THE
PRODIGAL SON
A man had two sons. His wife was
dead, but he still had these two sons, only two. But two are always better than one. If the
first is away from home, the second is still there; if the younger fall ill,
the older works for two; if one should die
. . . even children die, even the young die, and
sometimes before the old . . . if one of the two should die, there is at least one left who will
care for the poor father.
This man loved his sons, not only because they were of
his blood
but because he had a loving heart. He loved them both, the older and the younger;
perhaps the younger a little more than the older, but so little that he did not realize it
himself. Fathers and mothers often have a weakness for the youngest because he is the smallest, he
is the sweetest, he is the last baby, and after his birth there was never another one, so that
his boyhood, still so recent, so prolonged,
stretches out to the sill of his young manhood like a lingering halo of
tenderness. It seems only yesterday that he was a baby at the breast, that he
took his first stumbling steps, that he sprang up to embrace his father, or sat
astride his knees.
But this man was not partial. He loved his sons like his two eyes and his
two hands, equally dear, one at the left, one at the right, and he saw to it
that both were happy. Nothing lacked for either one.
And yet, even in the case of sons of one father, it
almost never happens that two brothers have the same tastes or even similar
tastes. The older was a serious-minded young man, sedate, settled, who seemed
already grown up and mature, a husband, the head of a family. He respected his
father, but more as master than as father, without any impulsive show of
affection. He worked faithfully, but he was hard and captious with the
servants; he went through all the religious forms, but did not let the poor
come about him. Although the house was full of all possible good things, yet
for them there was never anything. He pretended to love his brother, but his
heart was full of the poison of envy. When people say "to love like a
brother" they say the contrary of what ought to be said. Brothers very
rarely love each other. Jewish history, not to speak of any other, begins with
Cain, goes on with Jacob's cheating Esau, with Joseph sold by his brothers,
with Absalom, who killed Amon, with Solomon who had Adonijah killed: a long
bloody road of jealousy, opposition and betrayal. It would be more correct to
say "a father's love," rather than a brother's.
The second son seemed of another race. He was younger and
was not ashamed to be young. He splashed about and made merry in his youth as
in a warm lake. He had all the desires, the graces, and the defects of his age.
He was fitful with his father. One day he hurt him, the next, put him into the seventh heaven;
he was capable of not saying a word for weeks together and then suddenly
throwing himself on his father's neck in the highest spirits. Good times with his friends
were more to his taste than work. He refused no invitations to drink, stared at women and dressed better
than other people. But he was warmhearted; he gave money to the needy, was
charitable without boasting of it, and never sent away any one unhappy. He was
seldom seen at the synagogue, and for this and for other reasons the middle-class
people of the neighborhood, timid, colorless people, religious and
self-seeking, did not think well of him and advised their sons to have nothing
to do with him. So much the more because the young man wanted to spend more
than his father's resources allowed him—a good man, they said, but weak and
blinded—and because he talked recklessly and said things which were not fitting
for the son of a good family brought up as he ought to be. The little life of
that little country hole was repugnant to him; he said it was better to look
for adventure in rich countries, populous, far away, beyond the mountains and
the sea, where the big, luxurious cities are, with marble buildings and the
best wines and shops full of silk and silver, and women dressed in fine clothes
like queens fresh from aromatic baths who lightly give themselves for a piece
of gold.
There in the country you had to obey orders and work hard,
and there was no outlet for gypsy-like and nomadic tastes. His father, although
he was rich, although he was good, measured out the drachma as if they were
talents. His brother was vexed if he bought a new tunic or came home a little
tipsy; in the family all they knew was the field, the furrow, the pasture, the
stock; a life that was not a life but one long effort.
And one day (he had thought of it many times before, but
had never had the courage to say it) he hardened his heart and his face and
said to his father, "Father, give me
the portion of goods that falleth to me, and I will ask nothing more of
thee." (Luke 15:12)
When the old man heard this, he was deeply hurt, but he
made no answer, and went away into his room that his tears should not be seen,
and for a while neither of them spoke any more of this matter. But the son
suffered, was brooding, and lost all his fervor and liveliness even to the
fresh color of his face. And the father, seeing his son suffer, suffered
himself, and yet suffered more at the thought of
losing him. But finally paternal love conquered self-love. The estimations and
valuations of the property were made, and the father gave to both his sons
their rightful part and kept the rest for himself. The young man lost no time;
he sold what he could not carry away, gathered together a goodly sum, and one
evening, without saying anything to anyone, mounted his fine horse and went
away. The older brother was rather pleased by his departure; the younger would
never have the courage to come back; so now he was the only son, first in
command, and no one would take away the rest of his inheritance from him.
But the father secretly wept many tears, all the tears of
his old wrinkled eyelids. Every line of his old face was washed with tears; his
aged cheeks were soaked with his grieving. His son was gone and he needed all
the love of the remaining son to make up for the sorrow of the separation.
But
he had a hunch that perhaps he had not lost his son forever, his second-born,
that before his death he would have the happiness to kiss him again; and this
idea helped him to endure the loneliness.
In the meantime the young man drew rapidly near to the
rich city of revels where he meant to live. At every turning of the road he
felt of the money-bags which hung at either side of his saddle. He soon arrived
at the city of his desire and began his feasting. It seemed to him that those
thousands of coins would last forever. He rented a fine house, bought five or
six slaves, dressed like a prince, and soon had men and- women
friends who were guests at his table, and who drank his wine till their
stomachs could hold no more. He did not economize with women and chose the most
beautiful the city contained, those who knew how to dance and sing and dress
with magnificence, and undress with grace. No presents seemed too fine or too
rich to please those bodies which abandoned themselves with such voluptuous
softness, and which gave him the wildest, most torturing pleasure. The little provincial
lord from the dull country, repressed
in the most sensual period of his life, now vented his voluptuousness, his love of luxury, in this dangerous life.
Such a life could not go on forever: the money bags of the prodigal son
were not bottomless—no money bags are—and there came a day when there was
neither gold nor silver, and not even copper, but only empty bags of canvas and
leather lying limp and flabby on the brick floor of his room. His friends
disappeared, the women disappeared, and slaves, beds and dining-tables were
sold. With the proceeds he had enough to buy food, but only for a short time.
To complete his misfortune, a famine came on the country and the prodigal son
found himself hungering in the midst of a famine-stricken people. The women had
gone off to other cities where the situation was better; the friends of his
drunken night-revels had hard work to look out for themselves.
The unfortunate man, stripped and destitute, left the
city;
traveling with a lord who was going to the country where he had a fine estate.
He begged him for work, till the lord hired him as swine-herd because he was
young and strong and hardly any one was willing to be a swine-herd. For a Jew
nothing could be a greater affliction than this. Even in Egypt, although
animals were adored there, the only people forbidden to enter the temples were
swine-herds. No father would have given his daughter to wife to a swine-herd
and no man for all the gold in the world would have married the daughter of a
swine-herd.
But the prodigal son had no choice and was forced to lead
the herd of swine out to the pasture. He was given no pay and very little to
eat, because there was only a little for any one; but there was no famine for
the hogs, because they could eat anything. There were plenty of carob beans and
they gorged themselves on those. Their hungry attendant enviously watched the
pink and black animals rooting in the earth, chewing beans and roots, and
longed to fill his stomach with the same stuff and wept, remembering the
abundance of his own home and his festivals in the great city. Sometimes
overcome with hunger he took one of the black bean-husks, from under the
grunting snouts of the pigs, tempering the bitterness of his suffering with
that bland and woody food. And woe to him if his employer had seen him!
His dress was a dirty slave's smock which smelt of
manure, his foot-gear a pair of worn-out sandals scarcely held together with
rushes; on his head a faded hood. His fair young face, tanned by the sun of the
hills, was thin and long, and had taken a sickly color between gray and brown.
Who was wearing now the spotless home-spun clothes, which
he had left in his brother's chests? Where now were the fair silken tunics dyed
purple which he had sold for so little? His father's hired servants were better
dressed than he, and they fared better than he.
Returned to his senses, he said to himself, "How many hired servants of my fathers
have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!" Until now
he had brushed away the idea of going home as soon as it had appeared. How
could he bear to go back in this condition and give in to his brother after
having despised his home, after having made his father weep? To return without
a garment, unshod, without a penny, without the ring—the sign of
liberty—uncomely, disfigured by this famished slavery, stinking and
contaminated by this abominable trade, to show that the wise old neighbors were
right, that his serious-minded brother was right, to bow himself at the knee of
the old man whom he had left without a greeting, to return with disapproval as
a ragged fellow to the spot from which he had departed as a king! To come back
to the soup-plate
into which he had spit—into a house which contained nothing of his!
No, there was something of his always in his home, his
father! If he belonged to his father, his father belonged also to him. He was
his creation, made of his flesh, issued from his seed in a moment of love.
Though hurt, his father would never drive away his own flesh and blood. If he
would not take him back as son, at least he would take him back as a hired
servant, as he would any stranger, like a man born of another father. "I will arise and go to my father, and
will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, And am
no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired
servants." (Luke 15:18) I do not come back as son but as servant,
as a worker, and I do not ask love from you, for I have
no more right to that, but only a little bread from your kitchen.
And the young man gave back the hogs to his master, and
went towards his own land. He begged a piece of bread from the country people,
and wept salt tears as he ate this bread of pity and charity in the shadow of
the sycamores. His sore and blistered feet could scarcely carry him. He was
barefoot now, but his faith in forgiveness led him homeward step by step.
And finally one day at noon he arrived in sight of his
father's house; but he did not dare to knock, or to call any one, or to go in.
He hung around outside to see if anyone would come out. And behold, his father
appeared on the threshold. His son was no longer the same, was changed, but the
eyes of a father even dimmed by weeping could not fail to recognize him. He ran
towards him and caught him to his breast, and kissed him and kissed him again,
and could not stop from pressing his pale, old lips on that ravaged face, on
those eyes whose expression was altered but still beautiful, on that hair,
dusty but still waving and soft, on that flesh that was his own.
The son, covered with confusion and deeply moved, did not
know how to respond to these kisses, and as soon as he could free himself from
his father's arms he threw himself on the ground and repeated tremulously the
speech he had prepared. "Father, I
have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called
thy son." (Vs. 21)
But if the young man had brought himself to the point of
refusing the name of son, the old man never felt himself more father than at
this moment; he seemed to become a father for a second time, and without even
answering, with his eyes still clouded and soft, but with the ringing voice of
his best days, he called to the servants:
"Bring forth the best robe, and put it on
him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet."
(Vs. 22)
The
son of the master should not return home wretchedly dressed like a beggar. The
finest garment should be given him, new shoes, a ring on his finger, and the
servants must wait on him because he, too, is a master.
"And bring hither the
fatted calf; and kill it, and let us eat and be merry: For this my son was
dead, and is alive again; he was lost, and is found." (Vs. 23)
The fatted calf was kept in reserve for great feast days:
but what festival can be greater for me than this one? I had wept for my son as
dead and here he is alive with me. I had lost him in the world and the world
has delivered him back to me. He was far away and now is with me, he was a
beggar at the doors of strange houses, and now is master in his own house; he
was famished and, now he shall be served with a banquet at his own table.
And the servants obeyed him and the calf was killed,
skinned, cut up and put to cook. The oldest wine was taken from the
wine-cellar, and the finest room was prepared for the dinner in celebration of
the return. Servants went to call his father's friends and others went to
summon musicians, that there should be music. And when everything was ready,
when the son had been bathed, and his father had kissed him many times
more—almost as if to assure himself with his lips that his true son was there
with him and it was not the vision of a dream—they commenced the banquet, the
wines were mixed and the musicians accompanied the songs of joy.
The older son was in the field, working, and in the
evening when he came back and was near to the house he heard shouts and
stampings and clapping of hands, and the footsteps of dancers. And he could not
understand. "Whatever can have
happened? Perhaps my father has gone crazy or perhaps a wedding procession has
arrived unexpectedly at our house."
Disliking noise and new faces, he would not enter and see
for himself what it was. But he called to a boy coming out of the house and
asked him what all that clatter was.
"Thy brother is come; and thy father hath
killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound."
(Vs. 27)
These
words were like a thrust at his heart. He turned pale, not with pleasure, but
with rage and jealousy. The old envy boiled
up inside. It seemed to him that he had all the right on his side, and he would
not go into the house, but stayed outside, angry.
Then his father went out and entreated him: "Come, for your brother has come back
and has asked after you, and will be glad to see you, and we will feast
together."
But the serious-minded young man could not contain
himself, and for the first time in his life ventured to reprove his father to
his face.
"Lo, these many
years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment; yet
thou never gayest me a kid that I might make merry with my friends: But as soon
as this thy son was come, which hath devoured thy living with harlots, thou
hast killed for him the fatted calf." (Vs. 29)
With these few words he discloses all the shame of his
soul hidden until then under the Pharisaical cloak of good behavior. He
reproaches his father with his own obedience; he reproaches him with his greed.
"You have never given me even a
kid"—and he reproaches him, he, a loveless son, for being a too-loving
father. "This thy son." He
does not say "brother." His
father may recognize him as son, but he will not recognize him as brother. "He hath devoured thy living with
harlots. Money that was not his, with women that were not his; while I stayed
with thee sweating on thy fields with no recompense."
But his father pardoned this son, as he did the other son.
"Son, thou art ever with me, and all
that I have is thine. It was meet that we should make merry, and be glad; for
this thy brother was dead, and is alive again; and was lost, and is
found."
The father is sure that these words will be enough to
silence the other. "He was dead and
is alive again, was lost and is found. What other reasons can be needed and
what other reasons can be better than these—grant that he has done what he has
done, that he has spent my money on women; he has dissipated as much as he
could; he left me without a greeting; he left me to weep. He could have done
worse than that and still would have been my son. He could have stolen on the
streets, could have murdered the guiltless, he could have offended me even
more, but I never could forget that he is my son, my own blood. He was gone and
has returned, was disappeared and has reappeared, was lost and is found, was
dead and is alive again. This is enough for me and to celebrate this miracle a
fatted calf seems little to me. Thou hast never left me, I always enjoyed thee,
and all my kids are thine if thou asketh for them; thou hast eaten every day at
my table; but he was gone for so many days and weeks and months! I saw him only
in my dreams; he has not eaten a single piece of bread with me in all that
time. Have I not the right to triumph at least this day?"
Jesus stopped here; He did not go on with His story. There
was no need of that, the meaning of the parable is clear with no additions. But
no story—after that of Joseph—that ever came from human lips is more beautiful
than this one or ever touched more deeply the hearts of men. Interpreters are
free to comment and explain that the prodigal son is the new man purified by
the experience of grief, and the older son, the Pharisee who observes the old
law but does not know love. Or else that the older son is the Jewish people who
do not understand the love of the Father welcoming the pagan, although he had
wallowed in the foul loves of paganism and had lived in the company of swine.
Jesus was no maker of riddles. He Himself says expressly
that the meaning of this and similar parables is: "More joy shall be in Heaven over one sinner who repents than over
all the righteous" who vaunt themselves in their false righteousness;
than for all the pure who are proud of their external purity; than for all the
zealots who hide the aridity of their hearts by their apparent respect for the
law.
The truly righteous will be received in the Kingdom, but
no one ever doubted them, they have made no one tremble and suffer and there is
no need to rejoice; but for him who has been near perdition, which has gone
through deep sufferings to make himself a new soul, to overcome his bestiality,
who merits his place in the Kingdom the more because he
has had to deny all his past to obtain it, for him songs of triumph shall
arise.
"What man of you
having an hundred sheep, if he lose one of them, doth not leave the ninety and
nine in the wilderness, and go after that which is lost, until he find it? And
when he hath found it, he layeth it on his shoulders, rejoicing. And when he
cometh home, he calleth together his friends and neighbors, saying unto them,
Rejoice with me; for I have found my sheep which was lost." (Luke 15:4)
Either what woman having ten pieces of silver, if she lose
one piece, doth not light a candle, and sweep the house, and seek diligently
till she find it? And when she hath found it she calleth her friends and her
neighbors together, saying, "Rejoice
with me; for I have found the piece which I had lost."
And
what is a sheep compared to a son returned to life, to a man saved? And of what
value is a piece of silver compared to one astray, who finds holiness again?
