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The Story Of The Loving Father

Interviewer: Welcome to the Happy Families show

On this programme each week we bring to you our viewers the story of a family that has come through the tensions and troubles that are part of life together for every household.

It's our privilege to look in each week on a family in strife and difficulty.

Sometimes the story ends in tragedy and heartbreak;
sometimes it ends in success and happiness;
most often there is no ending:
the story is still unfolding, as family life always is.

This week, we hear from their own lips, the story of a father and his two sons.
A story of rebellion and defiance,
a story of wild living and abject poverty,
a story of....
but the three people concerned are with me here to tell their own story.

I'm glad to introduce Reuben ben Issachar (Father stands and bows),
his older son Nathan (stands and bows)
and his young brother Benjamin. (stands and bows)

(To Reuben) Sir, you have lived on your land all your days and tried to bring up your boys as a responsible father should?

R: I have always tried to rear my sons as a good father in Israel ought to do. They have learnt from me the great traditions of our people, and I have tried to teach them and to set them the example of living according to the law of the scriptures - to do justly, to love mercy, and to walk humbly with God.

I: As youngsters, they were good boys?

R: They were boys! They had their moments. There were childhood escapades, there were squabbles and scrapes that brought anxiety and pain to me and to their mother. Sometimes my sons filled my heart with pride, sometimes I despaired of them, sometimes I had to discipline them. That's how it is with children.

I: Were the two of them alike?

R: Alike? Never! I often found it hard to believe that they could have been born of the same parents. Chalk and cheese. Nathan here was always the quiet, reserved, polite, obedient one. But Benjamin? - always full of life and mischief, bubbling, fun-loving, ambitious; yes, and rebellious. Whatever I said, he'd want to question it. He'd argue about anything and everything.

I: So Nathan was your favourite even back in those early days?

R: Certainly not. They are both my sons. My wife and I always took great trouble to treat them even-handedly..... We'd not let Benjamin with his noise and liveliness put Nathan in the shade.... And we tried not to favour Nathan because he was so mild and easy to manage....

I: And both boys grew up working for you on your property?

R: Yes indeed, as good sons were bound to do.

I: Until one day Benjamin came to you with an extraordinary proposal.

R: Yes.... he asked me to give him the share of my property that would in due course have been his when I died.

I: A surprise to you?

R: Benjamin since he was a toddler was for ever dreaming up hare-brained schemes.... but yes, this was completely extreme. I'd never heard anything like it

I: Still, you agreed to it.

R: Eventually, yes. I needed time to think about it. I had to talk to my wife, and to Nathan too.

I: Nathan, you were against the idea.

N: Of course. It was preposterous. Outrageous. Immoral. Disgusting.

I: That's strong language.

N I felt strongly. I was sickened by the idea, because (with great feeling) it meant my brother wished our father was dead! He couldn't wait to get his hands on the money.

I: Is that true, Benjamin?

B: Well, yes it was, in a way. I suppose I could excuse it, the impudence of youth, the earthly ambitions of a young fellow who hankered for the good life, the frothy satisfactions of high living.; I couldn't bear the thought of waiting all those years to get my hands on the wealth that would open the gates of pleasure for me. It was a big world of opportunity out there, and it was beckoning to me. I couldn't wait to sample it.

I: And you, Father Reuben?

R: (Deep sigh) The burdens of a father who cares deeply for his children are heavy. The decisions are hard to make. Benjamin was no longer a child. He was of a man's age, and had to make his own decisions. I thought deeply, I prayed to the good God. And in the end I believed I must give him what he asked.

I: With a heavy heart?

R: Indeed. The heart of a good parent is often heavy.

It is one of life's hardest tasks to watch your loved sons or daughters making decisions that you feel within you are wrong, foolish, disastrous, to remember that in their infancy you could reach out and pull them back from danger, but now they are grown up, and you must watch them go, your heart in your mouth.

I: Nathan, I want to come back to you. You said you were disgusted by your brother's request, and appalled that your father granted it. But you did well out of your father's decision, didn't you? You got your share of the property long before you otherwise would have done

N: With part of me I knew Benjamin was acting irresponsibly, like a naughty child and that he ought to be restrained. But yes, I have to admit that another part of me was already counting happily the wealth that was now mine.

I: Benjamin?

B: It's easy now for me to look back and see that yes, I was impulsive, foolish, utterly unreasonable. That's hindsight.

Then, I couldn't wait to be off with the bag of gold tied around my neck.

Deep down, I knew I was heaping every sort of revolting indignity on my father's head.

But I couldn't help myself.

I wanted my freedom!

I wanted to do things my way.

I: Nathan, was it not, according to our traditions, your responsibility to be a mediator, to bring your young brother to see sense, to bring reconciliation between Benjamin and your father?

N:  According to our traditions, yes it was. But I was in no frame of mind for anything like that.

For one thing, I knew that I had done very well financially out of the deal. But with the other part of me I was furious that this young brother of mine - my brother! - could act in this scandalous way.

He had always been a brat as a child, attempted things that I wouldn't think of trying - and, like as not, he would get away with them.

I had had enough of him.

In some ways I couldn't wait for him to go.....

(Slowly and reflectively) ... And yet, I suspect now that, somewhere deep inside me I was jealous of him.

Part of me was cursing  my own solemn, sober, nature, and wishing that I was carefree like him. 

Secretly I envied him, wished I could get away as he was about to, with a fortune in my pocket.

I:So, Benjamin, you travelled far.

I did. I went where I was confident no one would know me.

I had the money.

I was determined it would produce a good return for me in pleasures that I could never have enjoyed at home under the watchful eye of my father - and my brother.

I: You found new friends?

B: He who has money always has friends - of a sort.

I was fool enough to think I was popular for myself.

I was lavish with my hospitality.

I could tell you of some parties such as my own  family could never even have imagined.

I: Yes; well this is a family show, and we'll leave the details to our viewers'imagination.

You Reuben, had no inkling of where your young son was, or what he was doing?

R: Sometimes traders and travellers from afar would bring us tales of having seen our Benjamin in this country or that, but the stories didn't tally.

No, we knew nothing, and we longed to hear news that all was well with him.

I: You too, Nathan?

N: No! I hated him. I was glad he had gone. I had my share of the inheritance, I had the undivided attention of my parents.

I didn't want to see my brother again.

Life was peaceful and orderly without him.

I: Meanwhile, for you, Benjamin, the great celebration went on?

B: Yes indeed.

I told myself that some day soon, I must apply myself to some kind of constructive enterprise, use my wealth wisely. But there was time enough for that. It was all a great whirl; I thought that at last I was living.

I: Joy unending?

B: Ah,...... no. It ended, all right.

It all came crashing down around me.

The money ran through my fingers.

When it was almost gone times turned bad.

Famine. Economic collapse. Unemployment. Hunger.

The friends drifted away.

They'd had a lot of fun with me.

I was sure they'd see me through the hard times.

Oh, I should have known it was my money they wanted, not me.

It dawned on me eventually. But by then it was too late.

I: It was tough?

B: (Bitterly). Tough? You don't know how cruel life can be until you're a lonely, penniless, beggar in a foreign land among people who are strangers to you. I was close to complete breakdown.

I: And it didn't occur to you that you might come home to your father's house?

B: Occur to me? I thought of home every waking hour, and in my restless dreams as I slept wherever I could find shelter.

At last I found a job.

The pay was poor - it always is in time of famine.

The conditions were atrocious. My job was to feed husks to a farmer's pigs. Pigs! For a Jew - the humiliation, the disgrace, the self-reproach!

N: I've never been able to understand how you could stoop to it.

B: Brother, when you're at the end of your tether, your fine principles and noble aspirations are apt to get badly bent in the interests of survival.

When you're hungry, really hungry, you even lust for the husks that people feed to swine.

I: How long did this go on?

B: I don't know. I lost count of time, the days dragged by, each one the same as the others.

Until one day when I - I - I can only say that I came to my senses. I was finished.

At the end of my tether.

In the middle of one of my day dreams of home with all its comforts, with its security, its love and care, I suddenly  knew I had to go.

Go and throw myself on my father's mercy. Anything would do. I'd work for my father as a servant, it didn't matter; I needed my home. And I needed love.

I: It was a long journey.

B: It was hell. >No money, begging shamelessly for charity, plodding along in my filthy rags, no sandals on my feet, my body skin and bone.

Often it seemed that I couldn't possibly survive the journey.

I: Did you wonder about how you'd be received?

B: All the time. I was terrified.

I had brazenly insulted my father and I'd brought shame and tragedy on him, on the one I knew I ought to honour, on the parents who had brought me through my childhood, given me so much, and made me a man.

I rehearsed, over and over again as I plodded along, the speech I would make to my father.

"Father I have sinned against heaven and before you, and I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Make me as one of your hired servants." I wasn't going to ask for charity.

I'd work my passage, earn my pay, eventually hold my head up proudly, work to get back my self-respect and the respect of other people.

And then I'd tell myself that no, I couldn't go; what if my father rejected me? A few minutes later I'd be saying that yes, I must go to him. It was that, or a slow and cruel death on the roadside. I plodded on.

I: By this time you would have given up hope, Reuben.

R: Never! Not for a moment!  I prayed and I hoped. The lad's mother and I never despaired. I'd find myself standing, doing nothing, staring at the roadway, watching, waiting, hoping.

It was like an obsession with me.

N: Yes, and I worked!

Toiled dawn to dusk, day after day, glad of the sabbath rest once a week.My brother gone, my father absorbed and distant, I sweated and strove to keep the farm profitable.

There was no time for relaxation, no chance of a party with my friends, no opportunity for the good time that I imagined that brother of mine enjoying in some distant country.

I: And then it happened, Reuben.

R: One day it happened.

I suppose I must have been in some kind of trance, watching the road as I so often did. Watching for the son I had once had, but had lost. Only slowly did it dawn on me that there was something familiar about the figure I saw in the distance, trudging, shuffling along the dusty road.

The figure, it seemed of an old man, gaunt and bent. But familiar. And then in an instant, I knew. I knew for certain who it was.

And before I knew what I was doing I was careering down the road, running for all I was worth...

I: Running?

R: Running.

I know, it's unbecoming for a man of my age to run. But I was past dignity. When your heart is overflowing you push away all the self-important pretensions. This was my son, my son who had been lost, and he had come home.

I: Benjamin, I have to ask you this question - interviewers always do: How did you feel at that moment as you saw your father running toward you?

B: Feel? I - I - I don't know.

Fear, remorse, hope, guilt, despair, awe for my father... utter confusion. But before I could fall on my feet before him his strong arms were around me,
and his kiss was on my cheek.

I began the speech I had been rehearsing for so long, But I don't think he heard me. Certainly I didn't get the chance to finish it. He was calling for the servants, and ordering a celebration - calling for new clothes to replace my rags, a ring for my finger...

I: And you, Nathan? How did you welcome your young brother?

N: (Bitterly) I didn't. I wasn't there. I was hard at work out on the farm. Of course. That was my life, remember?

I knew nothing until in the gloaming I was trudging back to the house, weary all over at the end of the day. I wanted only a good meal and restful sleep on my bed for the night.

Then there was all this racket: music, singing dancing, yahooing. Sounds that were coming from our house!

I thought I was going mad, hearing things, experiencing fantasies in my weariness.

I: So you went in to investigate?

N: No, no.

A servant came out of the house at that moment, and I asked him what on earth was going on.

"It's your brother," he said.

"He's come home, and your father is throwing a party. They'll be expecting you."

I: You went in then?

N: Indeed I did not. I felt cold and hard and resentful. My father came out and begged me to join the celebration.

Celebration, I thought. Celebration indeed.

And then I spoke to my father as no respectful son ever should. But the hard ball of resentment within me  burst, and it all had to come out. I let him have it right between the eyes.

I: Can you remember what you said?

N: Every word - there weren't all that many! -

"You know how I've slaved for you all these years,"I told him "I never once disobeyed your orders. Yet you never gave me so much as a kid
to celebrate with my friends.

But now that this son of yours turns up," I said - no way was I going to call him my brother - "now that this son of yours turns up, after running through your money with his women, you kill the fatted calf for him."

I could hardly believe it was me, speaking like that to my father. Quiet Nathan, the solid, hard-working, one; the quiet, reserved, polite one
blowing his stack!

Well, I said it, and I felt better for saying it.

I: Maybe you felt better, but how did your father feel?

It's unheard of among our people for a son to address his father in that way.
I wonder God didn't strike you down on the spot.

How did you react, Reuben?

R: I won't pretend that his words didn't hurt deeply. They did. But he was still my son, my eldest son.

A father's love is not blown out like the flame of a candle by the changing winds of the tempers and moods and emotions of his children or the comings and goings of his own feelings.

A father's love  needs to endure, like the love of God.

I: And you two sons. Nathan and Benjamin,
how are things between you now, after all this upheaval?

B: The rift has been deep. Cruel words were spoken. Much of what my brother has said about me and done to me I fully deserved.

My father, bless his name, has forgiven me, welcomed me, helped me to be whole.

I hope that Nathan will find it in his heart some day to follow the example of our father.

N: It isn't easy. I believe that little by little I am learning to put the past behind me.

I would like to be able to say on this programme that all is well, and that we are one happy family again.  It isn't like that yet.

But I know this, that there is one thing that kindles the spirit of love and forgiveness in me, one thing that makes me want to bridge the gap between Benjamin and me.

It's the strong, untiring, unyielding, patient love that our father has for us both.

I: It's proper that father Reuben should have the last word in this story.
Reuben?

R: My good wife and I have never stopped loving our two boys. Sometimes we have been angry, justifiably angry with them. Sometimes our hearts have been broken by their words or their deeds. But through it all we have steadily wanted what was best in life for them. That, I believe, is what love is -
wanting what is best for the other person.

My great prayer is that through sharing our story with you and your viewers some of them will have a better understanding of what love is. And especially that some of you may have glimpsed a little of the steadfast love of God.
His mercy endures for ever, and holy is his name.  Amen.

I: Reuben, Nathan, and Benjamin ben Issachar, thank you for being with us on Happy Families.

And we'll be back next week, if not with another happy family, then at least with something to make life better for you in God's world.

Goodbye.

This script was written by Lawrie Hampton of Hamilton, New Zealand, for use in St Stephen's Presbyterian Church, Hamilton on 22 March 1998