In the parable of the prodigal son, the term
"justice" is not used even once; just as in the original text the
term "mercy" is not used either. Nevertheless, the relationship
between justice and love, that is manifested as mercy, is inscribed with great
exactness in the content of the Gospel parable.
It
becomes more evident that love is transformed into mercy when it is necessary
to go beyond the precise norm of justice-precise and often too narrow. The
prodigal son, having wasted the property he received from his father, deserves
after his return to earn his living by working in his father's house as a hired
servant and possibly, little by little, to build up a certain provision of
material goods, though perhaps never as much as the amount he had squandered.
This
would be demanded by the order of justice, especially as the son had not only
squandered the part of the inheritance belonging to him but had also hurt and
offended his father by his whole conduct. Since this conduct had in his own
eyes deprived him of his dignity as a son, it could not be a matter of
indifference to his father. It was bound to make him suffer. It was also bound
to implicate him in some way. And yet, after all, it was his own son who was
involved, and such a relationship could never be altered or destroyed by any
sort of behavior.
The
prodigal son is aware of this and it is precisely this awareness that shows him
clearly the dignity which he has lost and which makes him honestly evaluate the
position that he could still expect in his father's house.
This
exact picture of the prodigal son's state of mind enables us to understand
exactly what the mercy of God consists in. There is no doubt that in this
simple but penetrating analogy the figure of the father reveals to us God as
Father. The conduct of the father in the parable and his whole behavior, which
manifests his internal attitude, enables us to rediscover the individual
threads of the Old Testament vision of mercy in a synthesis which is totally
new, full of simplicity and depth.
The
father of the prodigal son is faithful to his fatherhood, faithful to the love
that he had always lavished on his son. This fidelity is expressed in the
parable not only by his immediate readiness to welcome him home when he returns
after having squandered his inheritance; it is expressed even more fully by
that joy, that merrymaking for the squanderer after his return, merrymaking
which is so generous that it provokes the opposition and hatred of the elder
brother, who had never gone far away from his father and had never abandoned
the home.
Pope John Paul II, Dives
in Misericordia 5-6
Reflection –
St. John Paul II, pray
for us. St John XXIII, pray for us. Sounds nice, eh? We were able to watch
highlights of the canonization Mass in Rome yesterday evening – very beautiful,
very joyous (including the fleeting glimpse of our MH deacon Michael who is
finishing up his studies in Rome this spring).
It is this
quality of joy that strikes me profoundly in this section of the encyclical. I
have to admit that, in spite of having written a whole
book on the subject which includes an entire chapter on the joy and
merrymaking of the household at the son’s return, that the particular point the
pope makes here is new to me.
Namely, that
this joy and merrymaking is the deepest heart of all, of the Father. The
deepest and most perfect expression of mercy and love is not only the
compassion and the care, but the sheer joy at the son’s return. We tend, even
if we genuinely and truly believe in the mercy of God, to think of God in
pretty serious, solemn terms. Perhaps this is natural to us—God does come to us
in the most serious, deep, interior aspects of our being and lives, and few of
us come into the presence of God without a bit of trembling and awe (if we have
the slightest clue of Whose presence we are in, and who we are as His
creatures).
And yet… it
would seem that at the deepest level of God and of our life in God, there is
laughter and dancing, merriment and feasting, not quivering lips and tears and
high solemn ceremony and drama. Life is a comedy, not a tragedy, in the end,
and the comic actor who lowers the curtain in the final act to general laughter
and good humor is the Father of all.
And yet in this,
there is something revealed about God, about us, about the whole of cosmic
reality that is so deep that it is worth pondering. And as we have had occasion
this weekend to think of the saints in heaven and the whole mystery of the ‘upward
mobility’ of Christian life, so to speak, it is good to sit with this picture
of merriment and frolicking fun.
What is heaven
like? We haven’t a clue, really… but we know that we are going to be intensely
happy there, to a degree that we do not achieve except from brief moments on
earth. It will be fun. There will be, in some sense, music and dancing, laughter
and play, fellowship and communion, food and drink. And presiding at the head of
it all, not remote, not a stranger any longer to us, not ‘up there somewhere’
but right there, right in the midst of the fun and the joy, in some strange way
we cannot foresee ‘having fun’ more than anyone, are the Father, Son, and Holy
Spirit, delighting in the mercy they have shown us, delighting that we have
received the gift of mercy, delighting, delighting, delighting in themselves
and in us for all eternity. And that is the heart, the absolute core, the final
word and final reality, of our Christian religion.
Have you ever seen a prodigal son play out like this in real life. I haven't never even heard of one. They are always black holes of anger, recrimination and despair. The best thing that the actors in these sort of tableaus can do for themselves and others is to stay away from each other and make a new life.
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