Fathers and Sons

There was a father who had two sons.  One son behaved respectfully, never disagreeing with his father, always deferential. When his father would say, “When you use the car, don’t leave an empty gas tank for the next person.  Fill it up, please,” this son would say, “Sure dad, I will.”  But he never did.  The other son was just plain rude.  He would say to his father, “That’s a stupid rule to have!  It’s a ridiculously petty thing to care about, and I don’t know why it matters to you.”  But he never left an empty tank.  He always filled it.  Which was the good son?  Which son was better?

There was a father who had two sons.  When they were grown, one son stayed at home with his father and cared for him in his old age, took care of the house so his father could remain there.  He possessed a sense of duty that served him and his father well.  But he never told his father he loved him – with words or any other way.  The other son left home and moved to another state where he started a career and a family.  He visited the father rarely and didn’t do the little odd jobs that needed doing when he did come back.  But he called his father every week and listened to his stories and at the end of every phone call he would say to his father “I love you.”  Which was the good son?  Which son was better?

There was a father with two sons.  One went to his father and made his demands.  He would say to his father, “You owe me.”  The other son never asked for a thing and never imagined that he was owed a thing in this life by his father. Or anyone. But he never gave him a thing either.  His philosophy of life was, “Everything I am I did myself.  Everything I have I got myself.  I look out for Number One, like everyone does, and I don’t owe anyone a single things.”  Which son was the good son?  Which son was better?

These are the kinds questions asked by such stories of fathers and sons.  They are either/or stories. Which one is right, which one is wrong?  Who wins and who loses?  These are familiar questions, because we often do look at things in dichotomous terms:  either/or, wrong/right, in/out, black/white. Many things in life are like that: you can either have this or that. You can do this or you can do that.  One is right and the other is wrong.  Make a choice, and wonder whether you chose well.  Sometimes you know right away, sometimes you never find out.

I grew up in a family of four sisters and I can say I honestly never knew if either of my parents had a favorite.  I think my sisters would have to say the same.  But that never stopped us from thinking about it and making guesses.  There must have been one. They must have had a favorite.

Kim and I have four children ourselves.  We don’t make a big deal about our wedding anniversary, but there was one year when three of the four of them gave us a card. The other one treated us to an anniversary dinner with champagne; and her friends said to her, “You are so favorite child right now.”

Scott Avett sings a beautiful song about family love,

It’s not easy, though, to convince your children that your love for each of them is equally strong; that you love each of them with as much love as you have; that each one of your children gets all of your love. Because how is that even possible?  How can you give everything away more than once?

There was a father with two sons.  One son fell in with a bad crowd and walked through life under a black cloud.  He abused alcohol and drugs, and when he hit the bottom, his father gathered him in and sent him to the best rehab he could afford.  And when he was strong again, his father helped him get back on his feet.  The other son sailed through the days steadily moving toward his goals with barely a hitch.  The father did very little for him other than to proudly watch him grow into a man.  Which son did the father love the most?

That’s not the kind of question that can be answered, is it?

There was a father who had two sons.  One day the younger son dropped the plow and walked in from the field.  He said to his father, “I can’t stay here on the farm, and I can’t wait until you die to get what’s coming to me.  Give me my inheritance now, old man, so I can go out and live my life.”  The father divided his estate, then, according to the custom, and gave this son one third of his wealth, and watched him walk away with it.

The older son also received his share of the estate; a double share, as was the custom.  And he said nothing.  He watched his younger brother walk away. And he watched his father watch; he watched his father’s enormous grief.  And the following day, and the day after that, he worked.  And he said nothing.

Time went by and life went on.  The younger son went out and had a ball.  He threw lots of parties and gathered around him a new group of super cool friends…until the money ran out.  Then no more parties and no more friends.  He found himself homeless and hungry and desperate.  The only work he could find was the most degrading kind of work imaginable.  This son had hit rock bottom.

When times are good we don’t think much about the ones who can help us, but when times are bad we do.  While he had probably not given him a thought all the while he was flying high, now this son thought about his father … and he missed him.  He wanted nothing more than to go home where he might be safe and provided for.  It was different now than it was before, of course.  He didn’t think about being owed anything from his father.  But he did think about – and hope for – a second chance.

So he went home with a prepared speech to make the best possible impression on his father and hopefully convince him that he would be worth offering a second chance.

But his father saw him coming and ambushed him with love before he even had a chance to give his practiced speech.  His father called out to the servants:  bring the finest robe that we might clothe him in it; bring the signet ring that he might wear it on his finger, showing all the world who he is, where he belongs.  Make a feast, let’s celebrate for we have so much to be joyful about.

And now, at last, we hear from the older son, the one who had kept his nose to the grindstone and eyes to the ground.  “What’s this about a party?  Is there something we are celebrating?  Is there something I should be happy about?”  When he hears that it’s about the return of his long-lost brother – the one who took the money and ran – this older brother finally had an emotion.

You know, during this season of penitence and preparation, did you ever have the thought: Maybe I could give up resentment for Lent.  I would really like to, but I’m not sure how one would go about doing that.  It’s not quite like giving up coffee or chocolate. It’s a bit trickier, because it’s a feeling that surges up in you from out of nowhere, seemingly, and it overwhelms you.  It invades all your thoughts and colors all your feelings and probably your actions too. Resentment can eat you up.  It’s like poison.

Resentment was the poison in this older brother’s heart that day when his younger brother returned. But, even worse, it was probably a poison that had been harboring there for years, largely unnoticed.  He had always done what he was supposed to do, while this younger son had abandoned his responsibilities and walked away.  Who was the better son?  He had never crossed his father or even asked for a single thing, while this younger son had demanded the father give away all that he had to his sons.  Day in and day out he had watched his father missing that younger son, feeling the empty place left by this younger son – all the while he was still there, working his fields, sharing his table.  Who was the better son?

What kind of a man was this father of his, anyway? How stupid was he?  It’s not rocket science:  one son was good; one son was bad.  Why couldn’t his father see that?

Why couldn’t he see that?

This father, like many fathers, hopes that someday his children can understand that the parent’s love is not a win-lose, either-or commodity.  There is enough and still more.  You can give it all away – every bit of it – again and again and again.

This father might say:  I can love you with my whole heart and I can also love you with my whole heart – this is not a mathematical problem.  Love is not like that.

Maybe, someday, all of this father’s children – every one of us – will get it.  God’s love is abundant and free.  Let it wash away the poisons that corrode your heart.  Abide in God’s love.  It’s where you belong.