Nail Scarred Hands Made New. John Shorack

      The teachers of the law, chief priests, and Pharisees saw these matters differently. Note that in this diagram their nation is at the extreme left of the horizontal line, with God on their side. To the Jews of Israel, their nation and their understanding of themselves were absolute. To acknowledge that God could be present among a pagan nation like Rome was tantamount to heresy and worthy of condemnation. God was on Israel’s side and against their pagan neighbors. Jesus, on the other hand, removed himself from the false dichotomy. He refused to inhabit the either/or continuum where Israel and Rome dwelled at either extreme. By granting primacy to God alone, Jesus relativized his attitude and allegiance toward both. Neither Caesar nor Moses represented ultimate reality. Nor were they to wield unquestioned authority. Both were flawed instruments with limited powers.

      To relativize Rome and Israel didn’t make them equals. Jesus didn’t treat them as if they were one and the same. Rome was Rome, Israel was Israel, and God’s purpose for each was unique. In the prodigal parable, the father’s heart beats for both sons, even as his love expresses itself differently to each.

      Jesus is Savior of the whole world. Though this bald declaration may appear cliché, there’s an edge to it that is often lost. God’s primacy over all nations translates into Jesus’ defiling himself and the Twelve by spending two nights in a Samaritan village (John 4). By seeing God’s supremacy as rendering all other causes relative to God’s ultimate Lordship, Jesus affirmed a Roman centurion’s faith as greater than that of “anyone in Israel” (Matt 8:10).

      In declaring himself and his mission as the truth (John 14:6), Jesus spoke as one with absolute authority. We, his followers, get tripped up by lending absolute authority to our interpretation of Jesus. As “older brothers” in God’s family, we believe we see truly, when in fact we see through a glass dimly. With family dynamics like this, we need a very special father.

1. Bailey, Cross and the Prodigal.

2. Ibid., 44–47.

3. Eller, Christian Anarchy, 1–47.

      3 / The Running and Pleading Father

      Imagine the father’s sorrow as he looks down the road day after day, waiting for his “son that was dead” to return. Grief over his son’s foolish heart keeps him awake and vigilant. Though overcome with joy enough to throw a party when the son comes home, his grief continues. He laments his older son’s refusal to join the celebration.

      Before Caligallo was killed, I knew his days were numbered. My grieving had already begun. After he was gone, my compassion for Caligallo translated into sorrow for my neighbors. Their exuberance at the news of his elimination stabbed me in the heart.

      I can imagine the father’s sorrow also peaking, like Ryan’s and mine, at the likely comments from the incredulous townspeople. “What on earth’s going on?” “I can’t believe what I’m seeing!” “How could a father do such a thing?” “What a disgrace!” “What that boy needs is a good spanking!”

      The dad in the parable is wealthy, a man of dignity and respect in his village. Imagine the son’s entry into town. Typical of that time was an affluent core where the wealthy homes stood. Men of such stature wore robes down to their ankles. They moved gracefully in keeping with their social position. To run to his son, the prodigal’s father gathers up his robe, exposing his legs as he runs. This creates a scene that humiliates him before the neighbors. Yet his compassion compels him to gladly suffer public ridicule for his returning son.

      Though nothing I experienced compares to the father’s humiliating act, I felt foolish and was treated as naive for pursuing friendship with a criminal. After Caligallo’s death, Ryan and I made attempts at defending Caligallo as a human being and God’s love as being big enough to reach such a “bad guy.” Neighbors wrote us off as out of touch with the real world. In a small way we shared in Caligallo’s humiliation.

      Corrie’s joy in the hospital, though nothing like the father’s, was still remarkable. She exuded a gladness that welled up in her as praise and thanksgiving for a lost child of God who received her forgiving presence. As Corrie honestly reported, this joy came only after overcoming her fears. True love risks stepping out as the father does, running and embracing first without knowing how such a lavish display of compassion will be received.

      We can imagine the villagers knowing of the son’s dishonorable departure. The young man’s reputation is in the mud. The shame attached to his disgraceful request is unimaginable. Such a step is unheard of and irreparable. His father’s careful eye on the road reflects a genuine concern that if his boy reaches the village and is recognized, the people may ridicule if not assault him.

      As they stand together in the road, reuniting and restoring that which was broken, the young man no longer fears the hostile townspeople and their rejection. His dad’s overwhelming display of approval powerfully disarms the onlookers.

      All the younger son hopes for, in his own words, is a measure of compassion from his father: “Treat me like one of your hired hands.” Jesus’ hearers no doubt resonate with this prospect. They, like many of us, would reason, “Yes, let the boy first acknowledge his guilt and then regain his father’s good graces as a hired hand.” The villagers will surely want to cut the young man off from community life, believing that the father, at best, might relent enough to allow him to work on his estate. They likely envision the father’s response to the approaching son as one of disgust and anger. But that’s not what happens.

      Remember Corrie’s ring? He held my hand, the same hand from which he tried to rip my promise ring. Yet because God is good, there we were again. With a glance I could tell him that he is forgiven. Remember Ryan’s poster? He gave it to Caligallo with the words, I know you take things from others. But this is something that I want to give you. It symbolizes all the good gifts that the God who loves you wants to give you without you having to steal them.

      Ryan and Corrie tapped into the beauty of the parable’s father. They acted like the forgiving dad, who freely