ourselves now. That can be one of the hardest steps to take, to accept where we are, regardless of whose choices helped get us there. Certainly our own choices played a part, and that’s where we start the road toward reconciliation.
This morning I invite us to take stock of what “pig pens” we endure in our lives. Where are we stuck in patterns that keep us from thriving? Who do we need to forgive or get out of the way of? What are we clinging to? What are we using to anesthetize us from pain and the real work of healing into which the Spirit invites us?
I’m pretty good at wallowing. And maybe too good at compartmentalizing myself. But Jesus invites me, with this young man, to take the risk of true humility and clarity. And when I've reconnected with my deepest self, he invites me to find my way home.
3-1-16 - Independence
Growing up can be described as one long, push-and-pull struggle for independence. We strive to be seen for who we are, separate from our parents and their expectations and desires. Psychologists call this process individuation, and how one navigates it has great bearing on the kind of maturity and self-integrity one displays as an adult. Pushing out and pulling back enact a basic inner conflict we all share: We want to be our own person, and we want to be enfolded in Home, be it real or idealized. And we can’t have both.
Some people push out harder than others. The young man in the story Jesus told pushed farther than many – he not only struck out on his own, he pretty much burned his bridges.
‘There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.'
Asking for his inheritance before his father had even died was tantamount to wishing the old man dead. And going to a distant country was a way of saying to those at home, “I’m getting as far away from you as I can. I can take care of myself.” Only it turns he couldn’t – he lacked the maturity to spend his inheritance wisely. He squandered it living the high life, no doubt buying drinks for any number of hangers-on who disappeared as soon as his cash was gone. This young man went as far away from Home as he could.
Was he rebelling against his father? The three glimpses we get of this father show him to be a wise and compassionate man, excelling in grace with his difficult sons. Was this young man’s behavior a response to losing his mother - Jesus mentions none. Or was this younger son reacting to the rectitude of his older brother, whom we learn is obedient to a fault? Some schools of psychology root personality development in sibling relationships as much as parental ones. Did this “goody two shoes” take all the gold stars, leaving his younger brother to define himself by rebellion?
Oh dear, here I go, treating this like a real story again. As of course it is, in one way or another.
How is it real for you? Where do you find yourself in this younger son?
When have you rebelled, and against who or what?
In what ways do you try go it alone, to make it on self-saving strategies rather than relying on God and community? Are you comfortable in being the person you are, or do you feel incomplete?
Our God desires wholeness for us, within ourselves, and in our relationships with others. Often that requires knowing where we are “unwhole” – or unholy. If you feel like making a conscious a self-examination, here is a form you can download to help think through the areas of your life.
We may not be squandering our property in riotous living, but I dare say most of us are some distance from the Love that made us and calls us home. Awareness of what is causing that distance will help reduce it.
Some people push out harder than others. The young man in the story Jesus told pushed farther than many – he not only struck out on his own, he pretty much burned his bridges.
‘There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.'
Asking for his inheritance before his father had even died was tantamount to wishing the old man dead. And going to a distant country was a way of saying to those at home, “I’m getting as far away from you as I can. I can take care of myself.” Only it turns he couldn’t – he lacked the maturity to spend his inheritance wisely. He squandered it living the high life, no doubt buying drinks for any number of hangers-on who disappeared as soon as his cash was gone. This young man went as far away from Home as he could.
Was he rebelling against his father? The three glimpses we get of this father show him to be a wise and compassionate man, excelling in grace with his difficult sons. Was this young man’s behavior a response to losing his mother - Jesus mentions none. Or was this younger son reacting to the rectitude of his older brother, whom we learn is obedient to a fault? Some schools of psychology root personality development in sibling relationships as much as parental ones. Did this “goody two shoes” take all the gold stars, leaving his younger brother to define himself by rebellion?
Oh dear, here I go, treating this like a real story again. As of course it is, in one way or another.
How is it real for you? Where do you find yourself in this younger son?
When have you rebelled, and against who or what?
In what ways do you try go it alone, to make it on self-saving strategies rather than relying on God and community? Are you comfortable in being the person you are, or do you feel incomplete?
Our God desires wholeness for us, within ourselves, and in our relationships with others. Often that requires knowing where we are “unwhole” – or unholy. If you feel like making a conscious a self-examination, here is a form you can download to help think through the areas of your life.
We may not be squandering our property in riotous living, but I dare say most of us are some distance from the Love that made us and calls us home. Awareness of what is causing that distance will help reduce it.
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