Inspiring Art: The Return of the Prodigal Son

I come to the computer utterly exhausted this evening. Work has increased in intensity as we bring on new clients. And so, this will be brief.

I would like to share with you one of two pictures I have hanging in my office. It is The Return of the Prodigal Son by Bartolome Esteban Murillo. I purchased this replica of the painting in Boston while I was in the seminary. I chose this painting because I recalled - and still recall - the first time I internalized the story.

My stepbrother and I were at odds. Not any kind of fisticuffs, mind you, but we didn't see eye to eye on anything. And yet, my father and stepmother treated him as well as they did me and my brother. I never understood.

After seeing my frustration, the old man sat me down with his Bible in hand and read to me the passage. He described himself as the father, me as the brother who stayed, and my stepbrother as the one who left and subsequently returned. 'We love you both,' he said. 'But there's a special place in our hearts for you who have been loyal all these years.'

As obnoxious and arrogant as I was, I took not only comfort but pleasure in the fact that I was the 'better' son. That I was the loyal one who loved his family more. That I was the favorite. Even through my time in the seminary, I looked at the world through those glasses.

Boy, did I miss the point. The fact is that each son in that story had something to learn. It was the more obvious with the son who left and then returned, humbled at the feet of his father. As for the son who remained, his bitter heart had squelched the possibility of love and forgiveness until his father confronted him.

I learned that about the story. But only after I became the son who ran away. Who went West to 'find myself' and 'figure things out'. In truth, I left to escape. To do what I wanted. To have freedom.

And then one day while in Seattle, I pulled the picture from the dusty closet and realized that I was the younger son. The son who ran. Though it took me time to atone, I did approach my old man. Perhaps not to return for good, but the story never said that the younger son returned for good either. But to return and ask forgiveness.

My father, good to his word, served the fatted calf - well I had veal parm at Pagliacci's - and accepted me lovingly into his arms.

When I returned to Seattle, I searched the painting again and found new meaning. The story is truly remarkable in its depth. I suggest you read it, even if you're not a Christian. And meditate on it. You will learn more about yourself than you previously knew. Luke 15:11-32