Tobit 9-14

The heartwarming story of Tobit and his family continues. Tobiah sends his travel companion ahead to recover the money his father had left for safekeeping with his kinsman, Gabael. Raphael returns with Gabael in tow, eager to join the joyful wedding celebration. Knowing his parents must be anxious for his return, Tobias and his new wife depart her parents' home after the two week celebration to head off for Nineveh. They are given a very warm and loving send off. It's a small thing, but to me it reinforces how marriage is (or can be, or should be) a joining in love of two families, not just two individuals.

Meanwhile, Tobit and Anna are very worried about their son, with Anna sure something terrible has happened. When Tobiah nears Nineveh, he and Raphael actually run ahead of the rest of their party, in order to get to Tobiah's parents sooner. His mother, keeping watch of the road (like the Prodigal Son's father, right?), sees him first. Tobiah greets his joyous parents, and then, at Raphael's direction, rubs the fish gall into his father's eyes. Tobit's sight is restored. "I can see you, son, the light of my eyes!" Tobit exclaims. Beautiful.

Raphael finally reveals himself, and urges Tobit and his family to "continue to thank God every day; praise him with song." He goes on to say: 

Behold, I am about to ascend to him who sent me; write down all these things that have happened to you.

Reminds me of Jesus' own Ascension.

Tobit sings a wonderful song of praise. He instructs his son and family about the future:

Now, children, I give you this command: serve God faithfully and do what is right before him; you must tell your children to do what is upright and to give alms, to be mindful of God and at all times to bless his name sincerely and with all their strength.

Tobit dies. Tobiah and his family leave Nineveh, as Tobit had instructed them, and a short time later Nineveh is destroyed.

I love this book. Tobit is a simple man, a family man. Loving and hopeful. He endures patiently and with equanimity, never losing confidence in God and never ceasing to try to do what is right. Unlike the heroes of the Old Testament stories before this, he doesn't do great or miraculous things. Rather, he is a simple man who is faithful of heart. 

Judges 9-12

This passage provides a glimpse of an especially flawed character. Abimilech, son of Gideon, assembles a band of shady characters, paying them with silver shekels from the temple of Baal. Together, they murdered Gideon's 70 (!) other sons--all except the youngest, Jotham, who escaped. Jotham warned the citizens of Shechem of what would befall them if they placed their faith in Abimilech. As time passed, a conflict with Shechem arose and Abimilech and his army captured that city and slaughtered its inhabitants in most gruesome ways. He and his army proceeded to the city of Thebez, where he was undone by a woman who dropped half a millstone on his head from a tower that he and his army were storming. To avoid the "shame" of being slain by a woman, Abimilech ordered one of his own men to take his life before his millstone injury killed him. This is presented as God's justice providing an appropriate punishment to Abimilech. Two more judges, Tola and Jair, appear and disappear with hardly a mention, and then Israel falls into the hands of the Ammonites and Philistines because of their unfaithfulness to the Lord. 

For 18 years the Israelites suffered, and at first God turned a deaf ear to their cries for mercy, offended by their disobedience and by their lack of gratitude for all He had done for them. But the Israelites continued to cry out, "We have sinned. Do to us whatever you please. Only save us this day." They cast out the false idols they had been worshipping. In a beautiful image, we learn that the Lord was moved: "He grieved over the misery of Israel." Isn't that an incredible notion? God grieved for the Israelites because their lack of gratitude, their faithlessness, their sinfulness, their turning away from Him, had resulted in deep suffering in their lives. 

Does God grieve for me when I turn away from Him and cause myself to suffer? Does God the Father suffer when I suffer in this way? There was a heresy known as Patripassianism about which I hope to write more at some point. It advanced this notion that God the Father suffers. But there is apparently no room in Catholic doctrine or philosophy for this concept. If God is perfect, He has no lack. Suffering implies a lacking of a sort--an emptiness or absence where happiness or joy or fulfillment should be. Since God lacks nothing, He cannot suffer. Only in the humanness of Jesus Christ does God allow Himself to experience suffering. But God the Father cannot suffer. I find this difficult to accept. Not because God the Father isn't perfect, but because God the Father is a father, like me. It is hard for me to conceive a father NOT suffering in watching his children suffer. This passage, where God "grieved over the misery" of the Israelites is a far more fatherly image to me than the Father I meet in Catholic doctrine. The parables of Jesus, such as the Prodigal Son and the Good Shepherd reinforce this notion of a suffering Father for me.

This passage continues with the story of Jephthah and some other minor judges, leading up to the time of Samson, to be covered in the next passage.

Rembrandt's Return of the Prodigal Son

I was asked to write a Lenten reflection on Rembrandt's Return of the Prodigal Son.  

I thought I would share my reflection:

**********************************************************************  
I have always found it painful to look at Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son.  Not because it isn’t beautiful, for it is.  Rembrandt is rightly recognized as one of history’s greatest painters, best known for his portraits.  Here, somewhat out of character for him, Rembrandt has actually painted something happening.  He’s given us a moving scene of a father and son reuniting.  The son is humbled, wasted, bedraggled, sorrowful—pitiful, really.  The father, for his part, looks like he has reached out to embrace his son but missed, as the son has fallen at his feet.  In his finery, the father lays his hands tenderly on his son’s back, lovingly pulling him close.  It is achingly beautiful.

But the reason I find the painting difficult to look at is the way Rembrandt has painted me, there on the right.  Yes, I am the older son.  Look at me.  I stand above my father and brother.  Do you see me looking down at them, disapproving of them, wringing my hands, and judging them?  It’s all there, isn’t it?  My face is pinched.  While my father’s arms are open, mine are closed.  While my father bends to embrace and comfort my brother, I keep my distance. 

And why shouldn’t I?  My brother turned his back on us; walked away from us; abandoned us.  He spent half of my father’s inheritance.  He has incredible nerve coming back here and throwing himself at my father’s feet now.  And what is my father thinking?  What about me?  I worked hard.  I did everything my father asked.  I stayed!  Where’s my fatted calf?  Let my brother throw himself at my feet, and beg for forgiveness; let him tell me how he’ll make it up to me.  Then maybe we can talk.

And I’m right, am I not?  I have read God’s Word.  You can read it, too.  Read Exodus, Leviticus, Numbers.  It’s all there.  God tells Moses to exile the sinners and to stone those who don’t obey His commands; He teaches “an eye for an eye”; and He prohibits the faithless from entering the Promised Land.  Why?  Because God is just.  God is fair.  We live in a world that would be chaos without laws and without rules.  If there aren’t consequences when the rules aren’t followed, then what is justice?  But the message of Jesus’ parable seems quite different.

Well, what did Rembrandt think?  Let’s look at the choices he made.  He could have painted this scene many ways.  In fact, the “moment” he chose to paint does not even “occur” in the parable Jesus told.  There is no scene where the brothers are together. The father is alone when he embraces the younger son. Later, the father steps out of the party alone to speak to the older son, who has refused to join the celebration.  Rembrandt could have chosen not to paint me at all; or he could have painted me looking away.  But he didn’t.  If you look carefully at me, you’ll see that I am not standing straight.  My upper body has begun to tilt toward my father and brother.  I am all about justice and doing the right thing, but Rembrandt somehow knows that even my heart is drawn to my father’s love and mercy, to my brother’s humility and sorrow.  All hearts are called to God’s love and mercy—although we don’t always recognize it. 

There is something incredible and incomprehensible about the father’s choice and about God’s choices—to create us, to love us, and to forgive us again and again.  God’s justice is not our justice.  His capacity for forgiveness and his desire to forgive are boundless.  Jesus surely had this in mind when he shared the parable, and Rembrandt when he painted this scene.  For my part, although I am the older son, I will try to allow myself to be drawn toward God’s mercy as someone called both to forgive and to be forgiven.

**********************************************************************  

Genesis 45:16-48:7

Joseph's story continues. He is reunited with his father, Israel, who is retrieved by some ofhis sons and brought to the land of Egypt. On the way, Israel has a dream in which God confirms to Israel that he should journey to Egypt, and reaffirms His covenant, telling him that "there [i.e., in Egypt] I will make you a great nation." Joseph rides out to meet his father, Israel, in a scene that reminds me of the parable of the Prodigal Son. Joseph exclaims, "At last I can die, now that I have seen for myself that Joseph is still alive", calling to mind the story of Simeon in the temple when Mary and Joseph bring Jesus to be presented at the temple. The story goes on to describe how Joseph is able to husband and then share all of the resources of Egypt to get its people through the famine, but in exchange they are forced to give up all their money and possessions, and eventually to hand themselves over as slaves to Pharaoh, in exchange for the food they need to live. At first I found this unsettling and distasteful even. But thinking more about it, doesn't Jesus ask us to give up our money and possessions and even our lives to follow Him? Perhaps not literally, but in our attachment to these things.