Fr Patrick Hederman OSB
The Prodigal Son
One thing we all have in common: we were born into a family of one kind or another. For some this was a blessing; for others the blessing was mixed; for many it was a disaster. Although we all have this one thing in common, it worked out differently in every case. Although you and I are family people, yours and mine were like chalk and cheese, tomahawks or SMGs. It depended on who our parents were or are, where we came in the family, how many of us there were, and above all what were they like? We choose our friends, as they say, but we’re stuck with Mum and Dad and the rest of them. No question of returned goods relief, no chance of an exchange or even a refund.
A French philosopher, Lachelier woke up one morning at the age of 26
saying to himself: ‘I realise today that I am the son of a man and a woman; that disappoints me; I thought I was a little more than that.’
Every family has sibling rivalry and inexplicable favouritism, real or
imagined. The Bible is full of it: Cain and Abel, Sarah and Hagar, Esau and Jacob, Daddy’s pet or Mummy’s boy, a black sheep and a blue-eyed wonder.
The feature film in this morning’s Gospel is a classic example: the
feckless spendthrift second son and the stalwart, steadfast, elder brother, always first in the class; never made a mistake in his life. And which one is Daddy’s favourite? You bet: the cheeky little waster who never did a day’s work in his life; who travelled the world hitting all the hot-spots, thinking of nothing and nobody except himself having the time of his life. Now we all know that there is great rejoicing in heaven when this idiot comes to his senses, picks himself up out of the pig-sty, dresses himself down and returns to his senses: three cheers for the Prodigal son!
But meanwhile, back on the ranch, what about me? Here I am, always
dependable, always loyal, always to hand. I stayed at home; I looked after the parents; I kept the family business going; I worked without reward or recognition, day and night, year in year out, come rain come shine. And what happens? The waster comes home, broke and bleary-eyed from debauch; poor little darling, worn out and exhausted from entertaining himself, on his last legs from living it up. And what do they do? Throw a party – invite all his well- wishers, his unbearable class-mates, his stockpile of girlfriends – a champagne barbecue to welcome him home.
What’s going to happen the next day? I’ll be up at dawn milking the
cows; he’ll be having breakfast in bed. Not a word of reproach, not a hint of disapproval: and don’t give me all that nonsense about how much I’m appreciated deep down, for my strong silent presence over the years, backbone of the family, my resolute reliability: I’m pissed off up to here; I’m riven with resentment; I’m ready to throttle him . . .
Now we can certainly see this point of view and I’m sure you can too:
but, unfortunately, it seems that at least one of the points of the parable is this: ‘Get over it baby, cop yourself on: if all your hard work, your duty-bound punctiliousness, your conscientious fulfilment of every tedious task that no one else will do; if all this has turned you into a bitter and resentful knit-picking judge of others, then all that so-called virtue is actually a toxic infection, paralysing not only you yourself but everyone else around you. So, get off the treadmill, unwind the whine machine, get yourself a life. The prodigal son is preferable to the po-faced perfectionist, the fault-finding sourpuss, the bellyaching grouch. So, shove that down your windpipe and ‘woke’ it, as they say these days!