As a pre-teen in Sunday School, I never got the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Maybe because I was the good son. "What the hell, Dad?!?! You know Eric is a loser!" Well, I didn't say that out loud, of course, because saying "What the heck, Dad?!?!?" really wouldn't have carried the same weight.
I truly was the good son.
When I got married, my wife would ask me about my childhood. (Let's say my wife's family was full of… characters. Some lovable, some not so much.) I would shrug and say, "I was the perfect child." My wife found this ridiculous. I wasn't proud of it. I thought of myself as boring and could only dream of being dangerous at even the cherry bomb in the school toilet level. One year, we're visiting my mom for Thanksgiving and my wife catches me alone and tells me, "I told your mom you always say you were the perfect child and asked her if it was true," she said.
"And?" I asked, hoping some repressed childhood memory of delinquency would be revealed, retroactively establishing my badassery.
"She said, 'You know, he really was.'," my wife said.
So, yeah, I was the good son and I really didn't get why dad threw a party with the finest meats (you really needed to watch your weight if you were a calf back in the AD) and cheeses when the prodigal son returns, a failure, destitute. I stayed in school. I didn't do drugs. Where was my party?
Admittedly, I was already an atheist. A bit of a cynic. Always asking uncomfortable questions. I was only going to Sunday School for my mom (you, know, perfect child). I learned the materials. I took the quizzes. I got A's like I always did in public school. (Important safety tip: Always check your work and always be sure to circle the T next to the "Do you believe Jesus is the Son of God?" question. Trust me. It's worth more than 5% of the test score despite being just 1 of 20 questions.) But I really didn't get much of it in the sense of understanding anything I was seeing (and hearing) during my time in the church. I was not filled with the Holy Spirit and it didn't appear anyone else was either.
It was only later in life that I came across an observation that provided clarity. And it was this:
The Bible is a collection of bedtime stories for children; lessons - or warnings - that would help them grow up to be productive members of society.
(I'd give credit where credit is due but I really don't remember the source. Apologies for that.)
Suddenly, the Parable of the Prodigal Son made total sense to me.
If your child runs off to the circus - or to the Egyptians - you want him to know that whatever he's said or done, however he spent his money, whatever the results of the paternity tests, no matter how many states have warrants out for his arrest, you still love him and will welcome him back with a back-yard barbeque featuring heart-clogging amounts of red meat, colon-flushing stacks of corn on the cob, coolers filled with Bud Light for the parents and caffeine free Diet Coke for the future prodigal sons and daughters, and illegally purchased fireworks to cap off the day as it turns to night.
So, the story wasn't about me. Maybe that was the lesson I needed to learn. Besides, I still get to go to the party.
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