The Lost Son: Part 2

The Angry Brother: From Luke 15:11-32

It was especially hot in the field. The clouds, those gracious providers of shade, had decided to take the day off. Sweat dripped down the sides of Micah’s face as he examined a head of wheat. He gently separated each grain with his thumb, counting twelve kernels. He released the stalk and scurried to the next one. He pulled it close and counted. Twelve again. He walked to another and another. All the heads of wheat had twelve kernels. He looked up at the sky as if to summon strength but the sun bore down on him like an adversary, instead.

Last season, the heads of wheat had twenty kernels each. Micah sunk down to a crouch in the dirt. His body was too heavy for standing. He hung his head, taking big gulps of air, trying to swallow his rage like a sinewy piece of meat, made no softer by chewing.

He had done everything right, he thought. He had overseen the entire process of tilling the soil, planting the seeds, and measuring the rain. He practically slept out in the field, cradling the stalks. How could they have yielded such few grains? He counted them each day and they had been the same for weeks. Now that the sun was in the sky at harvesting angle and the wheat was no longer producing its milky substance. This would be the crop for the season.

The thought drove Micah to stand. He reached for the nearest stalk and ripped it out of the ground with fury. The roots stood straight out in the air, stunned by their sudden departure from their home. Micah threw the stalk as hard has he could across the field. He grabbed another and pulled it clean from the earth, then a third and did the same. His hand was around a fourth when he realized that the field hands were staring at him, the shock on their faces searing his skin.

“Return to your work.” He said, the words coming out like a growl.

Micah crouched again, trying to calm himself. He had to leave before he ripped the entire field apart. He stomped off, refusing to look at the stalks of wheat, as if they were a naughty child being punished.

Micah watched his muddy sandals shuffle through the dirt until he reached the stone-lined path to the house. As he got closer, he heard the final notes of his favorite song, The Lion of Justice, floating in the air. The vibration from the last chord on the guitar settled on his shoulders. He turned his ear toward the sound and heard clapping followed by a silence laced with anticipation. He could picture the musicians lifting their wine glasses to their lips before they began again. Strange, Micah thought.

“Jokim.” He said to the servant that was fetching water from the well nearby. “Has my father gone mad? Is he throwing a party mid-week?”

“Yes master, I mean no.” Jokim kept his gaze on the ground. “He’s not mad sir, but he is throwing a party.” The music began again, a tune about King David’s plights in battle.

“Why? And I was not invited?” Micah said. The smell of roasting animal fat wafted to his nose. His stomach jumped like a starving dog at a table scrap.

“It was sudden, sir, and unplanned. We couldn’t find you in the fields, so we sent word through your field hands. You didn’t get the message?” Jokim cleared his throat repeatedly, aggravating Micah further.

Micah examined his fingernails. He hadn’t been home in three days. His nails were so full of dirt that they ached from the pressure against the nail beds. “And what, Jokim, are we celebrating?” Micah said to his fingernails.

“Your brother has returned.” Jokim switched the pail of water from one hand to the other. “Your father killed the fattened calf because he is back safe and sound.”

“Asher is back?” Micah said. He remembered his brother on the day that he had walked away from the house. Micah watched his back fade into the distance until he was gone.

“Yes. He returned this afternoon.” Jokim said. “I’m afraid he is in quite a state, half starved, but your father will nurse him back to health. That hearty calf is a good start, it’s one of the fattest we have ever had.” Jokim tried to laugh but it sounded more like a choke. He cleared his throat again. “Can I warm water for a bath for you, master?” He lifted the metal pail to shoulder height, splashing water over the sides.

“Who is my brother that he gets a party for returning?” Micah said. “He chose to disrespect my father, take his inheritance early, and then come crawling back with nothing? And my father throws him a party?”

Micah felt the blood in his skin swirl as if it had picked up a current and its waves were heading to the shore. He reared back and kicked the bucket of water out of the Jokim’s hand with the force of a bull. The pail sailed in an arc and slammed against the brick wall of the house. It bounced and fell to the ground, crushing the tulips that had freshly blossomed there.

Jokim froze, as if he had been caught in the middle of a crime. “Sir,” he said, his lips barely moving, “I’m sorry, I didn’t mean to upset you.”

Micah didn’t hear him.

How was it that his brother, who couldn’t even shepherd measly sheep, a job that any young boy could do, was now eating the fattened calf killed in his own honor? How did he receive such lavish gifts for nothing, while Micah baked in the field, under the aggravating sneer of the sun? Another wave of anger headed to the shore. Micah reached down to grab a small statue of a rabbit at his feet. His hand on the marble, he lifted it and cocked it back.

“Micah.” He looked up to see his father framed by the doorway, his brow furrowed. “What is the matter?” His father said.

Micah looked at his father’s face and suddenly felt embarrassed. He felt like a little boy again, bringing a whittled stick to his father. See, father? I have done something good for you. He wanted something to show his father, but he had nothing. He placed the marble rabbit back on the ground.

The sobs came then, like the anger had, continuous and powerful. Micah’s large shoulders shook as his body betrayed him, releasing all that he had tried so hard to pen.

His father’s voice was soft, “Won’t you come in and celebrate with us? We have been looking for you.”

“Why does he get a party, father?” Micah said, his words garbled by the sobs. “After all that I’ve done, after all my work in the fields, he does nothing and he gets everything.”

His father placed his hand on Micah’s shoulder and stroked his arm.

“I have slaved for you, father, and I don’t even get as much as a small goat.”

“You work so hard, Micah, but you don’t have to.” His father said. “Everything I have is also yours. You are not slighted in the least. Your brother came back to us. It’s a cause for celebration.”

“But he can’t even corral the sheep, father.”

“That doesn’t matter. It’s not what you can do for me that makes me love you. I love you because you are mine. You will always be mine.” His father said.

The tears filled Micah’s mouth. They tasted of the time that Micah and Asher were playing in the trees along the path that led to the house.

“Will you catch me if I fall Micah?” Asher was younger and smaller.

“I’ll always catch you, Asher.” He had said.

“But, how do I know that you will?”

“Because I am your brother.”

“Will you always be my brother?”

“I will always be your brother.”

Asher threw himself off the high branch and Micah opened his arms. Asher toppled into them and they rolled on the ground, kicking up dirt as they tumbled back and forth under the boughs. They stood, laughing and pushing, tears rolling down their cheeks from the wind and joy of the game. Asher climbed the tree to jump into his brother’s arms again.

Micah shook the memory from his mind and looked at his aging father in front of him. When had Micah decided that Asher wasn’t his brother any longer? The answer came to him, it was when their mother had died.

Micah remembered the before and the after well. It was before her death that he played in the trees. It was after, that he worked in the fields. As if he had somehow dropped his childhood in the middle, like a coin that had rolled under the bed, never to be found again.

Asher went on playing. He kept living his life oblivious to the fact that he had to grow up and make adult choices. It’s as if his mother’s death had made him double down on childhood, he was frivolous and self-centered, needy and insolent.

They were on either side of the fence, waiting for the other to join. Micah thinking Asher would eventually work alongside him caring for the crops, managing the field hands, Asher waiting for Micah to return to the trees to play. But instead, they remained divided.

Micah lifted his head to see Asher in the doorway, the smacking of dancing feet against stone echoed behind him. Asher reached up and wiped grease from his lips. Micah could see the faint stain on the cuff of the clean white robe he wore.

“Will you come in and celebrate with us?” Asher said.

Micah looked at his hands again, covered in sweat and dirt, caked in exhaustion. “I can’t,” he said, “You don’t deserve this party. You squandered everything that Father gave you.” Asher’s eyes had changed somehow, he looked at Micah differently. Micah didn’t like it.

“It doesn’t matter, Micah.” Asher said. “Father has forgiven me for my mistakes and he loves me anyway. I don’t have to earn his love. I thought I did, but now I see that I don’t. I offered to work in the fields to make up for my mistakes, but father clothed me and started this party instead. I want you to know that he loves you the same. Won’t you come in and accept his gifts freely?” He held his wine glass out to Micah.

Micah’s hands shook with the fury that he had felt earlier. He reached out and slapped the cup out of Asher’s hand. The wine painted the brick wall the color of an overripe plum, the clay of the cup shattered to pieces at Asher’s feet. Still, Asher’s face didn’t change, he looked at Micah like he had when they had been brothers.

Micah sneered and stalked back to the field.

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Jesus taught the Parable of the Prodigal Son to a crowd largely made up of Pharisees. The brother in the parable is a representation of them. They were self-righteous and hard-hearted, thinking their works made them better than others, namely better than the prodigal son or the tax collectors and sinners that the prodigal represents. Jesus is inviting the Pharisees, like the father does in the story, to repent and join the celebration.