In my spiritual matrix of ancient Christian tradition, our pre-Christmas season of Advent is known as small Lent and this pre-Resurrection season of Lent is called the Great Lent. What the former offers in the midst of candies, cards, carols and cakes is a warning of the tear-jerking and somber things to come. The latter inescapably would take you into the real drama of our human condition: self-discipline, self-examination, self-denial, self-flagellation etc. Therefore, the Lukan parable of the proverbial Prodigal Son is a self-serving occasion of spiritual introspection. Gospel of Luke is very special to me for its distinctive features.

The most loved songs and praises such as the Song of Mary, Song of Zechariah, Song of Simeon; then the parable of the Good Samaritan, the Rich man and Lazarus, the Pharisee and the Publican, the Unjust Judge the appearance of the Jesus to the disciples on their way to Emmaus; and the parable of the two prodigal sons in our Gospel Lesson for today.

One of the most beloved and popular parables of Jesus certainly is the parable of the lost sons, ironically known as the parable of the prodigal son. Most of us are tempted to conclude that over the past two millennia we have squeezed all the intellectual, moral, philosophical and spiritual juices out this brilliant story, harvested all the depths and heights of this parable captured in our folksongs and hymns, liturgies and prayers, speeches and sermons, dramas and movies. It is indeed a treacherous mind-set to take for granted that we could somehow draw all the truth together from the Holy Scriptures as probably our finite minds will never completely drain this depth of this font of infinite inspiration.

Luke 15 is all about losing and gaining – lost sheep, lost coin, and lost sons. A sheep (vs.4-7) is lost and found and celebrated in four verses. A coin (8-10) is lost and discovered in three verses. Two sons are lost…that human drama is described in 31 verses. Losing a sheep or a coin is much different from losing a child. In my native province back in the old country, in February we have an annual week-long Mar Thoma Church’s Maramon Convention; the largest Christian gathering in the world. Both my parents grew up in its neighborhood- my father was born in Maramon and my mother in Melukara, literally highlands of Maramon. My mother took me to this great convention when I was about 8 years old. Somehow, I got lost in the crowd. I was one of ten, maybe my parents could afford to lose one(!); but she became frantic about losing me in the crowd for about 30 minutes. Remember, this was way before the invention of cell phones! The strangest thing about this incident was that I did not know that I was lost. I kept walking in the crowd watching all the hype one would see at an excited gathering of thousands of people.

India, where I was born and raised, used to be a mesmerizing wonderland of asana and ayurveda, bikshus and gurus, mahatmas and maharishis, kavyas and ithihasas, Gita and Geetangali, satya and maya, panchabhuta and panchasila, karama and kamasutra, sabha and sangham, sadhus and swamis, vedas and advaitas, mantra and tantra, missionaries and moksha, bollywood and holy cow, yogas and yogis, and on and on. I grew up internalizing most of these mystifying mysteries and edifying exposures. In fact, the story of The Blind Men and the Elephant was one of the first stories I ever heard. Later I came to learn that there are several narratives from Hindu, Buddhist, Jain, Islamic, and even a newly minted Western poetic version of the same story. My very first guru (the one who helps remove one’s inner darkness) was my Valiamachi or paternal grandmother, who would repeatedly tell me tons of fables and parables, legends and tales from all religions in order to instill in me that human knowledge was incomplete and our ability to reason was always finite.

The great Sufi master Jalal ud-din-i Rumi (1207-1273 CE) uses this story in his Mathnawi. He compares all those who cannot agree about God to a group of people — these men of Indostan ( or Hindustan) who endlessly argued, finally ventured to see an elephant in a murky room, and tried to agree on its appearance by a gentle stroke alone.

Having taken for granted much wisdom in my Interchurch-Interfaith engagements over the years from this ancient Eastern story, I admit at the outset that whatever I have endured, experienced and soaked up is only one sightless man’s cloudy conclusions as tens of thousands of CFAs (come from away) as Newfoundlanders refer to all the inquisitive tourists including Canadian mainlanders. On the other hand, putting it all metaphorically in my own perspective, to a degree unsighted as I might be, in my sundown days of this fragile but precious side of life, I am overwhelmed by the inescapability of at least attempting to feel the elephant myself for my own raison d'être and existential contentment, if not on behalf of others in the same boat as I am, who might be tempted to trace this trail for whatever arcane grounds.

Whenever I read this parable, I was eager to conclude that this is all about some bad boys elsewhere, maybe in Palestine; certainly not in my neighborhood or backyard. As I experienced the world around me, I realized there were many who might fit the descriptions of the prodigal son, or as we portray in Malayalam ‘the cursed son’. As pondered over the scriptures as a professional preacher, suddenly it dawned on me that the real lost son was the older son, who is very much like the church folk, who didn’t have the chutzpah to argue, grab all he could and take off, those who stayed home, as someone had to do the disgusting chores albeit grudgingly, and became very upset with his father’s impromptu plans to throw a party for the loser who made it back home!

In the story of the lost two sons and their father, the reader comes across a number of compelling, valid questions.
Why was there a table set?
Why as there a feast offered?
Why was it necessary to offer the younger son the best robe, the family signet ring placed on his finger and brand new sneakers for his decrepit feet?

More questions: Who is/are the central figure/s in this story?
Younger loser just returned home from the foreign country, the grumpy older son came home tired from the field, the ecstatic father, the workers/servants, the pigs, the best calf, a little goat, prostitutes?

What is/are the important ingredients of this story?
The father’s share of property, foreign country, bad famine, father’s hugs and kisses, younger son’s confessions, best clothes, ring, sandals, the older son’s anger and sense of betrayal, the feast etc?

Is it a story about two spoilt brats --- a compulsive, pathetic squanderer away from home and an unhappy introvert slave at home? Should we focus our attention on these foolish boys at all? Shouldn’t we draw our attention to the great feast? As one who was generously blessed to grow up nurtured by my mother, the stark absence of the presence of their mother in their formative years has always troubled me. A reckless church! While we try to establish relationships with our neighbors, still our divisions outweigh our efforts for unity.

Traditional or marginal? Established or fly-by-night? Theologically reformed or Pentecostal? Racially majority ethnic or minority ethnic?

A wasteful world! This parable of Prodigal Son comes to an abrupt ending without responding to several lingering questions.
Do we understand God’s grace? Do we know enough about Jesus’ earthly mission?

Someone with famous fictional fancy and fascination fabricated this fable in the following fabulous fashion for which I am grateful:

Feeling footloose and frisky, a featherbrained fellow forced his fond father to fork over his farthings. He flew far to foreign fields and frittered his fortune, feasting fabulously with faithless friends. Finally facing famine and fleeced by his fellows-in-folly, he found himself a feed flinger in a filthy farmyard. Fairly famished, he fain would have filled his frame with foraged food from the fodder fragments. "Fooey, my father's flunkies fare far fancier," the frazzled fugitive fumed feverishly, frankly facing facts. Frustrated by failure and filled with foreboding, he fled forthwith to his family. Falling at his father's feet, he floundered forlornly, "Father, I have flunked and fruitlessly forfeited family favor." But the faithful father, forestalling further flinching, frantically flagged the flunkies to fetch forth the finest fatling and fix a feast.

The fugitive's fraternal faultfinder frowned on the fickle forgiveness of former folderol. His fury flashed, but fussing was futile. The farsighted father figured, "Such filial fidelity is fine, but what forbids fervent festivity for the fugitive is found. Unfurl the flags with flaring, let fun and frolic freely flow. Former failure is forgotten, folly forsaken. Forgiveness forms the foundation for future fortune."

Prayer:
Gracious God, our father and mother, who waits patiently for our return, forgive our wasteful and extravagant lifestyles. Open our awareness to the dire needs of our hearts and minds so that we long for your just and loving way. Open our hearts to rescue the lost at home and elsewhere; our arms to hug all with compassion, forgiveness and generosity. In Jesus’ name, we pray, Amen.