Steadfast Love

I still remember when one of our beloved dogs, Max, had come to the end of his earthly life. Max was the crazier of the crazy dogs. I was convinced he heard voices in his head. He was a mongrel of the most extreme kind; it looked like there were not-dog things in the mix alongside the uncountable dog genetics. Even the vet listed him on his official reports under breed as “white dog.” He was a curious looking creature. He was a rescue dog whose previous life was almost too terrible to imagine, the little we knew of it. But his last years were lived out in comfort and love. He was a part of the family, in his unusual, mostly doggy way. And we were diminished without him.

Our other dog, Nick, especially seemed a little lost without his annoying little brother. Many is the time when Nick had to snap at Max who was being a little rambunctious for no apparent reason, jumping on Nick when he was trying to nap, taunting and teasing, chasing the cat who dared to come into the dog space. But once he was gone, Nick needed companionship. He was too big, but he would sit on my lap with a sigh; or he would sleep in the places Max used to sleep. On the day my wife and son took Max to the vet for the final time, I came home from a church meeting and Nick was lying in the spot where Max’s cage used to be.

Max’s final weeks were marked by a restlessness we couldn’t define. He had trouble settling, was often up and down, lying asleep and then wanting out, wanting attention, wanting something that we couldn’t identify. He didn’t seem to be in pain, just driven, searching for a satisfaction that he couldn’t find here. He loved going outside on sunny days at least. I thought he was solar-powered and needed to recharge his battery by lying in the sun for hours at a time. But before the end, he would go out and wander, pace the fence line, hunt under the hedge around the deck. He was looking for something, wanting something he couldn’t articulate. There was something driving him even a little crazier.

The gospel text for this fourth Sunday in the season of Lent is a familiar story. We call it the Prodigal Son, or sometimes the Loving Father. But it is a story about wanting and searching for what seems lost but is always within reach if we know how to look.

It was the madness of wanting that drove the younger son to make his outrageous request, his offensive request. He said to his father, “Why aren’t you dead yet? Your value to me is in the stuff that will be mine one day, not in you.” If there was ever a son who needed to be slapped down, it is this one. But he wasn’t slapped down. He received what he asked for. The father did what no father would do. He broke the bank, broke tradition, broke open his wallet and took it out. Took it all out.

The younger son, the prodigal, ran away as fast as his feet would take him. He ran to satisfy the wanting. He tried everything his fevered brain could think of. But nothing slowed down the wanting. To give him credit, he kept trying, kept searching, kept digging that hole deeper and deeper, until he had to look up to see rock bottom. Give him credit because he ran out of cash. The wad his father handed over evaporated like drops of sweat on a hot sidewalk. He watched his fortunes fade as he plodded along, the hunger as strong as ever, the wanting unabated, unsatisfied, still driving him on. Until knee deep in pig slop, he came to himself.

The wanting changed. He came to himself, and the wanting was deeper, more real, within reach. Instead of wanting the something indescribable, he wanted something he knew well, something he had experienced. He came to himself and wanted what he had already had and had thrown away. He knew he was no longer worthy of it. But he took a risk and decided that even a taste of what he had was better than this. He couldn’t have it all, and he was content with that. He would take the punishment, suffer the indignity, because he was done with wanting. So, he made the long journey back, leaving his madness behind.

But a strange thing happened. His father ran to meet him, gathered him up, and treated him as though he was worthy. As though he was a son. As though he belonged. And he was swept up into the party, welcomed home, where he had all he ever wanted. End of story.

Not quite. The brother, the one left behind, chewed his frustration with his younger brother every day when he marched out to the field to work. And his satisfaction in his work and his home and his family evaporated like drops of sweat on the hard packed dirt he struggled to turn over. He stumbled back in that day, the day of transformation, feeling anything but transformed. When he heard the news, his face became even harder, bitter, like he had eaten a sour apple. His father found him like that, spitting seeds and hatred and begged him to come in and celebrate. But he refused and said, “I’ve slaved for you all these years and you never gave me anything.” Never. Um, wait a minute. Look again. Verse twelve: “He divided his property between them.” The older brother got his too. Every day, it was his. Everything was his, double his brother’s share because he was older. But he never saw it. He never claimed it. He lived the party; that’s what his father told him. But his bitterness, his jealousy kept him from claiming it, from living it. All he had was his wanting. What we’ll never know, because Jesus didn’t tell us, was whether the older brother ever came to himself.

The younger brother needed near starvation to be able to leave his madness behind. Let’s hope the older brother needed only almost losing his brother to move from wanting to generosity, from turning inward to pouring outward. Like the Father. Our Father.

Every life teaches us something, offers us something – if only a chance to love more, to care more, to give more. And the abiding hope that the lost can be found. Rest in peace, Max.