“Story is the most natural way of enlarging and deepening our sense of reality, and then enlisting us as participants in it. Stories open doors to areas or aspects of life that we didn’t know were there, or had quit noticing out of over-familiarity, or supposed were out-of-bounds to us. Then they welcome us in. Stories are verbal acts of hospitality.” (Eugene Peterson)
I can’t wait for Sunday! I mean, I am always renewed by the worship of God in community, but this Sunday we get to hear and ruminate on what to me is the Gospel’s most formative story, what most call the parable of prodigal son, and some call the parable of the waiting father. (Luke 15). We’ll be talking about it tomorrow evening during our zoom bible study if you can join us at 6:30. I would wager that if this story doesn’t welcome you in to wondering, you lack a human pulse. But I digress.
I wonder what for you is your life’s most formative story that invites others in? Here’s mine!
It’s the summer of 1976, and I’m 12 years old. I’m in the church parlors after my older cousin Tim’s wedding, realizing along with my friend Clement that almost everyone from the neighborhood is occupied by the celebration. Looking at each other, we realize that this means if we leave without being noticed, we might get away with something!
In my parents’ bedroom there is a little dresser drawer that represents the tree of the knowledge of good and evil — in other words the one place, the only place I’m not not allowed to go. And it’s exactly where I go with Clem nagging behind, nervously asking over and over again, “Are you sure?” And there I find the keys to my dad’s new, used bright red BMW 2002.
It’s parked along the curb outside, along with all the others a block away at the wedding party. Ignition. The clutch I can hardly reach, so Clem shifts the stick while I lift up the gas much too quickly, lurching us forward with force enough to put grandma Rafas’ car up over the curb and on the lawn.
Clement is gone before I even notice; I can only see him running like a blue streak out the rear view mirror back toward the church. Making my way to the front of the car, I see that there’s no front at all anymore. It’s all ruined, along with my life for sure. I kneel down in a deep on the front lawn waiting for my dad’s voice, which comes quickly.
“Peter, Peter!” he’s screaming as he runs toward me. Coming closer, he doesn’t even glance at the car, running right by and coming to his knees, takes me in his arms, with words I never expected — not “Peter, what have you done!” but instead — “are you okay, are you alright?” and then realizing so, “I love you so much, I’m so glad you are ok” with the loveliest and most desperate bear hug I have ever known. Tears of his, and mine — tears of shame for breaking trust, tears of sorrow for having ruined something he treasured, but mostly — God be praised — tears of love, of mercy, of forgiveness, right then and there on that hot summer day. My father later told me what I don’t remember, that I was crying out over and over again that I wanted to kill myself that day. But in the most dire moment of my dreadfully exposed brokenness, my father loved me most of all, and right when it surprised me because I knew I’d hurt him so.
Now, don’t get me wrong, there were hard conversations and consequences to come. I’m not sure why I didn’t get my drivers license until the age of 19, 7 years later, but I wonder. Still this horrible moment turned holy for me, and has remains a living, breathing parable reflecting the love I have experienced from the God of grace and mercy.
The poet and priest Gerard Manly Hopkins writes:
“For Christ plays in ten thousand places, lovely in limbs, and lovely in eyes not his To the Father through the features of men’s faces.”
Stories are verbal acts of hospitality. What’s yours? And are you telling it?
Peter Hawkinson
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