Forgiveness is hard. Especially when it comes shrink-wrapped in guilt.

The classic example has been the advice given by countless patronizing clergymen to generations of women in abusive relationships: “You have to forgive him.” The responsibility to forgive is placed on the one who was wronged. She may have feared for her life, or for her children or pets. Her ability to resist had been chipped away piece by piece. The spiritual strength needed to forgive was precisely what had been systematically, deliberately undermined. The shadow of guilt would hang over the survivor, not the perpetrator.

It may well have happened to someone you know. It may have happened to you. It happened to me. “You have to forgive him,” shouted the pastor as he made a dash for the office door.

The Gospel story of the prodigal son operates on several layers, and probably the most superficial is that of “you have to forgive.” Needless to say, this story is thoroughly gendered – it has no women characters, unless you count the word “prostitutes,” a throwaway accusation on the part of the elder brother. In order to grasp the layers of meaning. one needs, first, to situate the story in a first-century Palestinian context, then in a father/son relation. The good news is, it can land us in an unexpected and encouraging place.

First, what did the younger son actually ask for? At their father’s death he would have come into a much smaller portion of the family inheritance than the older brother in any case. But he takes what he’s given as liquid assets, moves far away, and squanders it all. His rich friends disappear. The climax of his fall shows him employed by a non-Jew, feeding unclean animals, and starving to the point of wanting to eat the carob pods he threw to the pigs.

But if contrition precedes seeking reconciliation, this fellow’s motives seem more pragmatic than ethical. He apparently never thought in terms of reforming his life, begging forgiveness, or promising to compensate for the damage and insult to his family, although he came up with a good speech. He just wanted the food.

No one guilted the father into forgiving. When he saw his son at a distance he set off at an impulsive run, totally unseemly for an elderly Oriental gentleman. He called for his bedraggled son to be clothed in a robe, sandals on his feet (no longer barefoot like a servant), and wearing a ring to signify his status. (My study group exclaimed, “First he needs a bath!”) Then the father ordered the one fatted calf killed, supplying enough meat for a community-wide festive meal.

Then, in what was originally a second story, the father deals gently with the resentment of the older son, affirming this son’s privileged place. In both cases, forgiveness is not bought at the price of humiliation. The father shows exemplary composure, deep wisdom, and breathtaking compassion.

Scripture scholar Dianne Bergant writes,

“This picture shatters the traditional patriarchal image and offers us a radically different picture of fatherhood, a picture totally incomprehensible to both of the sons. … He respects the decisions of both his sons even when he disagrees with them. When it becomes clear they have been mistaken, he forgives them. This startling picture becomes the metaphor for understanding God.” ^*

God, the Source of all Being. God, Creator of two trillion galaxies (at last count.) God, a healing power beyond any glimmer of human understanding. God, infinitely beyond creaturely limitations such as gender. God of overflowing graciousness, endless mercy. How can little beings like us channel that love?

In the second reading, Paul’s demand to the Corinthians can be read both as “reconcile yourselves to God” and “be reconciled to God.” Theologians have interpreted this passage as either one or the other. Is it in the power of human persons to make reconciliation happen? Or is reconciliation a gift from God? Maybe, when we set these two texts next to each other, it’s all gift. It’s all God.

© Susan K. Roll