A number of years ago a high school journalism teacher named Jimmy Neil Smith was traveling with a van load of students to a competition. While heading down the road, a guy named Jerry Clower—a popular comedian of the day—came on the car radio and told a tale about going coon hunting near his childhood home in Mississippi. The kids were mesmerized. Their conversations stopped and they listened with rapt attention. As he observed their fascination with this story, he was struck by an inspiration: Why not organize an event that honored the power and influence of a well-told story? One thing led to another and, in October 1973, the National Storytelling Festival was born. That first year about sixty people attended. But something was birthed that has not only continued, but expanded, in the years since. These days this event, held the first weekend of October in Jonesborough, Tennessee—a town of about 6,000 in the foothills of the Smoky Mountains which prides itself on being the oldest town in Tennessee—attracts as many as 10,000 people from all over the world and all walks of life … regular folks who enjoy the entertainment of a well-told story … professionals who utilize the power of story in their work life … sales people and communicators who want to be inspired do it better from those who do it well as well as teachers and students who attend as an educational experience. Circus tents are scattered around town where festival goers can easily walk from tent to tent and performance to performance.
If such an event had existed 2000 years ago in the Middle East, my guess is Jesus might have been invited to participate. For he was an amazing storyteller. The Bible tells us people came from all over to listen to him teach and tell stories. He had an uncanny ability to take everyday events, convert them into a narrative, and use them as vehicles for the transmission of spiritual truth. Most of his stories were pretty brief and to the point. But one story—perhaps the most memorable of all the stories he told about a father with two sons—stands out.
In the previous post I focused on the younger son and his outrageous request—asking his father for his portion of the inheritance while he was still alive, and then cashing it out and leaving home. This was an act of tremendous defiance ad great rebellion—one that would have cut off any possibility of return, not only to his family, but the entire community. Jewish tradition called for anyone who’d lost the family inheritance and tried return home to be the recipient of a ritual called kezazah where the community would break a large clay pot in front of them and say, “so-and-so is cut off from the community forever.” This choice by the younger son—cashing out his inheritance, leaving home, and blowing it irresponsibly—was a functional burning of the bridges. For him to return home, he knew kezazah was waiting for him. He knew the reception wouldn’t be a welcome one. That’s why he had the “I’m not worthy of being your son … just let me be a hired hand” speech ready.
Point is—all of us have done this with God. We’ve chafed under the encumbrance of guidelines that feel restrictive and done things to create separation between us and Him. We’ve used Him for what he has to offer rather than who He is. We’ve burned bridges and experienced the detachment that comes as a result.
The prodigal left home with money, dreams, and pride. But it wasn’t too long before the money was gone, the dreams had been shattered, and his pride was greatly wounded.
After he had spent everything, there was a severe famine in that whole country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to a citizen of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed pigs. He longed to fill his stomach with the pods that the pigs were eating, but no one gave him anything. “When he came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired servants have food to spare, and here I am starving to death! I will set out and go back to my father and say to him: Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants.’ So he got up and went to his father. (Luke 15:14-20a)
This young man, after he arrived in the far country, had the time of his life for a while. All the things he was trying to get away from—the limits and strictures that accompanied being at home—he carried on without apprehension about the disapproving gaze of his father. He was free to do what he wanted, when he wanted, without regard for potential consequences or repercussions.
But something happened he wasn’t counting on. A famine broke out—the functional equivalent of an economic recession, only much more dangerous because people could actually starve to death. Suddenly he found himself broke and desperate and in a place much more tumultuous than he’d ever imagined. He needed to find a job. As is often the case during times of recession, locating a decent one was hard to do. So, utterly desperate and totally destitute, he got on as a hired hand working for a rancher who raised pigs—a detail that to the Jews listening would have been every bit as scandalous and disgraceful as him demanding his inheritance, cashing it out, and leaving home in the first place. Some of them were undoubtedly thinking, “Good! That’s what that schmuck deserves!” His dream of a new life of freedom—his goal of living life without the interference and involvement of his father—had become a nightmare.
Jesus doesn’t tell us how long things went on like this. All he says is one day he “came to his senses.” He looked up from this set of circumstances that had become his life—a set of circumstances he chose himself into but had never counted on being part of the equation … circumstances that were a far cry from what he thought would be the case when he first left home—and said to himself, “You know, perhaps I should go back home. The men that work for my dad at least have food to eat.” He knows he’s screwed up and made huge mistakes. He knows he has no right to expect a place in his father’s house. As I said earlier, he knows kezazah is probably waiting for him. But there’s no place else for him to go. He’s out of options, so he retraces his steps.
But make no mistake—there’s no indication that in coming to his senses he’s had some moral epiphany or a deep-seated awakening in his soul. His motive here is self-preservation. He doesn’t say “I’ve shamed my family” or “I’ve broken my father’s heart.” He doesn’t even voice regret for the lost inheritance. All he wants is some food to eat and a roof over his head. It’s a move of desperation … a last resort … an option he would have never allowed himself to consider until every resource at his disposal had been depleted, every other alternative had been exhausted, and every other possibility had been used up.
As he makes his way home, he rehearsed the lines he planned to use when he got there. Like so many of us when we’re anticipating a difficult conversation, he played out an imaginary scenario and went over what he intended to say. While his words sounded sincere and humble on the surface, in actuality they were anything but. For his request was about preserving as much of his dignity as possible. He’s trying to minimize his humiliation by asking for the bare minimum. After all, nothing is more humiliating than doing something incredibly selfish and stupid only to have the person you’ve done it to treat you with grace and kindness. You want them to be mad. You want them to be harsh. You want them to go off. Otherwise, you’ll feel completely in their debt.
When Jesus told the story, he could have had the son say something like, “Dad, I’ve been such an idiot. I shouldn’t have left. Please forgive me.” But Jesus doesn’t tell it that way. What he does is tell it the way most of us typically approach God—not with faith in His love and goodness, but out of desperation and a willingness to scrape by. “God it you’ll just let me in the back door—if you’ll just feed me some leftovers here and there—I’ll take it.” For we don’t comprehend God’s love. We don’t really believe He loves us at the depth and in the way He does. We just hope He won’t send us to hell. So, we try to strike a bargain with Him: “God, if you’ll get me out of this mess, I’ll do whatever you want. I’ll become a missionary to deepest, darkest Africa. I’ll never miss another Sunday of church for as long as I live.” A lot of us approach God the way the younger son does—realizing we have no leverage in the situation but hoping we can arrive at an agreement we can live with.
Think about it—he’s not asking to be forgiven or restored as a son. He merely wants to get on as a hired hand. Maybe it’s because he knows he doesn’t deserve such grace. Or maybe he doesn’t want it. For as long as he’s a hired hand, he can still maintain his distance from his father. He can revolt, whine, and complain about his pay. If and when he gets back on his feet, he can leave again if he finds a better job. But if he’s restored to sonship—a couple of things: (1) That means he’ll be living off his brother’s part of the inheritance (and the older brother, while he stayed at home, wasn’t exactly a delight to be around. As we look at him more closely, we’ll realize there were things about him that undoubtedly contributed to the younger son’s misery and desire to leave) and (2) He’ll forever be in debt to his father. For the younger son to seek restoration to his previous status would mean going through life in debt to his father. And that’s not something he wants—in fact, there’s a good chance that feeling was a significant part of his reason for leaving to begin with.
The younger son’s approach to his father demonstrates his total lack of awareness as to what his father was about. He thinks the issue is the lost money and the squandered inheritance. But that’s not it! In the father’s mind the issue is the estranged relationship and broken connection. The father’s not looking for a hired hand. He’s looking for a son who knows his heart and wants an intimate connection. And the younger son, oblivious as he is to what’s going on with his father, demonstrates for us the classic challenge many of us have in relation to God. It’s the challenge between sonship and servanthood. Are we God’s children, or are we his hirelings? Is He a law-giving master and we his servants, or is He a compassionate Father and we his sons and daughters? If our thinking is along the lines of how the younger son approached his father, God remains a harsh and judgmental being. And submission to a god like that doesn’t create freedom. In fact, quite the opposite. It creates bondage and enslavement. It spawns bitterness and resentment.
One of the most powerful lessons this story teaches us is that the only way to come to God is as a child. I’m convinced the thing that most often keeps us estranged from God is not His inability to love us, but our inability to receive it. We think of God’s love as conditional and, when that’s the case, home is a place we’re not fully sure of. But home, as the younger son discovered by the father’s response, is the place he was loved wholeheartedly and unconditionally … where he was categorically valued and cherished. It’s the place where our identity isn’t based on how powerful or popular or successful we are, but where it’s centered simply on the fact that we are. The Father’s house is that place where our identity is established—where we’re a beloved kid who’s loved not because of who we are and what we’ve done, but because of who our Father is and what’s in Him. Understand this about our Heavenly Father: He loves us, and there’s nothing we can do to make Him love us more or love us less. Our actions may frustrate and exasperate Him, but they can’t change the depth and quality of the love He has for us. But because the younger son didn’t realize this about his father, he thought being back around him would be unpleasant. He didn’t understood his father’s heart at all!
So—how do we relate to this story? For the most part, we don’t resemble the younger son. We’re not so desperate or broken that it’s obvious to those around us that we’ve been irresponsible and taken some real hits as a result of our indiscretions. Yeah—we’ve done some things that have wounded and insulted our Heavenly Father, but we’ve been much more careful and discreet than the younger son was. And in many ways, that is to our disadvantage. For nothing is more dangerous than a prodigal who’s not feeling the pain of his or her choices—in fact, we live in a world full of people like that! Nothing is more hazardous to our spiritual wellbeing than being a person who is well-off, comfortable, and contented to where we don’t feel hardship, adversity, and exigency that arises from the fact we’re wasting and misusing our lives.
Had the younger son lived more carefully in the distant country—had he been more prudent in his decision-making and judicious in his rebellion—there’s a good chance he’d have never made it back to his father. But fortunately for him, he ran into some difficult circumstances that led him to return to his father’s house and enabled him to discover a love, grace, and compassion he never thought possible. And … the journey the younger son made—the shift in understanding regarding the nature of the father—is one we all need to make. For we’ve all sinned—we’ve all rebelled against God and experienced the alienation that comes with that. But because Jesus died on a cross—because He took the hit and paid the price—we can return to him, not as the younger son tried to return—as a servant—but as the Father received him—as a valued child.
Jesus said as much: “Unless you become as little children, you cannot enter my kingdom.” When we come as children, we encounter grace. And part of the work of grace is it changes our motives. We relate to God not as a servant or hireling, but as a valued son or daughter who freely chooses for his or her life to become the remuneration of a debt of gratitude. Grace is one of those things we’ll never grasp conceptually or theoretically. The only way to grasp it is to experience it for yourself.