Читать книгу Nail Scarred Hands Made New - John Shorack - Страница 9

When a young life gets snuffed out in bloody vengeance, life feels fragile and precious, somehow sacred. Emotions hit hard and wide, from anger to sadness and every shade between. The sadness I felt was not only for the loss of Caligallo. I grieved for what I can best describe as veiled hearts and minds. It was as if on the stage of life our vision was blocked by a thick, heavy curtain. Try as I might to look beyond the curtain, I couldn’t. My vision was impaired. I, like my vengeful neighbors, didn’t see Caligallo the person. If it weren’t for Ryan’s determination to break the ice socially, my fear would have kept me away from my offender. My belief in the neighbors’ condemning judgments of the feared malandro would have gone unchallenged. Nor did I see God clearly. After Caligallo was gone, I longed to see the bigger picture of what God was up to.

My prayer became, “Lord, pull back the curtain! Grace me with eyes to see your unfolding drama.” The following reflections come from this prayer—to see with unveiled hearts and minds, to see the story behind the story.

My use of the parable of the prodigal son leans heavily on the work of Kenneth Bailey, a New Testament scholar who lived and worked in the Middle East.1 The parable provides glimpses “beyond the curtain” that reveal God’s hopeful story in this season of pain and sorrow. Bailey’s unique contribution to biblical scholarship is his cultural knowledge of traditional Middle Eastern peasantry, which has remained remarkably similar from the time of Jesus to the present. The dynamic interfacing of the parable with barrio experiences opens up inspiring and compelling theological vistas.

There was a man with two sons. The younger one cursed his father by asking for his portion of the estate. With money in hand, the son went to a faraway land where he squandered his wealth in reckless living. The older son stayed home and worked hard on the land. After a time, the younger son’s money ran out. To feed himself, he worked the most disgraceful jobs imaginable. Then he came to his senses: “I don’t need to suffer like this. Even if my father makes me a hired hand until I recover the money I wasted, it’ll be better than this.” And he set out for home.

Meanwhile, the father had been waiting for his son’s return, watching each day from his front porch. One day, while the lost son was still far off, his dad saw him and was filled with compassion. He ran and threw his arms around him and kissed him. No one could believe their eyes when the father came running down the road like a bloody fool.

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” “I will hear none of it. Quick,” he called to the servants, “bring the best robe and put it on him. Put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. Bring the fattened calf and kill it. We must celebrate! For this son of mine was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found.” And the party began.

The older son was in the fields. When he came near the house, he heard the music and dancing. A servant informed him, “your brother is back and your father is throwing a party for him.” The older son went ballistic and refused to go in. So his father went out and pleaded with him. The son answered, “Look! All these years I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me even a young goat so I could celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours who has squandered your riches with prostitutes comes home, you kill the fattened calf for him!” “My dear son,” the father replied, “you’re always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again. He was lost and is found.” (Luke 15:11–32, my paraphrase)

The Prodigal

Ryan appropriately calls Caligallo a “prodigal.” Like the younger brother in Jesus’ parable, Caligallo wandered away from home and squandered his life and his God-given inheritance in reckless living.

As important as the younger son is to Jesus’ story, and Caligallo to ours, have you ever asked yourself why the parable is named after the prodigal? We all but ignore the older son while marginalizing the father’s importance. The story contains three main characters: the father and his two sons. Solid arguments could be made to cast the older son into the protagonist role. Doesn’t the suspenseful ending ride on his moment of reckoning to enter the party or not? The father too demands special attention. As head of the family and the one who tries to restore things, he is indisputably the representation of Christ, dramatizing Jesus’ mission in simple yet stirring hues.

As we’ll discuss later, the evangelical church has obsessed over the prodigal, making him the heart and soul of the parable. This has led to a lopsided, reductionistic vision of the gospel, something we will look at soon enough.

The Other Son in the Mirror

Perhaps less obvious than Caligallo’s role in our barrio parable is the similarity between my neighbors’ attitude and that of the older brother. Yet my neighbors’ judgment against Caligallo finds good company in the prodigal’s older brother, who judges him unworthy of the father’s acceptance and embrace. The offense I encountered in conversations with neighbors while (self-righteously?) trying to help them see God’s mercy and forgiveness for Caligallo is not unlike the offense the father faces in his conversation with the elder son.

Our ‘peace’ corner where Caligallo died

Before we get too comfortable with likening my neighbors to the obstinate older son, let’s be honest. Haven’t we all reacted like the hardworking, “deserving” older brother at one time or another? If we’re honest about human nature, we’re more like him than we wish to admit. Under ordinary circumstances we, no doubt like the elder sibling, manage to conform to the expected norms of moral conduct. Most of the time we control our anger and do what’s right.

We can also concede that it isn’t every day that our little brother returns under such extraordinary circumstances or that our father displays such extravagant compassion to an undeserving rat. Yet for the older son, his brother’s return precipitates an unparalleled crisis that puts the normally well-behaved brother over the edge.

When we lift our eyes beyond the narrow, exclusive preoccupation with the reckless younger son, previously unseen family dynamic come into view.

Two Heartbreakers

“I’ve been slaving for you and never disobeyed your orders . . .” From listening to the older son you’d think the father is a taskmaster. The older son has been living with his father, conceivably his whole life, yet doesn’t seem to know his father. Rather than resting on first-hand experience of his father’s abundant generosity and graciousness, the older son seems oblivious to such qualities and solely preoccupied with his own performance.

What about the older son’s claim that he never disobeyed his father’s commands? Bailey points out that in traditional Middle Eastern culture, the expected role of the older son would be to intervene and become the mediator between family members in the face of the younger brother’s shameful request. Instead, the older son, as vv. 12–13 imply, remains silent and passive, accepting the division of the estate in which he receives his half.2

The older brother becomes furious at the news of the party and refuses to join in. When he speaks to his father, he breaks the protocol of respect and honor by launching into a lecture. He never addresses him as father.

Bailey points out here too that it’s difficult for us to imagine how insulting his behavior is. He suggests that to better appreciate the nature of the older son’s conduct, we should imagine a wealthy man hosting a black-tie, candlelit dinner for prestigious guests, only to have his son show up at the door unshaven, without shirt and shoes, verbally attacking the host. This analogy, according to Bailey, is too mild to convey the revolting nature of the older son’s behavior. Whereas the younger son’s request for his share of the estate embarrasses his father privately, the older son embarrasses him in front of the whole community.

What sins does the younger brother commit in that faraway land? Certainly he wastes his money on prostitutes and the like. Or does he? The Greek word for “squandered” does not connote immorality. The word means he lacked discipline with his money; he failed to watch his finances. This is important to note.

How do we know that he slept with prostitutes? Curiously, this information comes from the mouth of the older brother. How does he know what his younger brother did? He doesn’t. The comment is the elder brother’s attempt to destroy the restored relationship between the father and his younger sibling. In the context of their community, the elder son knows that if he can make the story stick, no father in the community will give his daughter in marriage to his little brother.

The older son did indeed work diligently in the field. He completed the many tasks that he knew were important to his father. But what does he miss? Where does his blindness lie? He can’t see himself and the true nature of his actions. He blindly uses his stature and fine reputation as the responsible older child to try to ruin the restored relationship between his father and brother. He is also blind to the true character of his father.

Rather than reading this parable as the story of a lawbreaker (the wandering young man) and a law-keeper (the dutiful older one), we must read it as the story of two heartbreakers, for both of them break their father’s heart.

Line Drawing

“Do not judge, or you too will be judged. For in the same way you judge others, you will be judged” (Matt 7:1–2). Isn’t the underlying assumption of Jesus’ command that no one is exempt from the snare of sin and guilt? The point isn’t the grave sins my neighbor might have committed. It’s whether I recognize what I’ve done. When I truly see myself and my actions for what they are, I dare not judge my neighbor. Jesus honored “sinners” and gentiles, who by outward appearances didn’t conform to the standards of decency or that of the Torah-abiding citizenry. Yet unlike the religious insiders, the outsiders saw themselves truthfully and knew they needed God.

One day during this episode Ryan pulled the blinders from my eyes with his provocative query: “Do we really know if Caligallo has killed anyone?” The question alone forced me to question the source of our data and the neighbors’ preoccupation with Caligallo’s sins. How much of his reputation was earned, and how much of it was fabricated by the “older brothers” of our community?

We will never know the exact truth. According to Jesus, this misses the point. Drawing a sharp line between “us” and “them,” the “good guys” and the “bad guys,” inevitably multiplies the bad guys’ sins. Whatever sins Caligallo committed against the community, we can be certain that the neighbors multiplied them, feeding their justification for revenge.

Some might object: Aren’t you judging your neighbors for breaking relationship with a street criminal? I hope not. I’m no different from them. My neighbors were too afraid of Caligallo to talk to him. They didn’t believe it possible to have a normal conversation with him, even though many knew him from birth. I too was afraid to approach him.

I also dare not judge my neighbors because I am different. As a newcomer to the neighborhood, I don’t share their long and beleaguered history of conflicts, misunderstandings, and offenses. The collective accumulation of anger and hurt in the slum escapes me. This clearly gives me and my team greater freedom to develop hopeful relationships.

There are other factors that make it easier for me to be a friend to Caligallo. We are mission workers who are cultural outsiders, and the trajectory that our neighborhood relationships take is into the community to identify with the life of the barrio. We take our missional cues from the “word made flesh,” who was sent in the humility of human flesh to redeem all flesh. This incarnational gospel propels us into the world “as the Father sent the Son” (John 20:21).

We pursue this missional lifestyle while simultaneously benefitting from additional identities that we never lose—our country of origin, our history and language, our family, and our mission community. These deeply meaningful sources of strength provide us with a wider, diversified sense of home and belonging. More important, they lie beyond the slums and therefore cushion us in incalculable ways.

The felt-need of evangelicals in the barrio is to separate from their neighbors. The slums, and this city, are their only world, their only place of identity. For this reason, the world and its destructive currents pose a much more serious threat to them. If local believers lower their guard by fraternizing too closely with “bad” people, the “worldly” forces that surround them will snatch away their new life in Christ. To intentionally remove social barriers with the world is considered unwise, even foolish. Moreover, their motives would be questioned if they were seen hanging out too much with immoral people.

Absolutizing

Line drawing between “decent” people and “unworthy” people creates a false either/or, an artificial choice between good and bad. With a wide angle lens, such line drawing falls within the broader human propensity for absolutizing that which God relativizes.3 To absolutize something is to make it an unchangeable standard, an ultimate reality—something to be adopted, not adapted. When we absolutize a cause, a strategy, or a doctrinal interpretation, we become dogmatic and closed. In our thinking and attitudes we become air tight, unwilling to engage in dialogue with a perceived enemy who could threaten our stance. We cannot love and respect those who hold different views. Though unspoken, the thinking is this: “When I know that I’m right, and that God is on my side, why would I play host to the devil and his schemes?” This attitude precludes any dialogue.

In the political jargon of Washington, DC, this becomes, “We don’t negotiate with terrorists.” In first-century Palestine, it was, “We know the Christ doesn’t come from Galilee” (John 7:41) and, “If he were a real man of God he wouldn’t defile himself with sinners” (Luke 15). In some churches you hear, “Everything must be done with decency and in order.” In others, “Heaven is our destiny and soul winning is why we’re here.” In Venezuelan politics, the slogan of the current government is “Fatherland, Socialism, or Death.”

What do these statements have in common? They absolutize that which we hold dearest. Even though some of these causes might be worthy of our concern, they become anti-gospel and destructive when we give them an authority that belongs to God alone.

Here lies the beauty of our friendship with Caligallo. God used this young man to teach us that a street criminal is much more than a street criminal. Caligallo was a human being (alas, much like myself!). In the parable of the prodigal, the older brother absolutizes his position and status as the worthy son. He deems his brother unworthy, leaving no room for negotiating the matter. To accept his younger sibling as no different than himself—equally guilty and shameful in his actions, and equally welcomed by their father’s embrace—was an unacceptable impossibility.

Our Non-Absolutizing Savior

In Luke 20, when Jesus entered Jerusalem, the teachers of the law sent spies to trap Jesus in his words. The plan they hatched assumed he operated within their framework. Jesus confounded them because he revealed a fundamentally different way of seeing things. The question they posed to him was: Is it right for us to pay taxes to Caesar or not? The question assumed a closed system, a world of absolutized options. Caesar was all-wrong. Israel, with its God-given covenants and law, was all-right. Classic, air-tight thinking. Jesus, they thought, would be forced to reveal his true allegiance. He was either with them or against them. To their surprise, Jesus didn’t fall into the trap. Jesus’ spirituality was different from theirs. He didn’t absolutize the Israelite establishment and its nationalistic cause. Let’s look at what he did.

Jesus took a position above the polemic that pit Caesar against Moses. Does this mean Jesus betrayed Moses and the Jewish nation? It means Jesus didn’t equate Israel and its interpretations of things with God’s. Concretely, it means Jesus wasn’t in step with an Israel whose self-perception didn’t permit them to accept their pagan neighbors as objects of Yahweh’s love and affection.

Am I suggesting Jesus advocated a laissez-faire faith in which ultimate beliefs don’t matter? The counterpoint to not absolutizing isn’t the lack of strongly held beliefs. Jesus held beliefs just as fervently as the scribes and Pharisees. Where, then, does the difference lie? Jesus’ only absolute was his heavenly Father. He didn’t believe in Israel the way he believed in his heavenly Father. Nor did he believe in Moses the way he believed in Yahweh, the God of Moses.

The teachers of the law, chief priests, and Pharisees saw these matters differently. Note that in this diagram their nation is at the extreme left of the horizontal line, with God on their side. To the Jews of Israel, their nation and their understanding of themselves were absolute. To acknowledge that God could be present among a pagan nation like Rome was tantamount to heresy and worthy of condemnation. God was on Israel’s side and against their pagan neighbors. Jesus, on the other hand, removed himself from the false dichotomy. He refused to inhabit the either/or continuum where Israel and Rome dwelled at either extreme. By granting primacy to God alone, Jesus relativized his attitude and allegiance toward both. Neither Caesar nor Moses represented ultimate reality. Nor were they to wield unquestioned authority. Both were flawed instruments with limited powers.

To relativize Rome and Israel didn’t make them equals. Jesus didn’t treat them as if they were one and the same. Rome was Rome, Israel was Israel, and God’s purpose for each was unique. In the prodigal parable, the father’s heart beats for both sons, even as his love expresses itself differently to each.

Jesus is Savior of the whole world. Though this bald declaration may appear cliché, there’s an edge to it that is often lost. God’s primacy over all nations translates into Jesus’ defiling himself and the Twelve by spending two nights in a Samaritan village (John 4). By seeing God’s supremacy as rendering all other causes relative to God’s ultimate Lordship, Jesus affirmed a Roman centurion’s faith as greater than that of “anyone in Israel” (Matt 8:10).

In declaring himself and his mission as the truth (John 14:6), Jesus spoke as one with absolute authority. We, his followers, get tripped up by lending absolute authority to our interpretation of Jesus. As “older brothers” in God’s family, we believe we see truly, when in fact we see through a glass dimly. With family dynamics like this, we need a very special father.

1. Bailey, Cross and the Prodigal.

2. Ibid., 44–47.

3. Eller, Christian Anarchy, 1–47.