Cliche

“Cliche”
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 + Lent 4 + 14 March 2010
Joy Community Presbyterian Church
D. Ross-Jones

I had a writing class in college that one day we were exploring the use of cliche in our work. Some students were vehemently opposed to cliche at all costs — “Its boring, its overused” was their battlecry. The professor let us debate amongst ourselves for a period of time before he interjected: “Yes, cliche is all of these things,” he said. “But ultimately, cliche is cliche for a reason — it simply works.”

That’s how I approach today’s story: a common cliche. Jesus’ story of the prodigal son began making the rounds about three minutes after he finished telling it, and folks haven’t quit pulling it apart, analyzing it, commenting on it, or reappropriating it since.

I guess I start with that to name and claim that I am about to do the exact same thing here, with gusto and without reservation. Certainly the prodigal son is among the most universally-known of Jesus’ stories, and without a doubt it has far surpassed the threshold for becoming cliche; but in the words of my professor, “It simply works.”

Please pray with me.

Redeeming God, we thank you that more light and more truth is breaking forth from your word. By your Holy Spirit, help us hear what needs to be heard. Amen.

The story of the prodigal son is the third parable in Luke 15. The first two, prior to this story in today’s lectionary, are clearly calls for repentance and renewal — and thus connect with the theme of last week’s readings. Here, however, we don’t see the word repentance or any of its cognantes, so we assume Jesus was responding to the scribes and Pharisees entirely different altogether. One more interesting social analysis has looked at how the first two parables — dealing with the more “invisible” members of ancient society, shepherds and women — differ from this parable, which moves into the household of a wealthy, affluent family; definitely one that is more visible.

One of the first things I felt was puzzlement when I first sat down to read the story this week. There are plenty of examples where I find myself thinking, “How strange is this?” For starters, the peculiarity of a father exhibiting just as much recklessness and carelessness with money as the son he is running to embrace: how strange that this story turns quickly into one of divine, blessed reconciliation when the son is coming home not out of a desire for repentance but instead calculated self-preservation.

Socially speaking, the interactions between this father and son are foreign to ancient eyes. In verse 12, the younger son directly asks his father, “Give me what you owe me.” To affront his father in this way, the son is essentially wishing death upon his father, and by extension his family. Once, when in a conversation with the media, Prince Charles was asked about his ascension to the throne as monarch of the United Kingdom. Quickly ending the conversation cold, the Prince responded, “Gentlemen, you are speaking of the death of my mother.” This level of respect or even any level of affection is absent in the boy as he interacts with his father. Their relationship is presented as dysfunctional, as violating the standard norms not just of the surrounding culture but of common decency.

The father acquiesces to the wishes of his son, and divides his property. According to the custom, his oldest son would have received at least 2/3 of the father’s property, and all of his subsequent sons would receive allotments of the remaining 1/3. The text doesn’t tell us if this custom was followed or not, but we have no reason to assume otherwise. Based on the assumption that the son squandered a large sum of money, we do know that if this custom was followed, the family is one of great wealth and ownership.

This son, in the words of commentator Richard Swanson, knows how to “play the old man like a fiddle.” He is a master manipulator, and one can’t help but question whether or not his repentance and conversion are true. There doesn’t appear to be any desire to be reunited with his family, but rather a desire to continue to eat and survive — a response to physical, basal needs. The son’s manipulation, it is commonly asserted, brings shame on the household. In the Apocraphal texts — those texts held as part of the biblical canon in Eastern Orthodox and Roman Catholic traditions, but not held to the standard of scripture in Protestant traditions — particularly in Sirach, there are warnings to parents to not become dependent upon their children, even though children are taught to “honor their father and mother” in Exodus.

Its easy, and rather common, to be drawn to the apparent generosity of the father and the irresponsibility of the son, to celebrate the father as an image of a God-figure that gives out of abundance, compassion, and grace. That’s not quite the cultural image, either; the father in throwing a great feast for the son is acting just as indulgently, and to have distributed his wealth prior to his death, essentially “caving in” to the demands of his son, was itself too a foolish act that would have brought shame upon himself and his household.

Indeed in selling the land, the father broke a social covenant with the community, and even in the cultural understanding, with God. The Israelites’ land-based economies, their land holdings were part of the eternal gift of God to their ancestors. We don’t know to whom the father sold the land in order to provide the inheritance money to his sons, but its safe to assume that a family this well-off was a cornerstone of the local economy. If it was sold, as is likely, to businessmen outside the Jewish community, the shame is compounded, and by caving into his son’s manipulation the father is now at odds with the society.

Further, in running to his son as he did, before the son even had a chance for a full statement of contrition and confession, and subsequently restoring the son to full status in the household, it leaves the father ripe for further exploitation by the others in his family or even his hired persons. Both the father and the son are at similar economic and social fault here.

Working in a large University setting with residential students, I see this tension between the father and his younger son living out in a decidedly modern, yet equally profound way. Like was the theme last week, parents always want the best for their children — always more than what they themselves enjoyed — and while I don’t know those parental joys firsthand, I can appreciate the sacrifices my parents made and continue to make on behalf of myself and my sister.

Rarely a week goes by that I and my colleagues don’t observe a student squandering away their inheritance. Sure, these days it takes the form of charging up and maxing out credit cards on their parents’ dime, registering for the most expensive housing options, entitlement to social activities. This same student is trying on new identities, away from home and away from the social structures they have always known. Parents and family are a burden to them, and no small amount of complaining is heard.

Yet, when the going gets tough — when the young person has issues with their roommates, or they max out yet another credit card — who gets the phone call to “fix” the situation? Indeed, the situation between the father and his younger son seems all too timeless and universal.

Before I go too much further, I have a confession to make: I’m the oldest child. You’ll notice I haven’t said much about him in this situation — because I get how he’s feeling. I imagine myself in his shoes if my sister were to come and demand a distribution of our inheritance immediately, and then return to a great celebration… well, let’s just agree that I, too, would have some choice words for our parents.

The oldest son is upset, feeling unappreciated and like he has no place in his father’s heart. To add insult to injury, his father basically tells him that he is taken for granted — “you are always with me.” One commentator noted that instead of “the prodigal son,” this parable might instead be better known as “the resentful brother.”

It is important to see the story through the oldest son’s eyes, too. He receives no external recognition for his work or role in the family. He forces us as readers to digest preferential treatment and the seemingly scandalous actions of the father toward his younger brother. The whole situation is so upsetting to him that he doesn’t even refer to his father or brother directly as family — instead as “this son of yours.”

The oldest son is calling his father and younger brother back into reality: there are customs, doctrines, protocol that is established that must be paid attention to. From his perspective, there is no reason to celebrate after such displays of dysfunctional petulance. It doesn’t seem that the oldest son is objecting to the return of his younger brother, but rather takes more offense at the gross display of feasting that is laid out in front of him Certainly, his younger brother should be allowed to return home. But that return does not mean entitlement to the fatted calf, a robe, a ring, or merriment.

We commonly write off the oldest son as being self-righteous, unable to overcome his sense of entitlement as the first-born. (Of course, such sidelining in the midst of responsibility is nothing new to us oldest children!) But right here is where the cliche breaks down, it is when we look through the oldest son’s eyes that we see the true grace and confounding beauty of this story. It is the oldest son who fully understands the audacity of the situation, and the life-giving love the father is expressing.

Bernard Brandon Scott sees one of the more powerful examples of the whole person in the father image. Unlike the powerful, distant, disengaged father that social roles would project onto him, the father in this story is embracing decidedly feminine characteristics: placing himself into the loving, welcome embrace with his son, engaging with him, and speaking with the kindness and compassion of a mother figure. This father has sacrificed social capital, he has been manipulated, walked over, eaten up and spit out, and yet he still demonstrates unwavering love for his sons.

In embracing his younger son, he has not rejected his eldest — at the end of the passage, he clearly calls him “son,” and emphasizes the younger as his “brother.” This solidifies and emphasizes that they both have a place in his house, his family, and his heart.

This is important, because both sons misunderstand the father’s grace. To the younger, grace is the result of bargaining and manipulation — grace is the satisfactory response to one’s consumeristic desires. Relationships are dispensable, responsible living is dull and uninteresting. To the older, though, grace is prescribed through sacred canons, proper action, and traditional norms. Diligence and order are the codes of understanding. At the end of the story, both sons are reunited not just with each other, but reintegrated into their father’s house.

Both sons in this story were lost: one to a life of recklessness, one to a life of serious self-righteousness. Barbara Brown Taylor points out, “there were no extra steps between the younger son’s return and his welcome home party, no heart-to-heart with the old man, no extra chores, no “go-to-your-room-for-a-week-and-think-about-what-you-have-done,” just a clean robe for his back, and a fine ring for his hand, and a pair of new sandals for his feet.” Its simply not fair, right? Sure, this younger son had been far away from the house, but the oldest son was lost to such a deeper, internal state that he was much further away from his father.

The father loves his sons not based on what they deserve or their standing before him — he loves them as they are, regardless of — or perhaps in spite of — what they’ve done. Each of us can find ourselves on that heavenly doorstep, either trapped by our lifestyle or our own sense of self-importance. It is up to us to decide whether or not we will stand outside all night, alone, full of our self-righteous, self-imposed isolation — or if we will give up ourselves and go inside, taking our spot at the great feast, surrounded by all the other reckless and righteous saints and sinners, brothers and sisters united only in our relationship to the loving father who gives us the unconditional love we don’t deserve but deeply need.

After all, its just cliche.

Soli Deo Gloria: To God alone be glory. Amen.