Driving to work the other day, listening to the news, I suddenly realized that I'm "The Other Son". In the parable of the Prodigal Son, I've not thought much about the Other Son, the one who stayed home, did what his father asked him to, and in general Did The Right Thing. The story is all about the Prodigal, who breaks the Commandments, repents, and comes home. I especially identified with him when I made my first Confession as a Catholic -- receiving Absolution was an overwhelming sensation of ... renewal, cleansing, I don't know how to describe it.
Until now, I've never really understood why Jesus has the Other Son protest so strongly when his Father celebrates the return of the Prodigal. But as the news about bailouts and handouts and stimulus packages circulates, I understand. I've done the right thing, I've not been victimized, I've managed my life and my finances so that at least so far I am able to fend for myself. Businesses that should have known better have taken money and squandered it, and now the government is effectively killing the fatted calf for them. Where is MY reward?
Friday, March 13, 2009
Thursday, February 12, 2009
Great love has no one...
I saw this years ago but can never think of love without remembering this scene.
I was at the light rail station waiting for the train home late in the afternoon one September day. On the platform across the tracks a man held a sleeping boy and walked slowly up and down the platform. The child looked to be three or four years old, and the man was not tall. The boy’s head rested on the man’s shoulder, his legs swung gently, his feet were level with the man’s knees.
The tenderness of the scene was unmistakable. The pair was on their way somewhere and the boy was tired. The father carried him to help comfort him to sleep, and walked back and forth to sooth him. I watched them for a quarter hour until my train came, captured by the scene of complete love.
But what made the scene iconic was not the living figures but an ignored object. Against the bench behind the pair leaned a heavy cane, and the father walked with a heavy, labored limp.
I was at the light rail station waiting for the train home late in the afternoon one September day. On the platform across the tracks a man held a sleeping boy and walked slowly up and down the platform. The child looked to be three or four years old, and the man was not tall. The boy’s head rested on the man’s shoulder, his legs swung gently, his feet were level with the man’s knees.
The tenderness of the scene was unmistakable. The pair was on their way somewhere and the boy was tired. The father carried him to help comfort him to sleep, and walked back and forth to sooth him. I watched them for a quarter hour until my train came, captured by the scene of complete love.
But what made the scene iconic was not the living figures but an ignored object. Against the bench behind the pair leaned a heavy cane, and the father walked with a heavy, labored limp.
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