Outlaws and Rebels, Every One

Butch Cassidy and The Wild Bunch (Photo Source)

(To celebrate my new web page and in honor of Valentine's Day, I'm re-sharing some old posts this week focusing on the topic of love.  Today's post is from February 2013. Stop back tomorrow for another look at the many ways love finds us.)

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"They crucified two rebels with him, one on his left and one on his right." Matthew 27:38

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My 18 month-old twins saunter through the house with swaggering bravado like two black-hats straight out of the lawless west.  Working together, they form a mafia-esque crime-ring, a rebellious conspiracy against law and order and decency.  Trafficking in black market goods pilfered from the pile of floor-sweepings in the kitchen corner, they gather on the back of the love seat, perched in the window to inspect and trade their haul.  

They rip the heads off of their sister’s dolls and leave graffiti on the living room walls and every time I kneel to zip Isaiah’s coat, Levi circles around behind me and roots through my purse.  A gifted pick-pocket, he snatches my wallet and phone with such speed, stealth and precision that even I, the victim, have to marvel.  

When one is finally caught red-handed, and placed in solitary (ie. the corner) the other comes quickly to the rescue, crouching down beside him, chattering what I imagine are plans of daring-escape and revenge.  Like true accomplices, though, they quickly turn on each other when caught together at the scene of a crime – a mutually enjoyed destruction turns all finger-pointing and tears when the fuzz shows up.  

The other day I watched Levi running through the house with what appeared to be a little shiv.  It sported a jagged, plastic tip and looked capable of inflicting real harm, so I quickly confiscated it, tossing it into the trash.  

As we lay in bed at night, my husband and I hear a “scritch, scratch, scritch” on the bedroom wall near our heads.  Levi’s crib sits just on the other side of the wall, so we sleep head-to-head, divided only by a few thin inches of plaster.  We tell ourselves he’s rubbing the nubby bottoms of his footed pajamas against the wall, but as I lay listening late into the night, I think of that little shiv and wonder if he isn’t tunneling his way to freedom one tiny scratch at a time.  I picture him tumbling through into our bed some night, his face full of surprise and delight to find us there waiting.   

These boys are outlaws, I tell you.  Even so little, so cute, they have a rap sheet a mile-long.   Looking at their round faces, their hair all downy-fluff, I'm reminded that we’re all thieves, all outlaws of one sort or another, every last one of us.  We’re all Davids and Delilahs, Judases and Peters, bent on greed and self-preservation.  We're all convicted, but not condemned, chiseling our way toward freedom, one tiny crack at a time, until at last we fall through the walls built of our own resistance.  Imagine our faces, then, full of surprise and relief to find ourselves landing in the lap of a love so wide and deep even our darkest sins can never exempt us from its reach.   

Return Again: The Blessing of Being a Prodigal (#SmallWonder Link-Up)

After the meeting I feel depleted, empty.

I return home to the house, the woodstove, the dog and cats, the gerbils tucked together into a tight ball in their plastic tunnel.  This internal absence follows me and I try to open my hands, my heart to it.  I feel lost and far from home, not the physical concrete place with the smell of animals and the constant tumbleweeds of shed hair, but the place inside of me. 

I pile wood on the fire in the wood stove and reheat old coffee which I forget to drink before trading Chuck Taylor’s and jeans for wool socks and leggings.  I roll out the yoga mats and cue up a fifteen minute video, hoping to find a pathway home through the stretching out long of legs and limbs and torso.  The little cat winds between my legs, leaving a trail of fur in her wake, then throws herself at my feet, purring.  Bent, with my palms to the mat, I rub her ears, her neck, and her eyes close in pleasure. 

I follow the routine.  Opening, bending, breathing, moving as I am led until, at last, I’m seated on the mat, the video complete.  The practice fails to work its magic this time.  I’m closer to home, but still carrying a distance within.

It’s then I think of the prodigal son, his leaving and the dissolution that precedes his staggering return.  

Every day, I think, that’s me. 

In the parable, the younger son traveled to a distant land and “squandered his property in dissolute living.”  I used to think the point of the parable was how the prodigal son lost himself, but now I see the heart of the matter isn’t how he’s lost, but that he is lost.  Like the older brother who imagines his brother “devoured” the father’s property with “prostitutes,” I imagined dissolute living referred to carnal sins, hedonism in all its various forms. 

And maybe it does. 

But a quick look at an online dictionary tells me “dissolute” comes from the Latin root for the word “dissolve.”  We know the son’s inheritance has been squandered and dissolved, but the prodigal’s turning point has little to do with money lost or sins committed and everything to do with identity. 

“But when he came to himself,” the story goes. 

A Jewish boy, feeding pigs in a foreign land – these external characteristics serve to communicate how very lost this boy has become.  And what identity is it that he’s lost?  It’s not his identity as one who does or does not sin, but rather his identity as one who has a place of belonging.  The boy’s return to himself is intertwined with a return to his father or – as Parker Palmer puts it, the question (or realization) of “who am I” leads, inevitably to the question (or realization) of “whose I am.”

It’s not so much that the prodigal sins, but that he spends his very soul, allowing himself to be dissolved of identity or, more clearly, this is the way in which he sins.  It’s not that his carnal sins don’t matter, but that they merely reflect an inward dissipation. 

And if this is the case, then yes, I am so very much like that prodigal.  

Every day I wander dispensing my gifts as though through their service I might gain some intangible thing – identity, respect, belonging, maybe even also love.  And sometimes in that process I come dangerously close to losing the one thing Jesus says is most valuable of all – soul, spirit, identity or true self.  Richard Rohr refers to it as the “Immortal Diamond.”  A diamond never meant to be spent, traded or squandered, no matter how great the reward.

The good thing about realizing you are in fact the prodigal is in that very moment of recognition lies the invitation to return.  The very awareness of lostness carries within it, like a seed, the memory of belonging. 

Here is where the spiritual disciplines begin, practices which over centuries have been affirmed to help us find the path toward home.  The prodigal is not only one who is lost, but one who returns. 

The most blessed thing about being a prodigal over and over again, which is the case for each and every one of us – is the opportunity it affords us to become experts in the journey toward home.

Blessed are those whom God allows 

to wander near and far, for they 

are the seekers, the finders 

who travel over stream and mountain 

hunting out the paths that lead toward 

home.  Blessed are the lost for they 

shall be found.  Blessed are those who

walk the path toward home.  Toward them

the loving father runs.  

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We finally have a #SmallWonder button!  If you want to use it, simply copy the image, then add it to your post or sidebar with a link to www.afieldofwildflowers.blogspot.com.  

Are you or do you have writer friends local to the PA, Maryland, New Jersey area?  If so, would you consider attending or sharing the information about the upcoming writing retreat to be held here at the farm house?  You can find more details under the Writing Retreat tab.

Welcome to the #SmallWonder link-up.  

What if we chose to deliberately look for the small moments of wonder, the small sparks of presence, of delight or sorrow, of true humanity in which we meet God? 

That's my proposal - that we gather here each week to share one moment of Wonder from each of our days.  

You're invited to link-up a brief post about a small moment of wonder.  Don't worry if your post is too long, too short, or not just right - you're welcome to come as you are.  

While you're here, please do take a look around and encourage at least one other blogger with a comment.   

   

To the Older Brother (All that is Mine is Yours)

Now his elder son was in the field . . . Luke 15:25

"You are not a slave."
That is what I wanted 
to say to you when I saw
you standing far off 
in the field.
And I ran out
to you
also.  

*I really like this painting, but was unable to find the artist.  Anyone have any ideas?

The Dutiful Son

He worked all day in the fields, starting when the dew shimmered on the cool grass and pausing only to drink a little water in the high heat of the midday sun.  Great, dark circles of sweat, dried now, stain his cloak and the blisters on his hands are open, oozing.  He’s spent, exhausted and under the exhaustion simmers a low-level frustration at all that remains to be done.  Looking up, he notices that slowly, one by one, the servants are dropping their tools and heading toward the house. 

Soon he’s alone in the field, the only one left. 

He finishes his row then stops to tidy up the poorly finished work of a hired hand.  Mumbling to himself, he thinks how nice it would be if they could hire someone as diligent, as neat in their work as him.  Someone who shows up on time and doesn’t quit til the job’s done and maybe even works an extra hour or two.  He smiles a wry smile, imagining a whole field full of workers, carbon copies of himself moving in lock-step to get the job done the right way. 

The image is quickly followed by the thought that just two of him would be enough and his smile fades as the memory of his brother returns.  With the memory comes a surge of anger that swells from somewhere deep in his gut, rising like bile before he quickly and automatically swallows it back down. 

He has a headache that’s made worse by the glare of the late setting sun and his shoulders are tight and stiff.  With a sigh, he turns toward the house. 

He walks slowly, dreading the quiet dinner with his father who too often sits staring into the distance.  When he’s not staring he talks longingly about old days when the two boys bustled through the house and fields together, tumbling along after their father like puppies, eager and excited.  Though shaded with joy and laughter, the stories are too familiar and from a past too distant to feel real and the most the older brother can muster in response is a sullen and sulky silence.  Every time he launches into his own story about a detail of the day's work he's haunted by the uneasy feeling that his father's isn't really listening.  Loosing confidence, he slows and lets the story hang unfinished over the table, like a question that has no answer. 

Climbing the small slope toward the house, he senses a hum of energy in the air, something like the pause before a long-awaited storm.  In the distance, the servants appear to bustle with excitement.  One runs past shouting and another runs in the opposite direction wearing a look of surprise and astonishment. 

With the excitement comes music, loud and cheerful, that gets louder with every step and grates on his already aching head.  The music is pierced with shouting and singing as though a party were in full swing. 

Grabbing the sleeve of a servant running by, he demands to know what’s going on. 

The startled servant’s look of joy vanishes as she stares into the older brother’s questioning eyes.  The feeling that she’s been caught doing something she shouldn’t is immediate, but she pushes it down, trying to regain her cheer.  Breathlessly, she explains, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.”

Her words don’t make sense. 

He stares at her, not comprehending. 

Taking advantage of the moment, the young girl runs off, back toward the house, visibly shrugging off the older brother’s dark look as she draws closer to the music and dancing.

Scraps of the servant’s words, “Your brother.”  “Your father.”  “The fatted calf.”  echo inside his head as he tries to make sense. 

When it finally dawns on him his back stiffens and he draws back, pulling himself up to full height as he looks toward the house.  His heart that was already brittle, stiff and sore turns to stone and sits heavy in his chest. 

“Your brother.”  “Your father.”  “The fatted calf.” 

The duty, the devotion that carried him through the long, aching day, gives way without warning to a deep rage.  He turns and strides off into the quickly falling darkness like a lost soul.  

He paces behind the house.  He can’t go home, yet he doesn’t know where else to go, so he broods like a storm cloud on the horizon. 

Then his father is there, his face full of apology and understanding and unspeakable joy at the younger brother’s return.  Had his father commanded him to join the party, he would have obeyed, but it’s the old man’s pleading, his unwillingness to just leave him alone in the cool darkness that forces open the cloud of furry that’s been growing older brother’s chest.  

His false motivations and his deep sense of being unloved come pouring out in a torrent of rage.  A deep complaint wells up from within his heart, “Listen!” he barks, raising his calloused hand, commanding the attention that's already his, “I’ve been working like a slave for you.”  His voice is high, sharp and piercing and spittle flies with his emphasis. 

His tirade continues, each sentence flying at the old man who stands with watery eyes, his hands hanging at his sides, palms up, as if in preparation for an embrace.  

The party continues, the music rising and dropping in the background as the son spews the anger and hurt that has been his companion in the years since his brother abandoned them both.   

Finally, embarrassed and sweating, he's done and stands, breathing heavily, eyes averted.  He's told his version of the story and waits empty-handed for his father to confirm or deny it. 

"I'll leave," he thinks, in the pause that comes after the fading of his words.  Desolate, he lifts his head briefly as if in challenge before turning his muscled body toward the night. 

Light as a feather, his father's wrinkled hand shoots out and catches his sleeve, holding it tight with the fierce strength of love as he speaks the only word he knows can break the darkness, "Son," the old man said, "son."   

This post is linked with Playdates with God and Hear it on Sunday, Use it on Monday.

Filled With Compassion

"But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion . . ."
                                                                                                                  Luke 15:20

First comes the divestment,

the division of all you have,
blessed, broken and given,  
like bread.   

Then the wait begins,

the long, empty hours and days

wherein you wander the vacant

halls of your life,

emptied of all that owned you.
 

Your life is a bowl now,

open,

hollowed out,

exposing a growing

breadth and depth of love,

a willing humility.  

Then and only then

may you be filled

with compassion,

filled with that which reaches out

beyond the borders of you,
beyond emptiness,
to embrace
one come home.