At Mass this past weekend, we heard the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
You know how it goes: A man has two sons. One leaves; the other stays. One disregards the rules; the other lives by them. One gets a big party after he finds his way home; the other is bitter and jealous, for though he followed every rule he didn’t get what he thought he was owed.
The younger son. The older son. The prodigal and the perfectionist. We’re encouraged to find ourselves in one of these two characters; we’re reminded that, in truth, there’s a bit of both in each of us.
Recognizing this reality and plumbing its depths gives us insight for our own spiritual journeys. When am I being invited to turn back to God? When do I allow bitterness to drown out God’s loving voice?
But here’s the thing: There’s another character. We’re tempted to disregard the father. “That’s God, of course,” we say. “God always welcomes me home. God is always eager to delight, to throw a party, to share God’s own abundance.” Consequently, the father is not a character we’re often encouraged to identify with.
The beloved spiritual writer Fr. Henri Nouwen, in his classic text, “The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming,” challenges us to become the father.
“The father of the prodigal son is not concerned about himself,” Nouwen writes. “His long-suffering life has emptied him of his desires to keep in control of things” (128).
I’m struck by the image Nouwen conjures. The father has let go of the need to control. He knows he can’t control what his younger son does; he knows he can’t control how his older son feels. Instead of allowing these warring energies to deplete him, to leave him bitter and aloof, the father instead leans in.
He’s not battered about by these divergent winds. He watches and waits and (one imagines) prays. He keeps vigil. Most importantly, he keeps the light on; he never ceases to maintain a disposition of humble hospitality. The father never stops giving, never stops making himself available — even and especially when he’s left all alone.
“Can I give without wanting anything in return, love without putting any conditions on my love?” Nouwen asks. “Considering my immense need for human recognition and affection, I realize that it will be a lifelong struggle.” I wonder how many of us resonate with these words.
We all know someone who has disappointed us, who has made or continues to make decisions we disagree with, who reacts in anger and envy and inadvertently undermines relationships. We know these people. We are, at times, these people.
And that’s why becoming the father is an important stop on our spiritual journey. We can not control others. All we can do is invite. All we can do is keep the light on. All we can do is turn in radical, humble hospitality.
I invite you to consider two Ignatian practices this week.
First, put yourself in that parable. Become the father; take on that mantle. What control do you need to surrender? Who do you need to embrace with open hands rather than closed fists?
Second, consider Ignatius’ invitation to cultivate indifference. Is that not what the father in the parable ultimately displays? What do you need to let go of as we approach Easter?
