Mercy, that is hasty.
Many (or perhaps even most) of the images depicting the prodigal son's return that I am aware of show him kneeling before his father. It seems logical to us, after all, that the son should first humiliate himself by falling to his knees. Perhaps this was even his plan when he resolved to tell his father that he was no longer worthy to be called a son. Yet, in Jesus' parable, there is no mention of kneeling. Moreover, it would be challenging to throw oneself around the neck of someone kneeling. This is what Jesus says: " While he was still a long way off, his father caught sight of him and was filled with compassion. He ran to his son, embraced him, and kissed him." (Lk 15:20).
The son kneeling before his father is depicted in some of the most famous paintings by Rembrandt, James Tissot, Pompeo Batoni, and Guercino. This is also true in Balanchine's classic choreography for Sergei Prokofiev's ballet: the returning son falls to his knees in front of his father, then crawls toward him, climbs over his body, grabs his neck, and the father covers him with his cloak and hugs him. In this choreography, the father remains unmoved, does not rush out, and does not even lean over. Perhaps it is difficult for us to envision him in any other position than kneeling.
Much of the credit for this goes to Rembrandt, whose "The Return of the Prodigal Son" from the Hermitage has become as canonical for this parable as Leonardo da Vinci is for the iconography of the Last Supper. Before our eyes, we see these two hands resting on the shoulders of the kneeling son. Joseph Parker, a nineteenth-century Anglican preacher, wrote about the prodigal son: "The moment he threw off his pride, the moment he said to himself, 'I cannot stand before him, but I should fall at his feet,' he became a winner!" And again: "As long as we stand, God will do nothing with us because He cannot." First, you must fall to your knees, humble yourself, and bow down to the dust. Then, the Lord will raise you. Is this really the case? At least in this parable of Jesus?
The story of the son's return begins at the moment he "came to himself" — or rather, when he "reflected" — and said, "I will take myself and go." Then, "so he got up and went." " However, this is not merely an announcement of a return home. In my opinion, this is not simply a typical Semitism expressing the intention to set off immediately. St. Luke employs one of the most theological verbs here, namely anistémi, which means 'to get up.' In New Testament theology, this simple act of getting up carries a significant meaning. The same verb is used to describe the Resurrection of Jesus.
It is similar to the occasion of "Emmaus." The fact that the English expression 'were going' about the disciples who recognized Jesus is far from sufficient. At that moment, they were anastantes – 'those who stood up.' And thus, they returned to Jerusalem. "I will get up and go," the prodigal son says to himself. Or "I will get up, I will go"; in other words: "when I am already standing, I will go." And so he did: he got up and went, as the Vulgate states, "surgens venit." This statement refers not only to the path that will have to be physically traveled but also to the spiritual journey the son has just begun. The standing posture is the posture of the living; you have to get up to come back.
As he decided, so he did. While the father will run to him, he will only walk, perhaps slowly and with his head lowered in shame, or maybe even filled with doubts about whether his father would accept him. Either way, his resurrection is already beginning, as his father himself will confirm when he says that "he was dead and is alive again."
According to the translator of the Bible, the father, upon seeing his son, was filled with compassion. The phrase ‘was filled with compassion’ highlights the emotional state and inner agitation of the subject. To be moved, to be filled as the dictionary suggests, means 'to experience a feeling of tenderness, to be concerned about something'. However, this encompasses something more profound than mere emotion. The verb splagchnizomai, translated here as "to be filled," derives from the noun splangchnon, which collectively refers to the internal organs: the heart, lungs, kidneys, and liver. Thus, it relates to emotion in a way that penetrates deep into the gut, specifically to the solar plexus, a feeling so intense that it compels action rather than passivity. St. Jerome in the Vulgate states that the father “misericordia motus est,” which means "he was moved by mercy."
St. Luke uses the same verb in the parable of the Good Samaritan (Luke 10:33), who was also "deeply moved. " This refers not merely to an emotional state, but to a mercy that drives action and prevents indifference. This is the mercy that Jesus himself embodied, as St. Matthew notes, when he saw the crowds and had compassion on them because they were harassed and abandoned, " like sheep without a shepherd" (Mt 9:36). Similarly, St. Luke describes the widow of Nain, stating, "the Lord was with pity" (Lk 7:13) upon seeing her. It's not just about being moved, filled with compassion; it's about taking action.
The fact that a father runs to meet his son is not at all obvious. In the traditional mentality of Middle Eastern people, running is seen as somewhat immature and frivolous behavior. An old man in a hurry seems ridiculous, and a father running to meet his son subjects himself to ridicule. You don't do it; you don't get away with it! But Jesus employs just such an image to illustrate the nature of God's mercy, which is so different from human attitudes that it can even provoke laughter and mockery. Just as a father runs to meet his son, so the merciful God runs to embrace the sinner. With haste, anticipating him, and moving faster than him. No matter how much we may want to normalize it, mercy is scandalous. He disregards the so-called decency; he subjects himself to laughter and derision, and in the eyes of many, his actions appear indecent. The phrase "kissed him" in the parable does not fully convey the original Greek meaning. Because he didn't just "kiss him"; it wasn't merely a peck on the cheek or forehead. Instead, he kissed him repeatedly, warmly, and without restraint.
Richard Chenevix Trench, in his commentary on the parable, quotes an old Eastern proverb: "Who draws near to me (God), an inch, I will draw near to him an ell; and whosoever walks to meet me, I will leap to meet him.” St. Basil the Great, on the other hand, is credited with a line from his sermon "On Penance": "Tantum velis et Deus prius occurrerit." This can be translated in various ways, for example, "If you only want, God will come sooner." Alternatively, one could say, " You only wish, and God will come first." It is not easy to convey the paradox contained in this sentence, which indicates that God is 'earlier' or 'faster' than our desire, yet at the same time, He is somehow dependent on us. When we – like the prodigal son – approach him, even if we drag our feet in shame, He – like the father in the parable – is already running toward us. All you have to do is get up. He will run out to meet you and kiss you. You don't need to fall on your knees to have him lift you. In fact, we won't need to do that at all, for He embraces us while we are still running to Him.
Until next time
fr. george