Village Shepherd

In this familiar and well-loved story of the Prodigal Son, I often wonder what happened to the mother of the family. She's totally ignored. So are any daughters. It seems like a completely male stronghold. So much so that I wonder whether perhaps the mother had died some years previously, and that was the cause of much of the unhappiness displayed by both the father and the sons. Or whether the father was such a domineering character that his wife played no real part in family life, but simply bowed her head in compliance with all his wishes, no matter how extreme they were.

Whatever it was, there's no evidence whatsoever of any female influence in that family. If Mum had been around, perhaps she might have persuaded the younger son to stay. Perhaps she might have acted, as mothers so often do, as peace-maker, as mediator, as go-between, soothing the tempers of both father and sons. Softening the harsh words. Restoring the equilibrium of the family.

But she wasn't around. Or if she was around, she didn't have the courage to interfere. She didn't dare stick up for this younger son of hers who'd had enough, who wasn't prepared to put up with his father's tyranny any longer. So rather than face the wrath of her husband, she let her son go. And probably spent the hours of darkness crying into her pillow each night, desperately unhappy, reaching out in love to her younger son, longing to see him again, but too afraid to do anything about it.

What a depressingly familiar story it all is, this break-down of family relationships. At least the younger son was honest enough to do something about it. He cleared off, certain that life elsewhere away from his family, could only be better. Although he discovered his mistake quite early on.

But what about that miserable older son? The one who so grudgingly did all that was required of him. Who played the part of a dutiful son, but didn't have his heart in it. Who was resentful and bitter and angry. Who was so jealous of his young brother's daring and freedom, that he never wanted to see him again. If anything, his relationship with his father was even worse than that of the younger son, for he was living a lie. He pretended things were OK between him and his Dad, but he erupted into an explosion of bitterness and anger and jealousy the moment his brother reappeared.

And how insensitive that father was. He had no idea what his sons felt about him. He not only drove his younger son away from home, but also failed totally to communicate at all with his elder son. All those years that elder boy slaved for him, but never so much as a word of thanks. It was all taken for granted. All the father could think about was the one who was absent. The one who had broken away. The one who had stood up to him.

And when the elder boy explodes, the father says with an air of injured bewilderment: "But surely you realise! Everything I have is yours. You're always with me!"

Relationships are such tricky things, especially within the family. This family of the prodigal son lived together for all those years, yet there was never any real sense of community. The surface appeared calm enough, but there were all those strands of frustration and bitterness and resentment going on beneath the surface.

And when one member of the family was eventually driven to break the surface, there was shock and horror and bewilderment all round. Can't you just hear the neighbours? "Fancy that boy going off like that, breaking his father's heart. And with all he had going for him! A share in the farm, a nice house, he was set up for life. But I always said he had a wild streak. He'll blow the lot, you mark my words! Women, gambling, drugs. A nasty bit of work, that boy. He'll go to the dogs, you'll see! "

In "Struggle to be the Sun Again", a book about the theology of Asian women, how Asian women interpret their lives in terms of where God is and what God's about, the author, Chung Hyun Kyung says this: "To be in the image of God is to be in community. It is not simply a man or a woman who can reflect God, but it is the community in relationship. This community is characterised by interdependence, harmony, and mutual growth. "

None of those characteristics are seen in the family of the prodigal son. There's no interdependence, the whole family is dependent on the father. They all do what he tells them to do. There's no questioning, no family discussion, no equality. They simply do as they're told.

And that destroys any harmony there might have been. Because although the surface is calm and settled enough so that the family probably appears to outsiders to be the perfect family, underneath that peaceful surface is simmering resentment and deep anger, which nobody dares to acknowledge.

And all that means there's no possibility of any growth for any member of the family, not even the father. Far from a situation of mutual growth, they're actually locked into a situation of mutual destruction, because none of them has the courage to honestly face what's going on. They're all terrified of what might happen if they actually dare to disturb the surface. And so they preserve what passes for "peace" at all costs.

But happily, all is not lost. For the younger son reaches a point where he knows he must break away. And from somewhere deep within himself, he drags up the courage to face his father, to ask for his share of the money.

I wonder how many days the row went on. I wonder how many doors were slammed and how loud the voices were raised. I wonder how many threats and ultimatums were issued. I wonder how many tears the mother shed, if she was still alive. I wonder whether the blustering and domination of the father changed to pleading, and appealing to his son's better nature. I wonder how concerned they were about what the neighbours were thinking.

But the younger son had made his stand, and he stuck to it. And no wonder he went wild when he got away from the restrictions and limitations of his family. When he was allowed to be himself for the first time in his life.

And it appeared that everything was lost. The thing they'd always dreaded had actually happened. The family was torn apart. They'd lost even the fragile, imperfect peace which had at least enabled them to live under the same roof And to their shame, their younger son turned out to be a drunken, irresponsible lout.

But actually, by that one action of standing up to his father despite the consequences, things had already begun to change. Because someone dared to take the risk of being honest with him, the father was enabled to begin to look at himself and at the suffocating hold he'd had over the family.

And the younger son eventually began to see that actually, his family wasn't so bad after all. That somewhere, deep down inside that family, was real love. Was enough love for him to be able to go back and say, "Father, I've sinned." And he, the prodigal son, had grown enough to be able to swallow his pride and accept the humiliation of kneeling before his father to ask for forgiveness.

But the father too, had grown. So much so that he didn't fold his arms and increase his son's humiliation by saying: "Huh! Come crawling back now, have you? Now your stomach's empty! I knew you would!" Instead, he acknowledged his own part in what had gone on, and showed his own humility by welcoming his son with open arms and by throwing a party.

But at the point where the story ends, the elder son hadn't yet grown. He was still exactly the same as he was when all the upset happened. He was still angry, resentful, bitter. He still hadn't dared to be honest with his father, to tell his father what he really thought and felt. And so, when the younger son comes home and there's a party, the elder son is consumed by jealousy and he explodes. But perhaps, that's the first time he's really been honest about his feelings. So perhaps, after that, he too can begin to grow.

Dr Scott Peck, a Christian psychotherapist, in his book "The Different Drum", describes various stages in the making of true community. The first stage is a stage of pseudocommunity. This is stage in which the prodigal son's family habitually lived, where they pretended everything was O.K., but failed to be really honest with each other, and so allowed all sorts of destructive feelings to simmer below the surface.

But it's risky breaking out of the stage of pseudocommunity, because any little bit of truth which upsets that surface calm, leads into the second stage of community making, the stage of chaos.

When the prodigal son made his bid for freedom, the whole family fell apart, and he himself became totally chaotic. The values he'd been taught from his childhood upwards went to the winds and he fell into the depths of depravity.

Chaos can take different forms, but the second stage in the building of true community is always the very uncomfortable and painful stage of chaos.

The third stage, and the bridge between chaos and true community, is the really difficult stage, because it's the stage of emptiness. The prodigal son was plunged into emptiness. He had nothing left. All his resources, both inner resources and material resources, were gone. He was completely empty. He had nothing left to give. He could only be himself And in his emptiness he discovered a new humility, so that he was able to move towards his father.

The father too had reached the stage of emptiness. His bullying, his blustering, had gone. He'd discovered how very important his son was to him, more important than authority, or being head of the family, or giving his orders.

When death of the previous situation has been completed, that is, when all parties are truly empty, then the group enters community. And true community is characterised by a new sort of peace. A deep peace, a soft quietness. A peace in which members of the community are able to be very vulnerable. Are able to speak of the deepest parts of themselves. And in this peace, in this stage of true community, is deep healing.

The father and the son in the story reached out to each other, hugged each other, laughed and cried together in a way they'd never been able to do before. And all the past hurts were healed.

Community building requires a lot of courage, and it begins in small ways. It begins in families. Then it can move out to larger groups. To those churches where people dare to take the risk of being vulnerable, of showing their true feelings, even if those feelings involve anger or resentment or tears. Community can be experienced by groups of women, by groups of men, by groups of men and women together. Community can be experienced by people of one race, or by multi-national groups.

The earth is a house for all people. But our job as Christians is to make sure it's more than a house, it's a community. It's a place where all people can live together in true peace and harmony. A place where healing occurs.

And to do that, we need to start by taking the risk of building community right here, amongst ourselves, and in our own families. And then, carrying it out farther and farther afield, like ripples on a pond.