You are not unlovable.
Fair warning: my reflection today may seem less like a cogent and elegantly-crafted argument with a central thesis and more like a sequence of thoughts, considerations, and questions. I’ve intentionally structured it this way because it feels the most authentic in my current space; rather than feign expertise, today I share my personal thoughts and emergent questions with you.
I vaguely remember my first experience hearing the parable of the prodigal son (today's Gospel reading). In Ms. Harmon’s second grade class, she recounted to us the basics of the story (at least, as well as possible to a group of second graders): son asks dad for his inheritance, son squanders inheritance, son returns expecting disdain and rejection, father eschews son’s expectations and showers him with compassion and love, jaded older son challenges father’s response, father responds in a way that reveals his endless love and compassion.
Truthfully, it wasn’t until I began pouring through the today’s gospel that I realized I’d never actually read it before. Heard it before? Check. Listened to reflections, sermons, and homilies about it? Check. Seen the VeggieTales episode about it? Check. Read through the verses myself? Sadly, no.
There’s a beauty in reading through this passage; I appreciate the parable of the prodigal son because it gives me a glimpse at the nature of God in a way that is familiar: as a loving father (not me! By example of my dad!). In recounting the parable, Jesus paints a picture of God as a father with a heart full of love and compassion, rather than some ethereal, judgy, transactional, unforgiving deity that demands deference.
Especially as of late, I am drawn to reflecting on the thoughts and actions of the lost and misguided. After the prodigal son demands his inheritance, he begins to indulge in the temptations around him. What was he feeling? Seeing as inheritances are typically doled out after death, did he realize that he was demanding a part of his father’s current livelihood? In pursuit of “worldly pleasures,” he willfully divorced himself from his father while simultaneously demanding his father’s “blessing” (i.e. his inheritance). Sadly, it all comes falling down and he’s left with nothing – financially, emotionally, and spiritually. I can imagine his face – every line, every freckle, every hair tells a story of his separation from his support; every ounce of light seems to drift away from him. I would burst into tears. Pride clouded his judgment. After some time, he realizes that he still lacks everything – finances, emotional support, and the love of his family. So, he heads back to his father. While the semantics aren’t necessarily iron-clad, I feel like it’s intentionally phrased this way. He misses his father, not his father’s home; I wonder if he ever told his father this. I wonder if his father ever knew that he felt unworthy to return home as his child.
On his journey home, I’m sure he pondered how to best approach his father. I’m sure he was convinced that his father would reject him, turn him away, and leave him to die because he squandered his share of the inheritance. I’m sure that he was ashamed to express any need to the loving man that gave him all that he would ever need to sustain. Maybe he even turned back a few times, uncertain of whether trying to convince his dad of his remorse was worth the emotional weight of his rejection. Eventually, as the parable indicates, the prodigal son returns to his father. In his eyes, he has returned wearing a scarlet letter. In his mind, he’s not returning home to dad; he’s coming to ask for work from an employer. In the parable, the father spots his son from a distance and is immediately overwhelmed with emotion. He returns to his father expecting forgiveness but receives compassion instead.
At times – much like the prodigal son – I am guilty of forgetting about the compassion extended by God. Forgiveness is tricky. It’s fickle, irrational, and sometimes unwarranted. Compassion is consistent – it is love without reproach. God’s love is unconditional, especially to those who feel unlovable. His forgiveness extends beyond the depravity of our sins; his compassion knows no bounds. I may be speaking out of my depth, but without God’s boundless compassion, even we would have no context for forgiveness – how could we even begin to consider contextualizing something that we had never experienced?
There’s something humbling about seeing myself as simultaneously imperfect and unconditionally loved. And I don’t mean the “forgot to submit that report to my boss,” or the “left the pizza in the oven too long” kind of imperfect; I mean the kind of imperfect that is weaved into our design; the stain of our sin that cannot be washed away without His graces. I am broken and undeserving of God’s love, but he gives it anyways. Time after time, we see Jesus eschew the standards set forth by the Pharisees and reach out to the broken, the downtrodden, and the unloved. That is me. That is us.
Truthfully, it wasn’t until I began pouring through the today’s gospel that I realized I’d never actually read it before. Heard it before? Check. Listened to reflections, sermons, and homilies about it? Check. Seen the VeggieTales episode about it? Check. Read through the verses myself? Sadly, no.
There’s a beauty in reading through this passage; I appreciate the parable of the prodigal son because it gives me a glimpse at the nature of God in a way that is familiar: as a loving father (not me! By example of my dad!). In recounting the parable, Jesus paints a picture of God as a father with a heart full of love and compassion, rather than some ethereal, judgy, transactional, unforgiving deity that demands deference.
Especially as of late, I am drawn to reflecting on the thoughts and actions of the lost and misguided. After the prodigal son demands his inheritance, he begins to indulge in the temptations around him. What was he feeling? Seeing as inheritances are typically doled out after death, did he realize that he was demanding a part of his father’s current livelihood? In pursuit of “worldly pleasures,” he willfully divorced himself from his father while simultaneously demanding his father’s “blessing” (i.e. his inheritance). Sadly, it all comes falling down and he’s left with nothing – financially, emotionally, and spiritually. I can imagine his face – every line, every freckle, every hair tells a story of his separation from his support; every ounce of light seems to drift away from him. I would burst into tears. Pride clouded his judgment. After some time, he realizes that he still lacks everything – finances, emotional support, and the love of his family. So, he heads back to his father. While the semantics aren’t necessarily iron-clad, I feel like it’s intentionally phrased this way. He misses his father, not his father’s home; I wonder if he ever told his father this. I wonder if his father ever knew that he felt unworthy to return home as his child.
On his journey home, I’m sure he pondered how to best approach his father. I’m sure he was convinced that his father would reject him, turn him away, and leave him to die because he squandered his share of the inheritance. I’m sure that he was ashamed to express any need to the loving man that gave him all that he would ever need to sustain. Maybe he even turned back a few times, uncertain of whether trying to convince his dad of his remorse was worth the emotional weight of his rejection. Eventually, as the parable indicates, the prodigal son returns to his father. In his eyes, he has returned wearing a scarlet letter. In his mind, he’s not returning home to dad; he’s coming to ask for work from an employer. In the parable, the father spots his son from a distance and is immediately overwhelmed with emotion. He returns to his father expecting forgiveness but receives compassion instead.
At times – much like the prodigal son – I am guilty of forgetting about the compassion extended by God. Forgiveness is tricky. It’s fickle, irrational, and sometimes unwarranted. Compassion is consistent – it is love without reproach. God’s love is unconditional, especially to those who feel unlovable. His forgiveness extends beyond the depravity of our sins; his compassion knows no bounds. I may be speaking out of my depth, but without God’s boundless compassion, even we would have no context for forgiveness – how could we even begin to consider contextualizing something that we had never experienced?
There’s something humbling about seeing myself as simultaneously imperfect and unconditionally loved. And I don’t mean the “forgot to submit that report to my boss,” or the “left the pizza in the oven too long” kind of imperfect; I mean the kind of imperfect that is weaved into our design; the stain of our sin that cannot be washed away without His graces. I am broken and undeserving of God’s love, but he gives it anyways. Time after time, we see Jesus eschew the standards set forth by the Pharisees and reach out to the broken, the downtrodden, and the unloved. That is me. That is us.
Author: Imon Ferguson, Mathematics Department
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