Summary: A different look at the story of the prodigal son from the perspective of the minimum he saw his father’s house offering him compared to the maximum prepared by his father.
BREAD IN MY FATHER’S HOUSE
A preacher was once invited to an old aged home to conduct a service for the residents. He spent some time agonising over what he was to speak about. He finally settled upon a topic. The talk was focused upon bringing comfort to the hearts of these dear old folk. Looking into their faces, he started his presentation with “You belong…” Before he could continue any further, a ninety-year-old woman sitting near to the preacher in a wheelchair startled everyone by shouting in her high wheezy voice with both distress and longing, “To whom?”
This reminds me of a song written in the mid-60’s by Simon & Garfunkel, “Old Friends,” which is introduced by a series of interviews with individuals at a frail care nursing home. The last interviewee is asked, “Are you happy here?” and she responds with “A just want a room, a room, my own room.”
A place where we belong. A place where we feel safe. A place where we feel welcome. A place we can call home. This is a basic need of each individual, from Angola to Australia, Barbados to Burundi, China to Chile, Manchester United to Manning Rangers—from the 1st world to the 3rd world. From students to teachers, learners to educators, employees to management, street children to business tycoons, it is a need we all experience. Those of you who are familiar with Maslow’s hierarchy of needs you will remember that he lists these factors—home, feeling safe, security, as some of the basic needs common to all societies.
Yet, despite being among the basic needs of humanity, thousands, if not millions, roam the streets without permanent shelter. Vast numbers go to sleep each night without a crumb of bread having crossed their lips that day; not a drop of water to quench their thirst.
Images flicker across the TV screen; images of children with distended bellies; endless streams of refugees headed on a long and winding road to who knows where; emaciated mothers strive to provide some nourishment for their wide-eyed, starving babies, but their attempts frequently prove to be futile.
How often have well-meaning parents tried to persuade their children to “eat all their food up” by referring to the starving masses of Ethiopia, Somalia, or Macedonia?
This brings to mind a familiar story. The classic saga of a gentleman who went from riches to rags. A story of a rich man reduced to the lowest level of society due to some ill-advised decisions, unwise investments and shady deals. A story of a man who fell prey to unscrupulous friends and greedy associates. A story of a man who had been surrounded by the most beautiful women money could buy, but who found himself deserted by them, one by one.
Is this a product of the fertile imagination of a Hollywood scriptwriter? A sample of the best or the worst of Fleets Street’s tabloids? No, friends, a story found in the dusty scrolls of the prophets, scratched out with a quill pen on a parchment scroll by a doctor of years gone by. A story found in the Bible; a story told by Jesus Christ; a story that might well have been written about my life—your life. The story of the lost boy.