The Prodigal Son's Brother

Remember Jesus’ parable of the prodigal son? It’s the one where the younger son squanders his share of the family estate in wild living, only to have his father throw a lavish party when junior finally goes broke and crawls back home with his tail between his legs. Sometimes people forget that there was an older son in the story, too—one who had been carrying the load all by himself while little brother snorted coke in the bathroom of some seedy nightclub (or whatever spoiled rich kids did in biblical days). Big brother never got a party to honor his faithfulness, so he was none too happy about all the fuss over junior’s return.

Well, I, for one, always thought the older brother had a legitimate beef. He did the right thing year after year, got taken for granted, and watched some immature coke-head get all the attention. That sequence of events would be tough for anyone to swallow without feeling a tad resentful.

I know because I sometimes felt like the big brother during my last year at Golden Gate. I kept trying to do the right thing—build a strong marriage, work hard, get good grades, pour myself into two young churches—but it was all a bit exhausting. And Pastor John did not seem like the man to turn to for sympathy, fond as he was of statements like, “Relax? That’s what heaven is for!” and “Technically, a biblical workweek was 72 hours.” John based that last number on the agrarian societies that dominated Bible times, where people worked six days per week from sunup to sundown. To him, those were the good old days.

The ever-increasing efforts eventually left me feeling like the older brother in the parable. New people were coming into the churches, and while most of them weren’t exactly fiscally irresponsible coke heads like the prodigal son, there was no question that each Sunday service was a party thrown in their honor. Every last detail had been carefully orchestrated to make them feel welcomed, put at ease, and valued. But there weren’t any parties for the poor schmucks who were making it all happen.

As one of the worker bees, I sometimes fantasized about donning a disguise and trying to pass myself off as a non-Christian visitor with a shady past—just so I could get a taste of the prodigal son treatment. Of course, when these thoughts came, I recalled that the older brother was not exactly the hero of Jesus’ story and tried to will myself to be happier that things were going so well at church.

When that didn’t work, I reminded myself that if they stuck around long enough, all the newbies would eventually become worker bees themselves. And as they wondered where the party went, these ex-prodigals might also find some sympathy for the dutiful older brother.

This made me feel a little better. But not much.

Follow Me

As I mentioned in my last post, Jesus’ disciples were a mysterious lot. Some are barely mentioned apart from collective references to “The Twelve.” But we know that each of them was called to follow Jesus, and each one did so. And the Gospel stories suggest that these life-changing decisions were made on the spur of the moment, with two brothers dropping their fishing nets in a flash and a tax gatherer leaving his collection booth with scarcely a look back.

I’ve always found these stories puzzling, especially when I try to picture them in today’s terms. Sometimes I imagine Jesus passing a construction site or wandering through a maze of cubicles in a high-rise office building. “Follow me,” he calls to selected individuals. But I can never envision someone dropping a sledgehammer or pushing aside a keyboard to tag along, leaving behind their careers, car payments, and gym memberships at the drop of a hat (well, maybe the gym memberships, which they probably weren’t using anyway).

Intriguing as Jesus and his invitation might be, wouldn’t the called ones have a few questions about the proposed travel itinerary and the availability of health insurance? I know I would. But maybe these modern-day scenarios do not offer a fair comparison. These are the things I wondered about heading into New Testament Survey at Golden Gate Seminary.

The class was taught by the intimidating Dr. M, who opened each class by reading from the Greek New Testament, translating to English on the fly. During the first half of the semester, Dr. M dealt with the origin of the Gospels, including the famous “Synoptic Problem” surrounding the first 3 Gospels. Matthew, Mark, and Luke follow the same basic structure and, at some points, agree verbatim with one another. So how did this come about? Did God just happen to inspire them to write certain portions of their books identically, or did the authors start with a common source and add their own material?

Such questions introduced an undercurrent of tension to the classroom, as some students felt that we needed to focus on the Gospel texts themselves instead of a bunch of “hypothetical mumbo-jumbo.” I shared these concerns only to the extent that I hoped to get some answers on the disciples. And eventually, I got a few. Toward the end of the semester, Dr. M talked about the common practice in biblical times for a rabbi or sage to travel with a group of hand-picked disciples. He felt that Andrew, Peter, John, and the rest had probably heard of Jesus—perhaps even met him—before being asked to fill culturally recognizable roles.

That made sense, but it also took some of the romance out of the whole thing. So I preferred to believe that 12 crazy gamblers saw at first glance that Jesus might be a man worth following to God-knows-where. Travel itineraries and health insurance be damned.

The Keychain

As a child, I always attended the week-long Vacation Bible School held every summer at First Baptist Church. One year, it was announced that the first child to successfully memorize the names of Jesus' 12 disciples during VBS would receive a special prize. The teacher then held aloft a glimmering silver keychain with 12 charms—each shaped like the profile of a man's face and etched with the name of one of the disciples.

Instantly, I was gripped by a fierce determination that this keychain would be mine at any cost. Glancing about at my competitors, I noticed that most had adopted an indifferent—even blank—expression, but this did not reassure me in the least. Why, any number of these kids could show up the next day, rattle off the names of Peter, John, and whatever the other ten disciples were called, and take home the prize. And I couldn’t let that happen.

So that night, I worked feverishly to memorize the list of disciples, gleefully noting that since 2 of them were called James, I only 11 different names to learn. I kept rehearsing the list in my head the next morning as a new session of VBS got underway, while my colleagues pretended to busy themselves with chit-chat and bubble gum. Then, to my dismay, the teacher launched right into the day's activities with no mention of the contest. Singing time gave way to Bible story time, which was followed by craft time—and still no word of the keychain. By snack time, my nerves were shot, and I tentatively raised a hand.

“Yes, Steve, do you need to go to the bathroom?”

“No, ma'am. I want to say the names.”

“Names?”

“Of the disciples. I'm ready to say them.”

“Honey, you've got all week to learn those names. I didn't mean for you to do it all in one night!”

“But I’m ready now. Can I say them?”

“Well, alright.”

I went home with the glittering keychain that day, my joy undiminished by the fact that, as an 8 year-old, I had no real keys to speak of. And I developed a life-long fascination with the 12 men whose names had won me a moment in the sun. Who were they, really? Why were they chosen? With one or two exceptions, the Bible’s descriptions of these men’s lives and motivations were as lacking in detail as the silvery profiles hanging from my keychain.

So it was that I entered my New Testament Survey class at Golden Gate seminary haunted by a dozen men on a silver keychain, just as Elisha and the Bears had stalked my entry into Old Testament class a year earlier. Would I get some answers this time around?

Redness of Eyes

Friends here in the Northern California wine country sometimes express disbelief upon hearing of Golden Gate Seminary’s alcohol ban, a prohibition I mentioned in a recent post. Coming from Tennessee, though, this rule didn’t strike me as even slightly odd. Back home, our pastor only departed from his normal subject matter—the need to accept Jesus Christ as personal Lord and Savior—for one reason. To denounce the evils of alcohol. No Bible-believing Christian, we were often reminded, had any business even shopping in a store that sold liquor, much less drinking the stuff themselves. When turning to this familiar theme, our pastor invariably preached from Proverbs 23:29-30, which says:

Who hath woe? Who hath sorrow? Who hath contentions? Who hath babbling? Who hath wounds without cause? Who hath redness of eyes? They that tarry long at the wine; they that go to seek mixed wine.

Hearing all this, I, for one, had to agree with the pastor. Even though I wasn’t entirely sure what “contentions” were, they didn’t sound like something I wanted to “hath” any more than I wanted to experience anything else in that list. Especially redness of eyes, which sounded kind of gross.

Now, I suppose some folks felt that these denouncements of alcohol were a bit overdone, given the fact that Jesus’ first known miracle was turning water into wine at a wedding in Cana. But the preacher, being more wily than he looked, was ready for that objection. When preaching his “red eye” sermon, he patiently explained that the wine available in Jesus’ time had no more alcohol in it than the Welch’s grape juice we drank during the Lord’s Supper. Jesus had, in reality, been concocting a healthy, refreshing drink for all the wedding guests and could in no way be viewed as contributing to insobriety.

Hearing that was always a load off my mind, and it made me grateful that by the time Jesus came on the scene, they had stopped making that Old Testament wine that Proverbs said you shouldn’t tarry over. I had missed that fact completely with my simple, literal reading of Scripture, so it was nice to have things explained so clearly.

Elisha and the Bears - Part 2

Some time after completing Old Testament class at seminary, I volunteered with a Marin County literacy program. While attending a training session at a large Catholic Church in San Rafael, I struck up a conversation with an older woman at my table. She was surprisingly pleased to learn that I was an aspiring minister.

"I’ve never been a church-goer," she said. "But I just became a grandmother and am starting to think that my grandson needs some kind of spiritual training."

Of course, I was quick to agree, and we went on to have a pleasant discussion. Later, this woman returned from a break clutching a large, colorful book. Taking matters into her own hands, she had purchased a children’s Bible for her grandson from the church bookstore, which she began to flip through excitedly. After a moment, though, her eyes grew wide with shock.

"This is horrible!" she gasped. "It shows God sending snakes to bite people after they disobeyed Him. But God never did that, did He?"

Here she held the book up to my face, where—sure enough—I saw a picture of cartoonish snakes attacking a mob of terrified Israelites. I was all-too familiar with this story from the book of Numbers, so pleading ignorance was out. But what could I say to this confused and upset woman? In hindsight, perhaps I should have launched into a lengthy explanation of the JEDP theory I had learned in seminary—in hopes of inducing a catatonic state that would last until the training resumed. But at the time I froze up like one of the kids who got eaten by Elisha’s bears in the box canyon, only managing to stammer, "Well, that story wouldn’t have been my first choice for a children’s Bible, that’s for sure."

"So you’re saying these snakes really are in the Bible. That settles it!" And with that, my companion stormed off to get her money back, and I was left alone with my thoughts. Though, really, there was only one thought:

"Lady, you don’t know the half of it."

Elisha and the Bears - Part 1

After sitting through countless sermons and Sunday School lessons as a kid, I thought I knew Scripture pretty well. But just to be sure, I decided to read the Bible from cover to cover the summer before entering seminary. And I quickly encountered several stories that had not made it onto the flannel-graph boards at First Baptist Church.

Take the story of Elisha in 2 Kings 2, for instance. As this great prophet traveled from Jericho to Bethel, a group of young lads began to taunt him, calling out, "You baldhead!" In response, Elisha cursed the boys, whereupon two bears came out of the woods and mauled 42 of them. As I read this tale for the first time, several problems became immediately apparent:

1. It seemed like Elisha—being a prophet and all—could have been a shade more thick-skinned about these little jests. Why so touchy?
2. How did 2 bears maul 42 boys? After the first 6 or 8 went down, you’d think the rest of them would run like hell. Were they trapped in a box canyon or something?
3. What spiritual lesson is being imparted here, exactly? "Thou shalt not ridicule middle-aged prophets with male-pattern baldness?"

And that was a fairly mild example of the bloodshed—much of it apparently ordered by God. What was going on here? Fortunately, I had signed up for an Old Testament class at Golden Gate, where such questions were sure to be resolved. And on the first day of class, my hopes soared when I found the OT professor to be smart, engaging, and dedicated to the integrity of Scripture. But as the semester wore on, we focused more on the formation of the Old Testament than the meaning of individual texts. And learning about the JEPD theory of the Pentateuch’s authorship didn’t help much with Elisha and the bears.

After a while, I feared we were ignoring the elephant in the room: a literal reading of the Old Testament left us with the jarring notion of God-sanctioned violence. And I was about to discover that others sometimes bumped into the same elephant.

Armed & Dangerous

In the men’s dorm at Golden Gate Seminary, my first roommate was a clean-cut young man from Washington state who I will call "Ernie." At first, Ernie seemed overly pious, often dropping phrases like "Praise the Lord" and "God willing" into conversations. However, another side of Ernie was revealed one day when he pulled several firearms out of his closet and began handling them lovingly. "Are you a hunter?" I asked warily, as Ernie slid a .380 Beretta into a shoulder holster.

"No," he replied, "but I do believe in self-defense."

As Ernie sighted down the barrel of a 12-gauge riot gun, I gently suggested that, in the unlikely event a criminal mastermind decided to steal our ancient microwave, peppering him with small arms fire was not the most Christian of responses.

Ernie was ready for that one, countering, "Before he was arrested, Jesus told the disciples to buy swords, so why can’t a Christian have weapons?"

"But Jesus also told Peter to put his sword away when he actually started to use it!" I insisted, as Ernie shrugged and returned to his arsenal.

Such are the limits of biblical authority. At the end of the day, you still have to choose which verses to emphasize, which interpretations to follow. It's tough to get away from the final authority of human judgement. And if you run across a man who's packing a .380, hope he judges well.