The Prodigal Meets The Good Samaritan
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By Don Kenobi
Opening Questions
Does the love of God for us somehow turn to hate — because we asked to go out into the world and live licentiously?
Does the love of a father — a good father — turn to hate because of that child’s choices?
Are good fathers not patient?
And good sons — those raised by good fathers — though they may not at first understand, do they not, in time, hearken to their father?
Who can explain mercy — the inexplicable love of a father?
Would a true and loving father not still love his prodigal son or daughter, or even a neutral-gendered child?
Let’s talk about the parable of the Prodigal Son.
Digression: Why the Prodigal Son, Not the Daughter?
Is it curious that our Lord used a son in the parable — and not a daughter?
I don’t think so.
A daughter who went away to live licentiously would have had no way back — not in the hearts or minds of a first-century patriarchal society. She would have been deemed dishonoured — perhaps even marked for death by her own father.
Only men were permitted the luxury of failure and redemption.
(I’m not sure why this digression is necessary, but I am a bondsman — and my outil de travail is the pen.)
Back to the Son
Now imagine the prodigal, still on his wayward path, still with enough money to live as he pleased. Suppose he came to harm at the hands of another — seriously injured, perhaps even killed — and the news reached his father.
What do you think his father’s reaction would be?
Ahhh… here, the digression sheds its light. (Thank you, Lord.)
Now imagine it was a wayward daughter — still on her wayward path, still with enough money to live as she pleased. Suppose she came to harm — seriously injured, perhaps even killed — and the news reached her father.
Bound by the customs of the time, might he not even have been glad that his shame had been erased?
And if he sent men out, it would not be to avenge her death — rather, to make her grave anonymous if it bore her surname.
Being a girl-father, it is hard to write this — but that was the ethos of the time.
For a prodigal son, you and I know he would have sent men to avenge his son. And even if the son had not survived, he would have sent men to bring his body home — for burial.
For though the son had dishonoured him, he remained a son — and deserved honour still.
The Wrath of a Father
Now imagine one last time — that the son or the daughter, down on their luck, feeding with swine, were killed by cruel hands.
If the father had sent ten soldiers the first time to avenge the death of his son, and none for his daughter, this time, in his wrath, he would send fifty to avenge his daughter — and a hundred for the son.
Because to kill his child — already broken, only trying to survive, hungry, desperate — that, in his eyes, would have been unforgivable.
An act demanding exacting retribution.
For the sin of the son (or the daughter) was against the father alone — against his dignity, his prestige, his honour, and against no other.
Woe unto those who raised a hand against his children. As much as it was within his power, they would suffer his wrath.
The Samaritan Connection
Now let us imagine the parable of the Good Samaritan differently…
Suppose the traveller beaten and left for dead was none other than the prodigal son — on his way home, having wasted himself.
The priest and the Levite pass him by.
But the Samaritan stops.
(You know the Samaritans — Jews who weren’t carried off to Babylon, who intermarried, and were despised by the returnees. Now you know.)
The Samaritan nurses him and takes him to an inn.
The next day, the prodigal awakens. He tells the Samaritan his name, and where he was headed — to his father’s house.
Now imagine the father recognizing his son from afar — running, robe flapping, dignity forgotten.
Imagine the joy, the tears, the feast.
Now imagine the moment he learns who brought his son back home — the Samaritan.
Can you picture the father’s gratitude? His reverence? His love for the stranger who showed mercy when others would not?
Mercy Always Runs Faster than Judgment
Questions we must all answer:
How many prodigal sons and daughters are lost in the world — hungry for grace?
How many lie on the side of the road — beaten by thieves, their joy stolen?
How many have we walked past?
How many lying prone by the wayside have we taken up — and carried to where they might be cared for… or taken home?
How many?
How many fathers, lost in grief for their wayward children, have you sent running down the valley in joy — their robes flapping, their dignity forgotten, weeping as they run to embrace their returning sons or daughters?
How many?
More Questions
What if Judgment saw the traveller beaten and left for dead by the road — and saw that he was gay?
Would Judgment kneel to bind his wounds? Or stand aloof?
Would Judgment look away — to keep his robe unsoiled — while a life slipped quietly into the dust?
But glory to God… Mercy travels faster.
Mercy does not ask for names, or reasons, or righteousness.
Mercy does not pause to weigh the sin — only the suffering.
Mercy runs — robes flapping, dignity forgotten — to embrace the fallen, the broken, the despised.
And when Judgment finally arrives, panting, and finds Mercy already there, cradling the wounded, whispering, “You are still my child.”
It walks away.
Grace is always early — because Mercy always runs faster than Judgment.
I rest my case.
— Don Kenobi
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