The Universal Parable
The remarkable thing about the Bible is that its stories are timeless and universal, and also very, very intimate. From Genesis onward, the insightful reader sees both the great, sweeping, majestic human condition, and his own, mirrored in the men and women of the scriptural account.
In compiling the Holy Book, though using fallible men to do so, the Holy Spirit has woven a miraculously personal tapestry of human life. Only the most unseeing individual can progress far in the Bible without eventually standing back to gaze with wonder at that tapestry, realizing that the emerging portrait being woven into the fabric . . . alongside the face of the Lord . . . is his or her own countenance and spiritual character. Nowhere do we find this personal tapestry more clearly than in the Gospels.
The Gospels paint a picture of you and me beside that of the Man whose life story they tell.
Though on the surface the Gospels appear to be a biographical account of Jesus Christ, at a more profound level they are intended to prompt a far deeper response than a typical biography. The Gospels tell two stories. They illuminate both the character of Jesus and that of his listener.
At every point this dual story is active. Response to Jesus is everything—whether it be the response of James and John, Peter and Andrew, the crowd, the rich young ruler, the Pharisees, children, blind men, prostitutes, tax collectors, kings, prophets, wise men, or shepherds.
Jesus continually looks into the eyes of his listener and says, “This story, this teaching, this principle, this parable, this truth is about you as much as it is about me. What will you do? You must in some way acknowledge what I say, who I am, and my Father’s claim upon you. In short . . . you must follow me or turn your back and walk away. Neutrality is not possible. You must respond.”
I intentionally use the word “listener” in the singular. Jesus always gazes into one set of eyes at a time. Jesus spoke to crowds, to groups of Pharisees, to the twelve, to the seventy. But he always addressed each individual as if he or she were the only one present. That is why I say the scriptural account is a tapestry of the Lord’s face and mine and yours . . . as if we are the only persons in the universe. It is the story of my personal response—as I become that listener—to the Lord’s teachings, to his challenges, and to his claim upon me.
As I read of him walking beside the Sea of Galilee and approaching the sons of Zebedee, it is not primarily to them he speaks at that moment. The words “Follow me,” in that timeless and universally intimate eternal now, are intended for only me. James and John have already made their decision. Now it is my turn. Will I leave my nets and follow him? That is the eternally significant question.
No abstractions clutter the Gospels. The four books penned by Matthew, Mark, Luke, and John are, of course, important literary and historical documents—probably the most significant historical documents ever written. But they are not primarily historical. Their first purpose is not to record history but to elicit response. At the core they are personal documents.
I repeat—response is everything. Jesus lived, Jesus taught, Jesus died . . . to be responded to. If I read the words “Follow me” as spoken only to James and John or Peter and Andrew or the rich young ruler, as detached historical encounters having little immediate bearing upon me, the life of Jesus itself loses its power in my life altogether. It is either my story, my response . . . or it is nothing.
Where do I take my place in the gospel drama?
Am I one of the seventy? Do I stand watching and listening among the crowd? Am I a silent and unresponsive observer of the miracles who walks away thinking to myself, “Hmm . . . interesting,” but who never appropriates that miracle of new life for myself? Am I an angry Pharisee? Am I a Thomas full of questions, a Nicodemus who comes by night, a Martha who fusses, or perhaps the rich young ruler, who, when confronted eye to eye with the challenge of following, sadly turns and walks away?
Where do you find yourself in the gospel drama?
Within the Gospels this principle of personal response is no more vivid than in how we relate to the parables. Do we see our own faces in those seemingly simple stories? If not, we have missed their life-changing import. We have not beheld the gospel tapestry in its full yet very subtle and weakness-exposing glory. Its colors and textures shift and change in the light, and must be turned just so for the images being fashioned by the divine hand to be seen for what they are. It is a tapestry-portrait of intricate colors and blends, whose figures and representations often do not reveal themselves at first glance. As Jesus tells each and every parable, he holds up a mirror in which I am intended to see my own face. That is the subtlety of the tapestry-in-progress.
We are all well familiar with the parable we call “the prodigal son,” found in Luke 15:11–31. I call it the universal parable. I am convinced that it represents a microscopic view of the entire human drama on earth. We have a good, prosperous, and benevolent Father, from whose loving presence we have strayed. It happened in the garden with Adam and Eve. It happens with every man and woman who has ever lived. We leave our Father’s home. We leave the garden life he intended for us, wandering from his embrace, abandoning our trust in his goodness, disobeying his commands, squandering our inheritance as his sons and daughters. Call it sin—which it is. Call it disobedience—which it is. Call it rebellion—which it is. Or say simply that we have turned away from the loving care of our Creator-Father. All these descriptions of our condition are appropriate and true. We are a prodigal humanity.
In actual human lives such as yours or mine, not every individual is a wicked and visibly rebellious person. There are axe murderers and prostitutes and good churchmen and -women. Yet whatever the individual characteristics of the far countries to which we each go, we are all prodigals together. Our universal straying, therefore, takes many forms—from outright rebellion and disobedience against God, to casual independence and unintentional drift. We want our inheritance, which is life, but we want it apart from him. We do not want to live out that life in our Father’s house. We are just like the prodigal son. The underlying prodigal-mistake to which all succumb is a universal one: We think it is possible to create a satisfying life apart from the God who created us, or if we do include him in our calculations we do so on our own terms, keeping his expectations and demands at a minimum. In the end this lethal assumption is always revealed for the fallacy it is. All must eventually do what the prodigal did—arise and return to our Father.
And what do we find when we return? That our Father’s goodness and love and grace and forgiveness are boundless in open-armed embrace. He has been waiting for us all along! Indeed, he has been watching for us—believing we would return. He is waiting to run out and greet us with rejoicing even before we are all the way back. That is the kind of Father we have. Nowhere do we see God himself so succinctly and wonderfully characterized as in the father of the prodigal in Luke fifteen.
The prodigal parable is universal for another reason. Most men and women, especially in today’s world, find themselves living out one or another aspect of this story within their own family relationships. When I say, as I did earlier, that we all find ourselves in the Gospels, I think we also all find ourselves within this one parable—as a father, a mother, an elder brother, as one of the servants, possibly as a neighbor or cousin or uncle or aunt, as one of the prodigal’s friends in the far country to which he sojourned and where he gradually squandered his inheritance . . . or as the prodigal himself.
Do you know anyone at this moment who is estranged from mother or father? Then you are living out, right now, a role within this parable. And it may be that you will be called upon to take an active part in the unfolding drama before it reaches its conclusion.
Never has the story been so heartbreakingly applicable within Christian families as it seems to be during these times in which we live. The assault upon the institution of the family has rarely been so unrelenting and severe. That assault is coming precisely at the point where young people are the most vulnerable—in the transitional stage between childhood and adulthood. They are encouraged and goaded by every element of society to become antagonistic toward, lose their trust in, and often break off their relationship with their parents completely. Scarcely does a family exist without scars from the battle.
To understand the complexities of that battle, and to be encouraged and energized to give God thanks in the midst of it, I think we profit enormously by reading afresh the parable of the prodigal, with the gospel mirror held up to our own souls. In some cases this prompts the conviction of the son to arise and return. In others it allows the parental heartbreak to accomplish its divine purpose. To others it gives great hope.
Often the complexities and prayerful struggles within the parable are not apprehended at first glance. It takes time, and often personal experience, to delve beneath the surface to gain some of the deeper insights and ask some of the more difficult questions prompted by the story. What, for example, was the role of the prodigal’s mother during the time her son was away? How did her mother-heart bear up under the season of waiting? And how long was the prodigal away—a year . . . ten years? Was there contact with him during that time? Did he write home and ask for more money once his inheritance ran out? Did his mother ever send him a care package? Was there communication between father and son prior to that tearful meeting on the road?
I find these questions not only fascinating, but also of huge practical consequence for those suffering through painful and fragmented relationships. In attempting to apply the truths of Luke fifteen, prodigalized families face a wide range of questions not specifically addressed in the biblical account. What ought to be a father’s or mother’s response if the homecoming is not accompanied by true repentance? What does a parent do if the visit is not for the purpose of reconciliation at all but is self motivated and ends with the question, “Dad, I need some money.” What if the angry prodigal comes home simply because there is no place else to go?
When does one kill the fatted calf and rejoice at the homecoming? What might be the adverse effect of celebrating prematurely? What is the nature of the inheritance? Is it always financial? Are there other “inheritances” which today’s prodigals squander?
What about “prodigals” who never actually leave home, whose rebellion is lived out right under the parental roof? How do parents in such circumstances carry themselves? What about those whose rebellion against parental authority is obscured by an immature, self-righteous form of seeming spirituality which looks down on their parents rather than holding them in honor and esteem? Many prodigals go through life and never see their own face in the mirror when they read Luke fifteen, and thus never recognize themselves as prodigals at all.
What about interfering relatives, grandparents, siblings, and friends who justify the actions of the prodigal and subtly blame the parents for family division, preventing the “husks of the swine” to accomplish their chastening and redeeming work? What about those who hide behind the curtain of neutrality, not wanting to “take sides” in a family dispute? These are they who never recognize that when Jesus told the parable there was a true right and a true wrong, and that while forgiveness was called for from the parental heart, it was the prodigal from whom repentance was required.
What about those “Job’s counselors” who sow seeds of dissatisfaction, discontent, and brooding accusation, those who call themselves the prodigal’s friends, but who are in fact purveyors of the modern psychology of guilt-free nonaccountability? They want to be accepting, noncritical. These are they who dismiss any need on the prodigal’s part to face with tearful remorse what is genuine wrongdoing and sin. These so-called friends can be the most damaging of all, excusing rather than confronting, shifting blame, justifying, speaking subtle and character-damaging lies into the prodigal’s receptive ear: “They don’t understand . . . it was right for you to do what you did . . . you have to shed your youth and be who you are . . . it is right and normal to stand up for your individuality and independence . . . you have to be yourself, not what they expect you to be . . . they were controlling and you were right to break free. . . .” Such fleshly evasions prevent rather than exhort toward wholeness.
Homecoming is impossible as long as the Self rules, as it surely does in these blame-shifting and self-justifying excuses which are in the very societal air we breathe. And as long as homecoming is delayed, for just that long is mature character likewise prevented.
At root I find intriguing the simple question why? Why did the one son go and the one stay home? Why do young people raised in the same environment respond to their circumstances so differently? Why do young people raised in loving and caring environments find it necessary to rebel against them?
These and a host of other extremely difficult questions are faced every day by the families of prodigals—questions that test the limits of their faith and endurance. In this age when personal accountability is such an odious concept in the world’s eyes, and when intolerance, anger, and blame toward parents are the last things young people are encouraged to face and repent of—even by Christian peers, pastors, youth leaders, mentors, and friends—it is becoming sadly more and more rare that full reconciliation occurs in most families. All too few Christian teachers, pastors, and counselors are calling upon young people to repent for their prodigal hearts.
Our society expects us to “live with our differences” rather than seek biblical solutions for broken relationships. The prodigal story, therefore, as familiar as it is to most of us, is being lived out to its reconciliatory and healing climax less and less with each passing year.
We ought not underestimate each of our own vital roles in the ongoing drama of this parable. There are prodigals around us at every moment. They are in every crowd, every Bible study, every prayer group, every school class, walking beside us on the sidewalk, standing in line with us at the bank or market. Every congregation every Sunday is filled with them.
But the prodigals among us—and you may be one of them, as may be your pastor, your teacher, your brother or sister or best friend—are not always dressed in rags and eating with pigs. Prodigals can be respectably clothed and comport themselves as anything but what they are. Church activities and spiritual groups and cliques can be well-disguised far more easily than one might think. Many prodigals are well-groomed behind smiling facades of self-sufficiency and independence.
Yet there they are in our midst. And too few of us are urging them toward the most important business of their lives—home-going.
Here is an enormous truth: The door into knowing the Father’s heart, the door into intimacy with God our Creator, often opens first toward one’s earthly parents. Your opportunity is to be a true friend to the prodigals you encounter—not one who justifies and excuses them in their quiet pride and self-reliant alienation. You who understand the import of this parable, you can be the best friend it is possible for a prodigal to have. You can help turn their hearts toward home.
There is an order to be observed. God gave us parents so that we would learn to love, honor, obey, and trust him. Such is the underlying lesson in the classroom of that earthly relationship. It is a school which cannot be bypassed. Where a wrong attitude exists toward a parent, that same attitude will inevitably lie as an unresolved irritant and inhibition to growth in one’s relationship with God. It is simple cause and effect in the spiritual realm. Secretly harbored anger, bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness—no matter how far shoved into the subconscious—will forever prevent the deepest intimacy with God . . . until they are held up to the light and relinquished.
Be a friend to the prodigal.
Hold up the mirror of accountability.
Be the Lord’s ally and partner for the reconciliation of the world, by urging, exhorting, and encouraging toward homecoming.
Such is among the reasons for this series—to explore some of these complex but vitally timely issues and challenges in more depth than usual. Especially is it my hope to prompt reflection and prayer in two areas, one on each side of the generational fence:
First, to explore the grief and suffering of the father and mother during what must surely be one of the greatest trials of life. I hope this will enable us to come more personally to grips with the opportunity they have to learn to thankfully partake of that waiting, prayerful, hopeful, tearful, agonizing aspect of the divine Fatherhood.
And second, to explore what it means to “go home,” and how to do so fully and completely, so that the heart of the prodigal is truly made whole. I find myself intrigued by this process, wherever and in whatever circumstances a prodigal finds himself—and sometimes it is a long process which must come in slow stages and by infinitesimal degrees—of awakening to the necessity of at last saying, “I will arise and go to my Father.”
Therefore, as interesting, even compelling, as may be many of the other personalities in this saga, especially those of Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford, this will always in a foundational way be Amanda’s story.
Real-life circumstances, however, are unpredictable. It is a wise man or woman who when confronted by some duty or necessity fulfills it quickly. Delay can be costly. Healing can occur within a single heart, and God will use such to fulfill his purposes. But in terms of earthly relationships, reconciliation is often sought too late. A lifetime of grief must then be borne which might have been prevented had the promptings toward awakening been heeded earlier.
Homecoming ought never be put off.
One final personal note concerning the location of the fictional Chalet of Hope. The high mountain air in that region is just as described—at least I found it so. I have never forgotten the overpowering sense of wondrous quiet when standing at Männlichen overlooking the awe-inspiring drop of more than 4,700 feet straight down into the valley of Lauterbrunnen. Since that moment I have always wanted to set a story there.
It was to those same high Alps that George MacDonald traveled in 1865. I like to imagine him standing at that very spot and feeling similar sensations. Very soon thereafter he used the region as a backdrop to recount the quickening of spiritual consciousness in one of his most memorable characters, Robert Falconer. It was also very near this setting where Hannah Hurnard received the inspiration for and wrote Hinds’ Feet on High Places.
It seemed fitting somehow that Amanda likewise be given an opportunity to breathe that cleansing air, to see what it might be able to accomplish toward her dawning awakening.