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When I was young, I did not know that there were any other faiths apart from the Christian Religion; I had never met a black person; I had never travelled abroad; our most exotic food at home was grapefruit served as a starter; I was told that Roman Catholics were not Christians and that gay people would go to hell. I learned about the world from books and photographs, but most importantly, from the views of those who spoke to me. One member of my family, still scarred physically and mentally from his time in a Japanese prisoner of war camp, during the Second World War, taught me to be fearful of Asian people and Germans. The Vietnam War was raging. The school atlases were still colored according to territorial claims and, as the teacher in that wonderful film “Hope and Glory” – which is about the Second World War through the eyes of a young British boy – puts it… “What is this war about? ‘The pink bits!’”
For many people, the 1960’s were characterised above all by the word ‘choice’. Huge advances in medical science and reproductive medicine; challenges to the established order and, in particular in Europe, challenges to the authority of the Church. It was a time of hope but also a time of fear, with the perceived threat behind the iron curtain and the possibility of nuclear holocaust.
I cannot read the parable of the prodigal son without thinking about the way I was brought up and the way I was taught about fear, forgiveness and, sadly, revenge. Each week of Lent I have suggested a spiritual exercise; today I want to suggest that each of us spends some time this week with the parable of the prodigal son – some real time – without distraction – to reflect on it in the context of our own lives; to begin that contemplation on the parable with an honest appraisal of the state of our own lives and, more importantly, how we have been formed in the past by others. This demands self-disclosure and it can be uncomfortable. But the parable of the Prodigal Son brings that same kind of self-disclosure to the heart of the relationships between God and humankind; between parent and child and, significantly, between the siblings also. If you want to do this in a more visual way, find an image of Rembrandt’s paining ‘The return of the prodigal son’ (which hangs in The Hermitage in St Petersburg).
To forgive, we also need to know that we are forgiven ourselves. Henri Nouwen once said, “Maybe the reason it seems hard for me to forgive others is that I do not fully believe that I am a forgiven person. If I could fully accept the truth that I am forgiven and do not have to live in guilt or shame, I would really be free. By not forgiving, I chain myself to a desire to get even, thereby losing my freedom. A forgiven person forgives. This is what we proclaim when we pray, ‘and forgive us our trespasses as we forgive those who have trespassed against us.’” (The Road to Daybreak)
In the Lord’s Prayer, have you ever noticed that it is that order – Forgive us…so that we can forgive others.
On Friday I found myself in St Paul’s Chapel near the World Trade Center and I found myself looking, again, at the many message of hope but also despair that still fill that place. Next to this pulpit is a memorial to those who died on 9/11 in the Twin Towers Disaster. It was only recently that I realized the irony of the way the Psalter is ordered in the 1662 or 1928 Book of Common Prayer, for the last psalm of the eleventh morning is Psalm 58, and this is the one psalm that is rarely ever used in public. The psalm is about evil being perpetrated, about anger and about vengeance. It contains curses that compare the wicked to a miscarried fetus. It ends thus: “The righteous will rejoice when they see vengeance done; they will bathe their feet in the blood of the wicked. People will say, “Surely there is a reward for the righteous; surely there is a God who judges on earth.” In stark contrast, Jesus dying on the cross says,
“Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”
But what if I do not wish to forgive? What if my hurt turns to anger or bitterness? How can I forgive those who strap explosives to their bodies and walk into a crowded shopping street? How can I forgive those who wish me dead?
We often think that the parable is about the younger son – the prodigal who returns. We forget that the parable might be better named ‘The forgiving father’ or, even better, ‘the two sons.’ The parables of Jesus often have a twist at the end and it is even easier to forget the response of the older son out in the fields. I know that sometimes in my life I have been the younger son and I know that I am called to be like the father in the story. But so often I am, like the older son, angry or resentful about someone else’s forgiveness; At those times I go to my room and I bring out the things that I wished I could be forgiven for and, sometimes, in twisted ways like the older son, I nurse the anger or the resentment or the hurt.
My friends, we are called to live as a community of love. Sometimes I say that I want our church to be ‘inclusive’ and I know that some of you dislike the term; so when I say I want us to be inclusive, I mean this – I want us to be a community, a church, that is formed of people who know that they are forgiven and who, in turn, open their hearts in love and forgiveness to others.
The example of Jesus Christ is hard to follow but if we claim to be followers of Jesus Christ then we must live as followers of Jesus and practice penitence, so that we can show forgiveness.
As Henri Nouwen goes on to say, “This lifelong struggle (to be forgiven and to forgive) lies at the heart of the Christian life.”