'The Prodigal Son' - Coaxed Back or Free Will Return?

I'm back from Scotland, and yes, yes it was incredible.  Wonderful.  Relaxing.  And especially spiritually enriching.  Iona is without a doubt a thin place, but I argue is the most well-known thin place in that area of the world as opposed to the only one.  The standing stones of Calanish, the ruins of the village on Hirta, St. Kilda, and the landscape of the Trossachs and Loch Lommond also are just a few of the physical spaces where the connection between humans and the divine is tangible.  But these comments relate nothing to the title of this blog post.  And I promise to discuss the trip more and post some pictures later.  Here's one just for a teaser:

For now though, I want to discuss an interpretation of the Prodigal Son parable that I have heard now supported by at least three different ministers.  An interpretation I cannot understand.  This parable - the story of two sons, one who stays home with his dad and one who takes off and basically becomes a homeless beggar, is popular enough that even those that aren't that religious know that the phrase "prodigal son" refers to someone who comes back to something they once rejected.  Personally, when I hear the phrase, I frequently think of this Rembrandt painting, a print of which hangs in my grandparents' house:

Where these particular ministers and I agree is the cast of the story.  It is generally understood that the father in the story is to represent some kind of religious/spiritual life.  The son that stays represents those who never stray from their faith.  The prodigal son represents someone that rejected the importance of faith in their life, realized how difficult life can be without it, and returned.

The difference between my understanding and these ministers' descriptions lies in the reasoning behind why the son returned.  The ministers explained this story as an example of just how far God will go to bring a person back to faith and religion.  I mean no disrespect if that is how they read the text, but it is not how I read it, and this particular passage is especially resonant with my spiritual journey, as I see my story as very similar to the prodigal son's story.

For me, this parable is one that tells people God has given you free will to choose what you do with your gifts and talents and possessions.  For me, this parable is about free will.  (I know.  That's very Baptist of me.)  I get this interpretation because, according to the NRSV translation of the Luke 15 passage, the father does not act while the son is gone.  He acts before the son leaves when he divides his property between his sons (v. 12) and re-enters the story upon seeing his son walking home from afar, being filled with compassion, and running to hug, kiss, and greet him (v. 20).  Verses 13-19 are when the younger son is out squandering his assets, and no where does the parable mention the father is out looking for him.  Now, the parable of the Lost Sheep, which begins Luke 15, does describe a shepherd who will go to great lengths to find that one errant livestock that just keeps wandering off.  That parable would lend to an interpretation of God (if you make God the shepherd) doing whatever was necessary to bring you back in.  But these interpretations that I have heard before do not acknowledge that combination of parables when exegeting the Prodigal Son.  I find that problematic.

Maybe I shouldn't, but I need the parables of the Lost Sheep and the Prodigal Son to be separate stories.  I have written before about the distance that I put between myself and religion in high school and college; about the first anger then the apathy I had toward religion.  During that time, I never felt the Holy Spirit searching me down or chasing after me or coaxing me back to religion.  Rather I always knew I could return, but I also knew I shouldn't return until I was ready.  There were times when I didn't know if I'd ever be ready.  There were times when I was happy not giving two figs about faith or God or praying or going to church or being in any kind of religious community with others.  And once I was through with my anger and apathy, I thought I'd been out too long and done too much "unChristian" stuff to be respected by anyone in the Christian community anymore.  It's part of why I considered non-Christian traditions.  It's part of why I've gone to non-Baptist churches for periods of time.  Because while I knew -- from this story in particular -- that I was supposed to be able to return and be lovingly embraced by any faith community, I also felt that I had hurt the particular tradition of my upbringing.  That last sentence reads as such a silly statement.  But it's true and it's part of why I didn't really return to church until I moved 2000 miles away to a state where no one knew me during my years away from my faith.

I may not have returned to the same specific community but I believe in all faith communities being linked.  Therefore I believe God - because I believe in a Christian God, but also believe this story is applicable regardless of tradition - saw me as a prodigal daughter.  Not because the Holy Spirit chased me around Massachusetts trying to convince me to return, but because the Triune God is patient and respectful of each individual's decision to or not to be in relationship with it.  I do (now) believe people live fuller lives when their spiritual side is acknowledged and nurtured just like their physical and mental sides.  I believe that nurturing can take a variety of forms, but that one's spiritual self must be acknowledged as existent, valid, and worthy before a person can successfully begin the nurturing process.  So yes I think it's possible people may feel legitimately pulled from religion and faith and that they will return if and when they are ready.  And yes I think the Prodigal Son parable supports this understanding.  But I'm always happy and welcoming of other viewpoints.

Let's be frank

Dear Sophia Coppola,

Touche. Bravo. Very clever.  I left The Bling Ring tonight feeling as if I've been caught complicit in something devious, selfish, illegal, and immoral.  I went to this movie knowing its plot (though I thought the group members were older than high school... my b) and it's like I fell right into your plan.  I wanted to see it to watch people "like me" get to wear expensive clothes, shoes, bags, scarves; go to expensive clubs and be perceived by their peers as if they're impressive and extra special because of the places they've been and items they now possess.  But I also hoped you'd show their demise. I knew I wouldn't like the film if none were caught.  On that point, you didn't disappoint.  I didn't expect to feel like I was caught too, though. Like I was in need of purging my closet of all things designer because owning them somehow implies I want to be perceived as a celebrity because celebrities are perceived of as being special.  Non-famous people aren't.  And yet, maybe that's why I own some designer items.

When Marc was asked how he felt about having a fan page about him or getting over 800 friend requests a day, he responds with two statements.  First he says how it unnerved him that he was being celebrated after doing something illegal as opposed to doing something charitable, heroic, or good.  He then says something about how this new found fame reveals "America has this sick fascination with a Bonnie and Clyde kind of thing." That they're jealous of these teens for getting to touch celebrities' possessions, be in celebrities' houses, drive their cars.  It's the material items that make someone special to Americans...

Paris Hilton and Lindsay Lohan had stuff stolen from their houses because some kids idolized their style and wanted a bit of their stuff to feel more special.  The ring leader appears to be a sociopath and Emma Watson's character is desperate for stardom.  Watson's character felt no legitimate remorse for their actions.  The ring leader cared if the celebrities mentioned her or knew who she was.  Watson's character used it to catapult her own celebridom.  She even credited the experience as something that needed to happen to teach her a valuable lesson.  A lesson she can't seem to fully/at all articulate.

To me, my purchase of a ticket to this move validated that sentiment. I knew I'd get 90 minutes of Prada, Chanel, Birkin, Louboutin, Gucci, etc.  I knew I'd see stilettos and leather and diamonds.  And that's partially why I wanted to go.  And when that previously quoted line by Marc played in the movie, I felt caught.  I felt dirty.  Like I wanted to get rid of all clothing items, shoes, and accessories over $75.00. Or anything with a designer logo.  Or anything not from Old Navy (which granted would still leave me with a large wardrobe). That likely wouldn't matter though. It likely doesn't matter if I purge my possessions; it's missing what I think the point is supposed to be - or one of the many points. 

We've stopped realizing humans as humans because value has become determined by material possessions and not one's humanity.

In essence, I think all the girls were so self-possessed and narcissistic that there's very little redeeming about them.  I'm guessing Coppola wanted it that way.  Marc had a bit of a conscience in the beginning and I think gave the most honest account of what happened after his arrest, but was still (because of where the movie ended) not showing signs of living differently - as if he had changed his mentality about stuff, things, possessions.  None of them acted that way.  And that's part of where I feel caught.  I can watch it, know it's horrible, repulsive even, and leave the theater and not act any differently myself.  Because I haven't stolen anything I own.  Nor do I have intentions or desires to steal.  But I've definitely bought things because I thought people would think a certain way of me when I wore it.  Because I wanted people to see me wearing a particular brand.  As repugnant and immoral as those high schoolers' action were, some of their motives for wanting those celebrities' things have been my motives for wanting certain things.  And that disturbs me more.  That makes me want to be different but without someone to be accountable to, I fear my ability to change is limited.  I fear I would have a one-time purge of things I don't wear anymore and then go for a while before deciding I didn't have a certain item I "needed" or enough of some type of shirt or what have you and I'd just wind up in the same predicament again.  I fear that because it's totally happened before.

It's easy to find accountability partners for diet and exercise and even down time and self-care.  It's hard to find people willing to hold each other accountable to the acquisition of material items.  And what makes me feel uncomfortable is I'm somewhat happy about that. Damn, Mrs. Coppola, you've made one hell of a movie.  I'm really uncomfortable because I feel caught, I feel complicit, and yet I'm not sure I want to completely change, especially if I'm the only one trying to change.

Revelation!

I've come to realize something about myself.  I watch TV shows like I read book series.  I have to finish an entire season - in order - before I can move on to the next.  So I re-read Harry Potter starting with The Sorcerer's Stone, not reading random ones, even though Goblet of Fire and Deathly Hallows are my favorite.  Despite wanting to double check the consistencies between Breaking Dawn and the movie version, I don't want to re-read books 1-3 of Twilight and thus have instead consulted the internet to verify the differences.  I'm sure LOTR truly is amazing to read but I can't get through the first 100 pages of The Hobbit and thus have never read the trilogy.

And when it comes to TV, I started "Doctor Who" at season 1 despite a bunch of people telling me to start at season 5.  I liked Eccleston.  I felt sad for the Doctor when Rose was gone and I'm wondering what the point of Donna was in the season 3 opener.  The same goes for shows that probably should be stand alone shows though like "Criminal Minds" and "SVU".  Each of those episodes are different cases (though there's the occasional To Be Continued...) and you'd think it wouldn't bother me that I couldn't record the whole season on my DVR.  But it did. So I scoured the internet looking for ways to catch up on both series.

Maybe I have a bit of OCD.  Maybe I get too wrapped up in the main characters' subplots that I can't just watch them sporadically.  I had to watch "Weeds" all the way through to the end, too.  "24" is an exception.  I don't remember what season I quit watching but eventually it just got a little too much for me.  But maybe that's not even that far off my "MO".  Because I still started at the beginning.  I just didn't finish.  I did that with the Narnia books too.  I haven't been able to get through The Magician's Nephew so I've never read The Last Battle, thus never finishing the series.

I'm also realizing this post is really random and am not at all offended if you haven't read this far.  But I just realized this about myself in the past day or so and am trying to figure out if I'm weird.  Or at least weird enough that I should be concerned.

To Tamerlan and Dzhokhar Tsarnaev...

I believe God created you.  I believe you are each a child of God.  You don't have to be Christian for me to believe that.  I believe God transcends an individual's person's chosen faith tradition.  But I also believe you were wrong.  What progress for your cause could bombing the Boston Marathon have possibly gotten you?  Are you trying to scare people to Allah?  Are you trying to rid the world of Christians?  If you were trying to scare us, that didn't last long.  You didn't last long.  And you were never in control.  You bombed the end of the race.  You bombed the area next to the medical tent, where people were already on high alert to receive fatigued runners.

I believe neither of you to be fundamentally bad.  I believe each of you likely were friendly, good sons, maybe even opened doors for a woman with a stroller or gave your seat up on the T to an elderly person.  But in your actions on Monday at the marathon and Thursday night, you were wrong.  You intentionally acted to harm other humans.  Other people made in the image of God.  I don't know as much about Islam as I likely should but I know it is peaceful.  I know it does not condone what the two of you have done.  I know many Muslims in the US and across the world cringe when Muslims like you act like this just like I know Christians like me cringe when Westboro Baptist Church acts as it often does.

I believe you were wrong.  I believe, Dzhokhar, that you deserve to sit in prison for life.  I also believe it is the right and just thing for you to tell law enforcement the truth about your plan and any other potential threats to ANY group of people (not just the US) that you might know about.  You can try to show remorse in this way that could save human lives.

I also wish I could truly live by Jesus' words, "Forgive them, God, for they know now what they do."  But I can't right now.  Or maybe I don't want to.  I'm not ready to forgive either or you.  And right now I don't want to be ready.  And I believe God's okay with that.

Finally, I want to thank you both.  You reminded us how love is stronger than hatred and how similar we all really are.  White, black, queer, straight, US-born or naturalized or undocumented, democrat or republican, Red Sox or Yankees fan, runner or onlooker.  None of that mattered on Monday.  None of that mattered on Thursday night or Friday.  None of that continues to matter as this city and metro-area works to recover.  What mattered was the preservation of human life.  What matters now is the re-established dignity of humanity.

I do not believe in Heaven and Hell the same way many other people do.  I am not convinced they exist.  I'm okay with that.  I don't really care about the placement of your eternal soul, if there even is a place for it.  What I care about is the recognition of wrong-doing by Dzhokhar and the continued efforts of Bostonians, New Englanders, and Americans to not lose sight of the beautiful bonds of community we've witnessed over the past week.  It's easy to get complacent in times of peace.  Let's not wait for another disaster or tragedy to re-establish the bond.  Let's continue to strengthen the bond that's been forged from these tragic events.

There sure are a lot of words here considering I can't articulate how I am.

Thank you to everyone who called, texted, Facebooked, emailed today. It was the most unnerving and uncomfortable experience to feel somewhat safe in my hallway with the lights off and curtains drawn but unsafe at the windows or outside. Greylyn and I went to get pizza after Suspect #2 was in custody and waved and thanked the cop cars we passed along the way. I'm still processing exactly what this was. What it means. There will be a forthcoming blog post. But for now, know you have my greatest thanks and deepest gratitude.

Thank you to the local and state police officers, FBI, ATF, and Homeland Security agents for working non-stop, cooperatively, and diligently to bring this guy in alive. I'm inclined to bake the Watertown PD cookies or a cake and bring it to you in a day or so. And thank you to the citizens for taking this seriously, staying inside, even in downtown Boston or other areas where it was seemingly completely safe. I can't articulate right now why that makes me happy, but as someone very close to the danger today, I appreciated the solidarity of this city.

I love Boston. I love its people. I love its resiliency.

That was my Facebook status last night before I went to bed.  As promised, here's the blog post.

 On Marathon Monday, I slept in.  Around 10:30 I got up, went into the living room, and turned on the race.  I watched the men's and women's winners cross the finish line.

While watching them I was amazed at the incredible abilities of the human body and the genuine looks of excitement and encouragement of the onlookers.  I thought to myself, "I should really give running a shot again.  I know it's been almost 10 years since I ran with any regularity, but I should give it a shot again."  After the men's winner crossed the finish line, I ate lunch, then turned off the TV around 1 to work on a paper.  Two hours or so later, my boston.com app alerted me to explosions at the Boston Marathon finish line.  I turned on the TV in disbelief and was unable to tear my attention away for about 4 hours or so.  This emotional high I had been on that propelled me into paper writing and made me more concerned about my exercise regimen became an emotional low of horror, disbelief, fear that I knew people injured or killed, and most of all, a sense of why.  Who bombs a marathon?  What kind of message was that supposed to send?

Classes continued on as "normal" the next day, though my thoughts were elsewhere.  While I knew no one hurt or killed personally, my city had been attacked.  Yes, I grew up in Mississippi and do consider myself a southern woman in some respects, but Massachusetts has been my home for the past ten years (this year).  This attack felt personal.  And after seeing statuses and memes and videos (like this one from the Colbert Report), I became more motivated to start running again.  I've chosen a Couch to 5k plan, got a couple of accountability buddies that are going to do the program with me, and look forward to successfully running a 5k at some point this summer.  Oh and the physical fitness and weight loss that goes with this will be great too... :)

But to be honest, I knew it wasn't over.  No one had taken responsibility, and yet everything the police were releasing pointed to terrorism.  Pointed to intentions to take lives, intentions to cause harm, intentions to scare.  Terrorists usually (so I've been told) like to take credit for their "work".  These people/person hadn't come forward.  So I wasn't convinced we were safe.  The week of classes was hard and to say I didn't care about schoolwork would be an understatement.  I don't envy professors and TAs that had to figure out how to balance our processing needs (and theirs) with the need to cover material and not get behind.

Thursday came, and since I have no classes on Fridays, I was looking forward to a fun night of dinner, a student performance of Chicago, and drinks with friends.  I had all that (though only half of the play... it was okay).  I came home thrilled.  I came home feeling like life was getting back to normal.  As I was getting ready for bed, I got a text from BU emergency alerts saying an MIT cop had been killed and that the suspects had fled the scene.  I was home, not near MIT, said a prayer for the cop's family and went to bed.  Around 1am, a BU friend that lives in Watertown as well called me.  "Are you home?"  "Yes," I replied.  "Why what's wrong?"  "A cop was killed at MIT and they chased the guys to Watertown.  I don't know what's going on but I just heard a ton of gunshots outside my house." It didn't even dawn on me in this moment that these were the marathon bombers.  And I even thought the initial Facebook and Twitter posts hypothesizing that they were connected were overreaching.  "Oh no," I said.  "Okay well I'm home and in bed.  No lights are on.  We're safely inside."

The timeline of events in the manhunt can be read here.  (Note - times are in the Pacific time zone.  Add 3 hours for what it really was here in Watertown.)  What I want to emphasize is how I don't know how to think or what to feel.  What I want to emphasize is that I don't have words.  That I can't articulate what this has done to me personally, my friends, this community, Boston, and the nation.  I am THRILLED Suspect #2 (as the media started calling him) was taken alive.  I pray he recovers in the hospital, is cooperative and gives us the answers we desperately want.  But three people have died and almost 200 injured now in the past week.  Common places of commerce, leisure, and living have been violated and forced to host some of the worst examples of human capacity.  At the same time, people are bonding together.  My neighbor waved at me today as he was gardening and I was getting my car.  People still honk and wave and cheer when cops drive through Watertown Square.  I will get up tomorrow and run my Couch to 5k program for the day.  Boylston Street will eventually reopen.

What I wonder is, what will the new normal look like?  I don't believe things will go back to being how they were before.  Maybe they will on the surface, but the wounds of this past week will take generations to heal, not months or years.  Do we want it to look normal?  How long will a backfiring car make us jump and wonder if it's another explosive?  Will anyone in the area ever use pressure cookers again?  Will people be screened if they buy pressure cookers like people are when they buy Sudafed?  Will backpacks be searched at all major public events in the area?  Will they be allowed at all?  When will we trust the stranger standing next to us again?

Viral Laryngitis

Viral laryngitis.  That's apparently what I have.  Know what that means?  I'm hoarse.  That's the technical terminology for hoarseness.  I only went to a doctor because I've been having trouble with my singing voice for about 2 months and started having trouble with my speaking voice this past week.  Because apparently one vocal chord is swollen and the other one is trying to compensate and when I try to sing, they don't work properly because one's swollen.  I'm glad it's not serious.  I really am.  It could have been something that needed surgery or even a biopsy.  It's nothing that serious.  But it was really unpleasant to have my nose and throat numbed and a probe pushed through my sinuses to look at the back of my throat just to be told what I already knew.  I'm hoarse.

So for the next three weeks, I can't sing, can't whisper, shouldn't talk more than absolutely necessary and when I do talk, should talk as low as I can.  I have to drink more water than what I apparently already drink (which is about 2250 mL a day) and humidify everything.  It's all doable.  It all could be soooo much worse.  I know that what irks me the most is that I can't sing.  And being an extrovert, not being able to talk is a bit annoying as well.

As I was driving to my appointment today, though, I realized I'd be completely screwed in terms of keeping up with friends and family, interacting with people, if it weren't for modern technology.  Email, Facebook, Skype chatting, texting, blogging, and word processors allow me to still carry on conversations and participate in class.  That's saving my sanity at the moment.  My singing voice may sound horrendous but my metaphorical voice isn't gone.  So that's something.

It's also odd to be physically voiceless during Holy Week.  There is a lot of singing and collective praying and responsive readings that have been going on this week that I haven't been able to actively participate in.  Sometimes it's too much and I lose it and sob.  Sometimes it's like being an observer.  I've yet to find it enjoyable, but it has made this week interesting.  I assume the Easter experiences yet to come will be even more powerful.

What about Barabas?

I had a thought today after seeing a storyteller recount the Passion narrative from the gospel of Mark: I wonder what thoughts went through Barabas' mind when he was released.  I imagine they might have read something like this:

• Thank God!
• Wow, I wonder what that guy did that was so bad?
• Trading one rabble rouser for another...
• What do I do now?

Then when he realized (because I assume he found out) who took his place, I wonder what thoughts went through his mind.  I would guess it might have been one of the following:

• Wow, they really did trade one revolutionary for another.
• Woah, he was way less of a threat than I was.
• I don't care as long as it's not me.

But what I presume set in at some point (I don't think it's too modernist of me to believe this) is that eventually survivor's guilt set in.  Someone would have a hard time convincing me that Barabas never felt a twinge of guilt for getting released instead of Jesus.

I'm still working on understanding why this is so striking to me.  It might be in part because in retrospect, knowing how Jesus became the Christ after the resurrection, if there were a way for him to not have died, I somewhat would prefer that gospel.  However, these people lived at the time of Jesus.  Not at the time of the Christ and the Jesus movement of Paul, Peter, and the other apostles working after the crucifixion.  It makes sense that Barabas would not question his release or who took his place or initially feel bad for how those events transpired.

And now back to studying the undisputed letters of Paul...