It’s hard to have out loud qualms with anything in the Bible. You can think it all you want I guess, but if you actually say something like, “What was God thinking when he outlawed shopping on Sunday and pork rinds?” someone very religious is likely to hear from Heaven and accept God’s call to get you saved again. So I hesitate to verbalize my little bit of disappointment in a great piece of holy text.
Being sort of a rebel myself, I’ve learned that there is a whole lot more to the prodigal story than just a good son, a bad son, a good dad, a bad son turned good son and a good son turned bad son who ended up disappointing his dad with his selfishness. The basic message of patient grace is wonderful indeed, but what about the unsaid parts?
I wonder what the younger son’s name was. I kind of wish we knew something other than just Prodigal. It would be nice to tell the story and call him Chad or Jeremy or even Kenny. Then again, attaching a name to something as deeply personal as scandal and rebellion and failure might be a bit embarrassing, especially since the story is an international best seller. Still, a proper name might help put a face on the drama. So, I’ll just call him Prod.
I wonder if Prod ever shook the memories of his old pig-pen pals. The smells, the sights, the sounds, the moments, the people… How could those faces not be embedded deep into his recollection of the whole terrible experience? When he closed his eyes, or found a few moments of quiet, it must’ve been very easy for the one time rebel to live the emotion all over again. You don’t share your last corn husk or the loneliest days of your life with someone and not remember. He had to wonder where they were now. Did they ever escape the slop? And if they did, was there even a place for them to go? Having despair and hunger and shame in common would certainly create a bond, and it’s usually not understood by the well fed or the well respected.
Prod’s daddy owns the farm. That’s why the guys in the front office can’t figure him out. Instead of lunch at the corporate table, Prod finds a place in the back field, under a tree with the farm hands. Their calluses, their brows, their eyes all remind him of the ones he worked beside and even partied with when he was running. He feels he owes them something, even if it’s just attention – or compassion. As much as his upbringing had taught him about his rightful place in the family, it was the conversations, the empty expressions and the broken spirits he encountered in his rebellion that led him to discover his place in the world. To forget who they were and where they were and why they were there – to ignore their need and their plight would be as sinful as the rebellion itself.
It’s not just the guys in the suits who don’t understand. No one can unless they’ve risked and lost everything; slept on a cold sidewalk; stared down the barrel of a mugger’s gun; woke up in a stranger’s bed; fought the temptation to drink and shoot up; begged for a morsel and robbed for a dime; hated their very existence; wondered if anyone back home ever even thought of them… Unless they knew what he knew, Prod knew they’d never understand.
It’s crazy what being a prodigal does to you. Prod knows. The throw aways become treasures. The misunderstood are respected. The despised are embraced. Obligation becomes passion. That is the unsaid part of the story.
*I enjoy sharing a few of my thoughts as a contributing writer at sgmradio.com. As older posts are removed from that site I'll be posting them here. This writing was seen far and wide over there during the month of October.
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