Mr. Responsible and the Prodigal Son

Last year my lifelong faith began to falter. It spiraled into a bleak depression, punctuated with brief reassurances that the Undoing is also a work of God. I had to quit church again. Not because of any personal offenses, but because the prayers and songs and sermons had become hollow. Reading the Bible had become a wrestling match. I had questions that weren’t being answered, and pain that was untouched by well-meaning prayers.

I finally got professional help from a wonderful therapist, and began the journey of unearthing the fear and pain I had buried under “faith.” I took a break from church to untangle my theology, my wrong understandings of Christian love, my compulsive need for approval through service. (I don’t love service, but I never had much luck getting approval in return for my incisive critiques!)

When my boys were younger I prayed with them often, and encouraged them to “hear” God. (A practice of which I have recently become skeptical. I recommend When God Talks Back for an anthropologist’s view.)  My boys would get frustrated that they never “heard” anything. I told them Bible stories and read Proverbs to them and made them sit through many long church meetings.

In my crisis this year, I abandoned teaching my kids much about religion. But in moments when they are afraid, or have questions about God, I still draw on my wells of scripture and experience. And when, in my doubt, I tell them how big and loving God is, when I recite for them “The Lord is my shepherd…”  I believe it a little more myself.

Last night my 9-year-old got out of bed and came to me for comfort. (How many more years will he seek me out?) Someone at school told him about the movie It, and he was afraid.

Important background: I call this child my “Mr. Responsible.” He’s a true first-born--serious, orderly, diligent. He’s been looking out for his younger brother since they were 1 and 3. My husband recently told me, maybe we shouldn’t call him Mr. Responsible. What if he becomes entrenched in that identity and doesn’t learn to take risks? I thought it over.

I have found that the best distractions from fear are beauty and love, especially in stories. (“There’s nothing to be afraid of” is not very effective.)  So I asked my son if he knew the story about Jesus multiplying food. He said yes, and he told me the story.  I asked him about other stories. To my surprise, he told me about Jesus asleep in the boat, Jesus being tempted, and others.

I asked how he knew all these stories!? Last year I gave him the Action Bible, a thick comic book illustrating Genesis to Revelation. Apparently, he read it cover to cover during the summer and I had no idea! His religious education carried on smoothly in my, um, spiritual absence.

Well, the story of the prodigal son was fresh in my mind from a Rob Bell sermon, so I asked him to tell it: The prodigal wastes his inheritance and then goes home ashamed; the father celebrates his return; the faithful, older son is mad about it. My son said the father gave the older son a “lecture” at the end of the story.

“Well, not quite,” I said. And suddenly, the identity of Mr. Responsible rose up in my mind with brilliant clarity: “The younger son believes that his bad choices will make the father not love him, but he’s wrong. And the older son believes that his good choices make the father love him, but he’s also wrong.”

Then I looked my son in the eye intensely to make sure he was listening closely. “The older son thinks the father loves him for being Mr. Responsible, but the father loves him because he’s his son. He would be just. as. loved. if he was not Mr. Responsible.”

My son’s blue eyes drank in my words and his beautiful, crooked lips squished together with emotion. “When you say it like that, I feel all teary!”

“Good! That means it went in!” I grinned.

We talked more about church and the Bible. I told him a little about my recent faith journey, and invited him to visit the Episcopal church down the street with me. "But," I told him, "you’re getting too old for me to force you. It’s ok if you’re not interested. And if you want to go to church regularly--if you want that to be part of your life--I will make it happen."

And for the first time, he nodded and said, "I would like that." When I told him he didn’t have to. When I gave up trying to force him to believe a certain way. Go figure! Maybe I am not quite as lost and confused as I thought.