The Forgiving Father
What would you have done? Perhaps you think me foolish. Perhaps I am, but they say love makes fools of us all. And I do love my two sons more than anything else in the world.
A great fortune I intended to leave him. Everything that I had worked so hard for I wanted to be his so that his future would be secure. In life I shared with him all that I was; in death I wanted to share all that I had. What a legacy I had hoped to bequeath him! My fortune, yes, but more . . . a family name: honored and respected. A name that stood for something. And values . . . like kindness and generosity, a love of what is right and good and decent, and a wisdom that finds its origin more in the heart than in the mind. All this I had hoped he would be heir to. I prayed that these things would have an even greater value to him than gold and silver.
Sure I was devastated that day when he came to me and demanded his share of the inheritance. It wasn’t so much the money, but the fact that he wanted to leave, to separate himself from me . . . that’s what hurt the most. He was going to get the money eventually anyway; couldn’t he wait? It was as if he were saying that my fortune was more important to him than I was to him. Since he was going to inherit it at my death anyway, it was as if he was telling me that my life and my love did not have value to him, only my money.
I guess I could have said no. I could have refused to give him the inheritance. In my heart, I knew he wasn’t quite ready for the responsibility that comes with such great wealth. But how could I hold him back? Sometimes you just have to let go. My heart was to the point of breaking as I saw him pass from my sight as he went off to pursue his own pleasure. As he left, my prayer was with him: “May you be as rich in virtue and wisdom, my son, as you are in gold and silver. And when there is nothing else, know that you will always be rich in my love.”
Oh I heard the reports: the gambling . . . the drinking . . . the prostitutes. I heard it all. It wasn’t so much the squandering of his life’s fortune that hurt so much, it was the absolute rejection of everything I hold dear, the values that I tried to impart to him throughout his life. How could he reject everything I have stood for all my life? I was so deeply hurt, but I thought how much he must be hurting now after hitting rock bottom. How humiliating it must have been for him to be tending swine on that farm, an animal considered so low, so dirty, so despicable by my people that, under our law, we are forbidden to eat of its flesh.
What should I do, I wondered. Should I forget him as if he were dead to me? Should I perhaps go to him and force him to come home? No, I believed in him. All I could do was hope that he believed in me. I had faith in him that he would somehow see the error of his ways and would reject the sinful lifestyle that he had taken on. At the same time, I prayed that he would feel secure enough in my love for him to know that my forgiveness was his for the asking. And so, I climbed a high hill top every evening. With every sunset, I hoped to catch a glimpse of my returning son. I waited. And I waited. And I waited.
Nothing could have prepared me for our reunion. I had played the scene over and over in my mind. What would he say? What would I say? Although I had played the scene over and over, time and time again in my imagination, I never imagined I would react as I actually did. When I caught sight of him a long way off, I was so overcome with emotion that I totally lost myself and ran to him. I was moved to tears when I drew closer. Words choked in my throat and I could say nothing. The well-rehearsed speeches were gone from my mind. Nothing I could possible say to him anyway could possibly convey my joy. And so, I let my tears and my embrace do the talking for me.
Finally, he broke from my embrace and through his tears said, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. O no longer deserve to be called your son. Treat me as you would one of your servants.” How difficult it must have been for him to admit to himself he was wrong – how much harder it must have been for him to admit it to me! It must have been difficult for him to say, “I’m sorry.” How much easier for me to say, “You’re forgiven.” As my riches were his, so too my love and my forgiveness was his.
I called to one of my servants, “Sandals on his feet!” – only slaves are barefoot and he is not my slave but my son! . . . “A ring for his finger!” - a signet ring with the family seal, for he has come home and is once again a member of my family! . . . “Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him! Take the fatted calf and slaughter it! Let us celebrate with a feast, for this son of mine was dead, and has back to life; he was lost and now he has been found!”
Perhaps you think me foolish . . . perhaps just a sentimental old man. Perhaps you think I should have reacted differently . . . with anger . . . with resentment? Should I have held back my love and forgiveness till I had made him sweat a little? Forgive, you say . . . but never forget. I am who I am, and I must be true to myself. And so, my forgiveness is not halfhearted; it is total . . . complete . . . unconditional. After all, he is my son and I love him. What else could I do? What would you do?
