Epiphany

 

FORGIVENESS, Part III of III

In the parable of the prodigal son there are two sons. One is loyal, the other is a rebel. I know that we all resemble each son at times but for the great majority of my life I have always considered myself "the good son". I'm a daddy's girl, happy to stay at home close to that dad and reap the natural rewards that come from a close relationship. I am a pleaser; I don't want to bend the rules, much less break them. I spend my inheritance in budgeted chunks and have never gone wild.

I've mentioned I have struggled with forgiveness in recent times. So much, in fact, that trying to forgive has felt harder and hurt more sharply than anything I ever suffered with infertility. Infertility only involved me. I had to come to terms with my life and be at peace with myself. I was pretty easy to fight with; the stronger me dominated the pushover me and it was settled. But forgiving others involves, well, others. It's messier. It's complex. There are multiple sets of eyes, each seeing their own injustices, and multiple hearts, each broken with unique cracks. I have turned myself inside out soul searching on this one. What is my deal? Why can't I follow this commandment?

Cue the prodigal son: the world's most famous tale about forgiveness. It doesn't have many details, but pay attention to the robes.

A foolish younger brother went to his father, asked for his portion of the estate, and left home to squander his inheritance in “riotous living.” His money and his friends disappeared sooner than he thought possible—they always do—and a day of terrible reckoning came thereafter—it always does. In the downward course of all this he became a keeper of pigs, one so hungry, so stripped of sustenance and dignity that he “would fain have filled his belly with the husks that the swine did eat.” But even that consolation was not available to him.

Then the scripture says encouragingly, “He came to himself.” He determined to find his way home, hoping to be accepted at least as a servant in his father’s household. The tender image of this boy’s anxious, faithful father running to meet him and showering him with kisses is one of the most moving and compassionate scenes in all of holy writ. It tells every child of God, wayward or otherwise, how much God wants us back in the protection of His arms.

The younger son has returned, a robe has been placed on his shoulders and a ring on his finger, when the older son comes on the scene. He has been dutifully, loyally working in the field, and now he is returning.

As he approaches the house, he hears the sounds of music and laughter.

“And he called one of the servants [note that he has servants], and asked what these things meant.

“And [the servant] said unto him, Thy brother is come; and thy father hath killed the fatted calf, because he hath received him safe and sound.

“And [the older brother] was angry, and would not go in: therefore came his father out, and intreated him.”

You know the conversation they then had.

This son is not so much angry that the other has come home as he is angry that his parents are so happy about it. Feeling unappreciated and perhaps more than a little self-pity, this dutiful son—and he is wonderfully dutiful—forgets for a moment that he has never had to know filth or despair, fear or self-loathing. He forgets for a moment that every calf on the ranch is already his and so are all the robes in the closet and every ring in the drawer. He forgets for a moment that his faithfulness has been and always will be rewarded.

No, he who has virtually everything, and who has in his hardworking, wonderful way earned it, lacks the one thing that might make him the complete man of the Lord he nearly is. He has yet to come to...compassion and mercy.

After I get over the sting I feel every time I read this, I always go back to the robes. The father gave his prodigal son a robe to celebrate his return. In fact, he told his servants to "bring forth the best robe". I'm sure it was a nice one, like one that hung on a satin puffy hangar in the cedar closet. Maybe it was a family heirloom. Maybe it had rare and expensive embellishments. It kills me not to know what made it "the best" but we all have to endure unsolved mysteries. I will simply say this robe must have been something special.

What of the older brother, the good son, the "me" in the parable? Well, he technically owned everything on the estate. The father told him, "Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine." That means all the robes. The story is clear he owned everything except compassion.

I never thought much about this until my yuckfest, during which page 10 of the Fall 2015 BYU Magazine surfaced in one of my "thinking piles":

Want to talk scriptural fashion? Rory Scanlon has an MFA in costume design from the University of Illinois at Urbana-Champaign and 16 years of Book of Mormon and Bible clothing research. He says that "understanding how clothing was made, what was worn, and why, suddenly gives new meaning to the scriptures."

For example, in Matthew 5:40 Christ says, "If any man will sue thee at the law, and take away thy coat, let him have thy cloak also." According to the law of Moses, if you sued someone for their clothing, you could only take the chiton, an inner Greek garment. The law wouldn't allow you to take the himation, or overgarment. Taking someone else's warmth was illegal. So Christ was saying to give them everything-even what they couldn't ask for.

Give them everything-even what they couldn't ask for?

Give the person you need to forgive everything-even what they can't ask for?

Give that person your "outer robe", your law-appointed warmth-the very thing they can't ask for?

Forgive by giving away what is absolutely yours and only yours to control?

Double sting. So much stinging. I am such a natural man. Ow. Ow. Owwwww!

The father gave his best robe to a pitiful but humble child. He also owned a lot of other robes, all of which he gave to his obedient son. To be a father of this caliber, a God, you have to have an almost unfathomable amount of compassion. Gods give away their robes. Gods in training need to do the same thing.

I still want to be the good son in the story; robes were the epiphany for how to do so. I have no shot at gaining godlike compassion unless I give away the robe I earned fair and square. I have no shot at eternal estate inheritance unless I offer forgiveness to the person who has no ground, no argument, and no right to ask for it. It's scary to give up your security blanket, your self-justification, your protective shell. I currently own one coat filled with fluffy 100% pride, so it's a leap of faith to be willing to walk around unarmed in a world of permanent winter!

Part of me doesn't believe the lost and found paradox can be true, but the reason Christ asks me to molt my outer robe to the undeserving is so I can experience him bestowing a better, warmer replacement from his infinite walk-in closet on my cold shoulders. That vast closet is loaded with luxurious robes he will permanently restock if I will only donate my best again, and again, and again. To get all I must give all, including what I worked hard to gain and deserved to keep.

How many robes does God have? Enough. Enough to keep giving them away while staying warm himself. That is the miracle of forgiveness.

Indented portion from "The Other Prodigal", Elder Jeffrey R. Holland, April 2002.

Parable found in the New Testament, Luke 15.