It is Lent. And so it seems right to me that I recently finished a great nineteenth century Russian novel – The Brothers Karamazov by Fyodor Dostoyevsky. There was a movie of this book when I was a young teen. It starred Yul Brynner. You may even remember him! In any event, this is Dostoyevsky’s last book, and I think it competes with War and Peace for the prize of the great Russian novel.
The Brothers K, as people call it, is all about a murder. It’s actually a murder mystery and a courtroom drama. It has twists and turns and surprises. It is so brutal at times, so harsh, and so full of heart and love at other times.
And it was a good book for Lent because, in the midst of all the turmoil, it is a book about God. Dostoyevsky struggles passionately with the questions about who God is, how he relates to us, and what is required of us. But there’s even more. At the same time as he writes about God, he writes about people in our world — some beautiful and touching stories and in one case the most lovely description of a dog.
If I sit down to think about a book like The Brothers K, there are two people at the table with the book between us. There’s me and there’s Dostoyevsky. What does the book say on its own, how did Dostoyevsky’s own personal experiences penetrate the story-telling, and what do I bring to the story and take home from it.
We do the same thing when we sit down to think about the Scriptures and, in this year particularly, the Gospel of Luke. But this time, there are three people at the table with the book between us. There’s me and there’s Luke. And then there is God. The questions now are: What is God saying to us, how does Luke’s own beautiful voice penetrate how God says it, what do our life experiences bring to this Gospel? Another way to ask these questions is how does Luke do the talking while God is whispering in our ear.
Scholars, I’m sure, know a lot about Dostoyevsky’s life, but we don’t know really anything about Luke’s. We know he loved Jesus and carefully put together his Gospel and the Acts of the Apostles. We know that he worked some with Saint Paul because Luke says so and puts himself into Acts. (For example, Acts 16:10-17). And tradition has it that he was a medical doctor and an artist who painted pictures of Jesus’ mother.
But what happens in his Gospel tells us more about him, I think. We can be confident in saying that he was a nice man. He was loving and observant. He loved his fellow men and women, he observed them carefully, and he was aware of the details and nuances of their lives.
Here are a couple of examples that I think are clues to what Luke was like. Luke surely loved Zacchaeus, the tax collector who was so short that he climbed a tree in order to get a good look at Jesus. (Luke 19:1-10) Luke, and Jesus too, loved Zacchaeus’s enthusiasm even though he was definitely an outsider, a tax collector, and popularly regarded as a sinner. And he was paid attention to even though he had lots of money. In another story, the Parable of the Good Samaritan, the Samaritan man, another outsider, simply cannot make himself go by the man who was rolled and beaten on a notoriously bad stretch of road between Jerusalem and Jericho. Like Zacchaeus, he had money to spare, witness how he pays the innkeeper in advance for the crime victim’s care and pledges to pay any excess. (Luke 10:25-37) There’s even a really homely parable about a woman who lost one of her ten coins and turns the house upside-down to find it. Having found it, she and her neighbors rejoice totally. (Luke 15:8-10)
Luke sitting at that table with us and God – remember? – can’t help but tell stories and parables that resonate with us. It’s in his nature. He makes us vibrate like a bell. Haven’t we simply loved the antics of our children and grandchildren? Luke puts that into the story of Zacchaeus. Haven’t we sometimes passed a beggar on Solano Avenue and then turned back to give him or her a dollar or cup of coffee. Luke puts that into The Good Samaritan. Haven’t we all been terribly anxious at leaving a credit card behind at a store and then rejoiced to get it back? Luke puts that into the parable of the woman and the lost coin.
So, what resonates between Luke and us in today’s Gospel reading – the famous Parable of the Prodigal Son?
This story begins and ends with sorrow. It has a happy middle for some people. The story starts with the grief of separation. A younger son, untried and confident and probably selfish and ruthless and arrogant, collects his inheritance early. And then he goes away. My guess is that he was within his rights to ask for his share. Or maybe the father trusts him and hopes dearly that his son, when away from him, would be as good as he had been brought up to be. Parents are so hopeful. We all know our children cannot remain children. Often, they grow up by leaving home; and we too give them money. The grief of separation has a million faces. Most recently, in this country it might be a husband going off for a tour in Iraq. In other countries, it might be a Palestinian immigrant leaving her mother behind. It might be the death of a brother or sister. Perhaps, this separation by death gives the parable great strength. Why? Because the Prodigal just disappeared. In today’s parlance, he’s ghosted his father. And I’m sure his elder brother is angry.
Well, things do not work out for the younger son. He squanders what his father gave him. He is reduced to dirt and dirty clothes, calloused feet and pigs for company. He stinks. In these depths, he suffers regret. He realizes his fault. He is like the tax collector who prays in the Temple near the Pharisee, and can only say, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.” (Luke 18:9-14) All the Prodigal can do is accuse himself in humility, knowing that he’s made many wrong decisions. (Luke 18:9-14) But this disruption of one’s spirit seems to offer the choice of power. We can go down to the Jordan again to check in with John the Baptist. If we have these second thoughts and regrets, they can set us on a new road that might be painful and might be years long. But it takes us back to our rich father who suffered the grief of separation.
Well, we all know about being happy that someone has come home. Sometimes, I’ve seen young adults who were kids in Saint Alban’s come back to visit – not that they’re Prodigals: don’t get me wrong! You may not see your grandchildren for a week or even two or more. And when you see them, you are hugging and kissing. And if you’re a dog, you might not see your human “Mommy” for five minutes, and then you are kissing and jumping on her or him. Anyway, like us, the rich father is delighted to see his son. And that’s enough. Except – We should note again that the Prodigal has first admitted his foolishness and wrongdoing directly to his father face-to-face. He has confessed. The prelude to the father’s delight — and I’m sure the Prodigal was also happy – is the Prodigal’s acknowledgement of his, let’s call it, sin.
But we need to look at the sorrow that ends this parable. We have to pay attention to the elder son. To start with, as we know, the road that brothers take can be very rocky. And this obedient, reliable homebody is jealous and resentful and angry. And I think we can understand him. He has to give place to someone whose selfishness seems to get rewarded. More is given him beyond his share of the inheritance, of his father’s substance. This elder son, however, does not know what the younger has gone through. Perhaps someday, if they work together on the father’s property, the two will make peace. This is the beginning of a long story that may end in reconciliation. It will be a rocky road, as we know, because the elder brother has essentially said to his father, “You don’t love me.” I will only say briefly: This story has played out in our lives in some way, shape, or form. It requires endurance and courage. This parable actually does not really have an end. It ends with a question for the father and us: How does he, or do we, treat the older son with as much love as he, or we, treat the younger?
Well, remember the table we are sitting at. I said that God is sitting at that table too. How might his purpose in these stories and parables resonate with us? Of course, it is a given that the story of the Prodigal Son is about God’s forgiveness of even the most wayward, dirty, and smelly sheep. But what else through Luke’s voice does he whisper in our ear?
I think the message is in this idea that I have tried to describe. The idea is that when you walk down the street, or cook, or complain or rejoice, and you cry and you laugh and so on and on, you actually dwell in the stories that Luke tells. What happens to you many times every day happens also in the Gospel of Luke and vice versa. You are sitting at the table with Luke and God and learning what Luke says in his beautiful voice and what God whispers in your ear. And you notice that the table has gone silent, and that Luke and God are looking at you. And you come to realize something surprising and amazing. These stories are about you. Amen
