Well, the Anthropocene ruined a Lenten retreat for me... though that might not be a failure. It wasn't through climate, though Spring is apparently a little later than some years, but rather through the subject, the famous parable of the prodigal son (Luke 15).
We were a just manageable twenty-seven people, including a triad of facilitators, hailing from three different Manhattan Episcopal congregations. Different approaches to the story - interpretive, existential, spiritual - were interwoven with smaller and larger group discussions, some skits and one extended guided meditation. It became clear pretty quickly that most of us (the vocal ones, at least) identify with, or at least sympathize with, the younger son, the one who asked for his inheritance, only to squander it in a distant land, hit rock bottom, and return home with a contrite heart. Jesus doesn't tell us why he chose to leave but all assumed he had compelling reason to. The parable was addressed to the grumbling Pharisees, after all, who, like the prodigal's older brother, needed to get off their high horses and open their hearts. It's time for the holier-than-thou to learn a thing or two! Who's really the sinner here?
One of our facilitators, who hails from Puerto Rico, encouraged us to consider the cultural assumptions we bring to our interpretation. These include American individualist ideas about the value of finding yourself, property as a zero-sum thing, and the importance of second chances, as well as a broader biblical presumption in favor of younger brothers. I felt the parable inclining toward supersessionism - the older brother might have done all he should, but clearly the spotlight is on the younger, the one who goes through the hero's quest (yes, we went there); the older's pinched failure to understand what's going on suggests he should get with the program or get out. No wonder he's nonplussed at the turn of events.
As you can divine, I was feeling for the older brother - and not just because I'm an older brother myself! The father in the parable does after all say to the older brother, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we tend not to dwell on those words, just on the implied reproach as he continues, But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found. I remember an earlier discussion of this parable years ago - at church, not a retreat - where everyone admitted they had trouble with the parable because in their own lives they were the older brother, responsible and unappreciated, taken for granted, invisible. It occurred to me this time round that everyone comes from some particular family place or other (complicated, as, for instance, many an elder sibling is the prodigal), and that each has its inherent envies. The father's, the church's, our work is to overcome them with a love which dissolves boundaries. (A prodigal love!) I don't know how the younger son will be reintegrated, but only love can show a way!
But what about the Anthropocene? Early in the retreat, I was musing in a sort of Chinese vein on how unfilial the younger son was, effectively killing his parents in claiming his inheritance while his father was still alive, not to mention rejecting his responsibilities to his family more generally ("my inheritance"?). Not that I'm a fan of the centrality of hierarchy to most systems of filial piety! This seemed like the sort of story told to younger siblings to keep them in line. Yes, it seems unfair that you'll never be the eldest, will always have a secondary part to play (and a smaller inheritance), but what alternative is there? Leave the bosom of the family and everything will fall apart, starting with you! How different from the American myth where each child starts his own family, eldest all...
Still, the younger child takes a portion of the family's wealth - perhaps a third - and squanders it. It's gone forever. It's not a foregone conclusion that the family is going to be able to recover, especially with him back, even if it wishes to. Somehow I got to thinking civilizationally. The younger son was the West, maybe the modern West, maybe the US. You can fill in the rest. ...
Our group's champions of the younger son, justifying his years of "dissolute living" as valuable steps on the way to a deeper sense of self or whatever, bypassing the sense that any sin was committed or real harm done (only one person spoke of restitution), suddenly sounded to me like the impenitent West in the Anthropocene. Whoops, we went and used up what was ours (sic) in meaningless consumption, but you can't blame us for needing to go our own way; in any case you should love us as the father does. Even if the father's superabundant love challenges the "scarcity mindset" of the older brother, the story doesn't tell us how to heal. Like the Book of Job, in its way, it imagines real loss only to suggest all can effectively be restored - a Holocene assumption.
Our reflections were probably very helpful for people at a personal and even interpersonal level. I guess I'm reporting I found them helpful too, if more confronting than comforting. But I am troubled at how questions of justice (including questions of power) were left by the wayside. This is what's going on in those parables in Luke, of course, love is not justice in the human understanding. (The very next parable is the confounding parable of the unjust steward!) In its way, the parable of the prodigal son leaves us with a broken world, which we don't know how to fix. A suitable Lenten reflection after all.
We were a just manageable twenty-seven people, including a triad of facilitators, hailing from three different Manhattan Episcopal congregations. Different approaches to the story - interpretive, existential, spiritual - were interwoven with smaller and larger group discussions, some skits and one extended guided meditation. It became clear pretty quickly that most of us (the vocal ones, at least) identify with, or at least sympathize with, the younger son, the one who asked for his inheritance, only to squander it in a distant land, hit rock bottom, and return home with a contrite heart. Jesus doesn't tell us why he chose to leave but all assumed he had compelling reason to. The parable was addressed to the grumbling Pharisees, after all, who, like the prodigal's older brother, needed to get off their high horses and open their hearts. It's time for the holier-than-thou to learn a thing or two! Who's really the sinner here?
One of our facilitators, who hails from Puerto Rico, encouraged us to consider the cultural assumptions we bring to our interpretation. These include American individualist ideas about the value of finding yourself, property as a zero-sum thing, and the importance of second chances, as well as a broader biblical presumption in favor of younger brothers. I felt the parable inclining toward supersessionism - the older brother might have done all he should, but clearly the spotlight is on the younger, the one who goes through the hero's quest (yes, we went there); the older's pinched failure to understand what's going on suggests he should get with the program or get out. No wonder he's nonplussed at the turn of events.
As you can divine, I was feeling for the older brother - and not just because I'm an older brother myself! The father in the parable does after all say to the older brother, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we tend not to dwell on those words, just on the implied reproach as he continues, But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found. I remember an earlier discussion of this parable years ago - at church, not a retreat - where everyone admitted they had trouble with the parable because in their own lives they were the older brother, responsible and unappreciated, taken for granted, invisible. It occurred to me this time round that everyone comes from some particular family place or other (complicated, as, for instance, many an elder sibling is the prodigal), and that each has its inherent envies. The father's, the church's, our work is to overcome them with a love which dissolves boundaries. (A prodigal love!) I don't know how the younger son will be reintegrated, but only love can show a way!
But what about the Anthropocene? Early in the retreat, I was musing in a sort of Chinese vein on how unfilial the younger son was, effectively killing his parents in claiming his inheritance while his father was still alive, not to mention rejecting his responsibilities to his family more generally ("my inheritance"?). Not that I'm a fan of the centrality of hierarchy to most systems of filial piety! This seemed like the sort of story told to younger siblings to keep them in line. Yes, it seems unfair that you'll never be the eldest, will always have a secondary part to play (and a smaller inheritance), but what alternative is there? Leave the bosom of the family and everything will fall apart, starting with you! How different from the American myth where each child starts his own family, eldest all...
Still, the younger child takes a portion of the family's wealth - perhaps a third - and squanders it. It's gone forever. It's not a foregone conclusion that the family is going to be able to recover, especially with him back, even if it wishes to. Somehow I got to thinking civilizationally. The younger son was the West, maybe the modern West, maybe the US. You can fill in the rest. ...
Our group's champions of the younger son, justifying his years of "dissolute living" as valuable steps on the way to a deeper sense of self or whatever, bypassing the sense that any sin was committed or real harm done (only one person spoke of restitution), suddenly sounded to me like the impenitent West in the Anthropocene. Whoops, we went and used up what was ours (sic) in meaningless consumption, but you can't blame us for needing to go our own way; in any case you should love us as the father does. Even if the father's superabundant love challenges the "scarcity mindset" of the older brother, the story doesn't tell us how to heal. Like the Book of Job, in its way, it imagines real loss only to suggest all can effectively be restored - a Holocene assumption.
Our reflections were probably very helpful for people at a personal and even interpersonal level. I guess I'm reporting I found them helpful too, if more confronting than comforting. But I am troubled at how questions of justice (including questions of power) were left by the wayside. This is what's going on in those parables in Luke, of course, love is not justice in the human understanding. (The very next parable is the confounding parable of the unjust steward!) In its way, the parable of the prodigal son leaves us with a broken world, which we don't know how to fix. A suitable Lenten reflection after all.
