What about those “Job’s counselors” who sow seeds of dissatisfaction, discontent, and brooding accusation, those who call themselves the prodigal’s friends, but who are in fact purveyors of the modern psychology of guilt-free nonaccountability? They want to be accepting, noncritical. These are they who dismiss any need on the prodigal’s part to face with tearful remorse what is genuine wrongdoing and sin. These so-called friends can be the most damaging of all, excusing rather than confronting, shifting blame, justifying, speaking subtle and character-damaging lies into the prodigal’s receptive ear: “They don’t understand . . . it was right for you to do what you did . . . you have to shed your youth and be who you are . . . it is right and normal to stand up for your individuality and independence . . . you have to be yourself, not what they expect you to be . . . they were controlling and you were right to break free. . . .” Such fleshly evasions prevent rather than exhort toward wholeness.
Homecoming is impossible as long as the Self rules, as it surely does in these blame-shifting and self-justifying excuses which are in the very societal air we breathe. And as long as homecoming is delayed, for just that long is mature character likewise prevented.
At root I find intriguing the simple question why? Why did the one son go and the one stay home? Why do young people raised in the same environment respond to their circumstances so differently? Why do young people raised in loving and caring environments find it necessary to rebel against them?
These and a host of other extremely difficult questions are faced every day by the families of prodigals—questions that test the limits of their faith and endurance. In this age when personal accountability is such an odious concept in the world’s eyes, and when intolerance, anger, and blame toward parents are the last things young people are encouraged to face and repent of—even by Christian peers, pastors, youth leaders, mentors, and friends—it is becoming sadly more and more rare that full reconciliation occurs in most families. All too few Christian teachers, pastors, and counselors are calling upon young people to repent for their prodigal hearts.
Our society expects us to “live with our differences” rather than seek biblical solutions for broken relationships. The prodigal story, therefore, as familiar as it is to most of us, is being lived out to its reconciliatory and healing climax less and less with each passing year.
We ought not underestimate each of our own vital roles in the ongoing drama of this parable. There are prodigals around us at every moment. They are in every crowd, every Bible study, every prayer group, every school class, walking beside us on the sidewalk, standing in line with us at the bank or market. Every congregation every Sunday is filled with them.
But the prodigals among us—and you may be one of them, as may be your pastor, your teacher, your brother or sister or best friend—are not always dressed in rags and eating with pigs. Prodigals can be respectably clothed and comport themselves as anything but what they are. Church activities and spiritual groups and cliques can be well-disguised far more easily than one might think. Many prodigals are well-groomed behind smiling facades of self-sufficiency and independence.
Yet there they are in our midst. And too few of us are urging them toward the most important business of their lives—home-going.
Here is an enormous truth: The door into knowing the Father’s heart, the door into intimacy with God our Creator, often opens first toward one’s earthly parents. Your opportunity is to be a true friend to the prodigals you encounter—not one who justifies and excuses them in their quiet pride and self-reliant alienation. You who understand the import of this parable, you can be the best friend it is possible for a prodigal to have. You can help turn their hearts toward home.
There is an order to be observed. God gave us parents so that we would learn to love, honor, obey, and trust him. Such is the underlying lesson in the classroom of that earthly relationship. It is a school which cannot be bypassed. Where a wrong attitude exists toward a parent, that same attitude will inevitably lie as an unresolved irritant and inhibition to growth in one’s relationship with God. It is simple cause and effect in the spiritual realm. Secretly harbored anger, bitterness, resentment, and unforgiveness—no matter how far shoved into the subconscious—will forever prevent the deepest intimacy with God . . . until they are held up to the light and relinquished.
Be a friend to the prodigal.
Hold up the mirror of accountability.
Be the Lord’s ally and partner for the reconciliation of the world, by urging, exhorting, and encouraging toward homecoming.
Such is among the reasons for this series—to explore some of these complex but vitally timely issues and challenges in more depth than usual. Especially is it my hope to prompt reflection and prayer in two areas, one on each side of the generational fence:
First, to explore the grief and suffering of the father and mother during what must surely be one of the greatest trials of life. I hope this will enable us to come more personally to grips with the opportunity they have to learn to thankfully partake of that waiting, prayerful, hopeful, tearful, agonizing aspect of the divine Fatherhood.
And second, to explore what it means to “go home,” and how to do so fully and completely, so that the heart of the prodigal is truly made whole. I find myself intrigued by this process, wherever and in whatever circumstances a prodigal finds himself—and sometimes it is a long process which must come in slow stages and by infinitesimal degrees—of awakening to the necessity of at last saying, “I will arise and go to my Father.”
Therefore, as interesting, even compelling, as may be many of the other personalities in this saga, especially those of Charles and Jocelyn Rutherford, this will always in a foundational way be Amanda’s story.
Real-life circumstances, however, are unpredictable. It is a wise man or woman who when confronted by some duty or necessity fulfills it quickly. Delay can be costly. Healing can occur within a single heart, and God will use such to fulfill his purposes. But in terms of earthly relationships, reconciliation is often sought too late. A lifetime of grief must then be borne which might have been prevented had the promptings toward awakening been heeded earlier.
Homecoming ought never be put off.
One final personal note concerning the location of the fictional Chalet of Hope. The high mountain air in that region is just as described—at least I found it so. I have never forgotten the overpowering sense of wondrous quiet when standing at Männlichen overlooking the awe-inspiring drop of more than 4,700 feet straight down into the valley of Lauterbrunnen. Since that moment I have always wanted to set a story there.
It was to those same high Alps that George MacDonald traveled in 1865. I like to imagine him standing at that very spot and feeling similar sensations. Very soon thereafter he used the region as a backdrop to recount the quickening of spiritual consciousness in one of his most memorable characters, Robert Falconer. It was also very near this setting where Hannah Hurnard received the inspiration for and wrote Hinds’ Feet on High Places.
It seemed fitting somehow that Amanda likewise be given an opportunity to breathe that cleansing air, to see what it might be able to accomplish toward her dawning awakening.
Jungle Mission
1897
The cluster of small buildings—primitive by London standards, but luxurious alongside the huts of sticks, straw, and mud found in the nearby jungle—had seen many happy times since the mission sent the young couple here.
But on this day the memory of singing and laughter would turn to weeping.
The season when hymns of joyful praise echoed from the mouths of the native Maoris was over.
The witch doctor had declared it. None dared question his pronouncement. In the superstitious minds of the tribe, his power was greater than that of the young French missionary and his English wife, whose pregnancy the native women had watched progress with eager curiosity and anticipation.
It was now ten minutes past the toll of the chapel bell.
Husband and wife sat silent and waiting in the small church they had completed with the help of the villagers six months earlier. Both knew something was wrong.
Fifteen, eighteen, even twenty worshipers should have been here by now. There were always between fifteen and thirty on hand, a good many of the village men among them. There had even been talk that the chief was showing interest in hearing the stories firsthand, rather than from his people, and might make an appearance.
But it was becoming more obvious with every passing second that such a singularly important event would not happen today.
“Where is everyone?” finally asked the young mother-to-be. Her voice did not exactly contain fear, yet betrayed the concern that had been building in her mind.
“I don’t know,” sighed her husband, trying to sound calm. In truth, he was more worried than he let on. As he had lain awake last night, his wife of two and a half years breathing softly and peacefully beside him, he had heard disconcerting sounds far off through the Wanganui jungle. He did not want to wake her then, nor did he want to alarm her now. But he had a bad feeling.
For another five minutes husband and wife sat in silence. Both were praying in mounting anxiety.
The missionary slowly reached over and took his wife’s hand. She clutched it too eagerly. He knew the instant he felt her clammy perspiration that she was scared.
It was time to get her to a safe place. It was obvious there would be no service on this day. He started to rise.
Suddenly a dull, thudding thwack echoed through the chapel.
The missionary wife leapt out of her seat.
“What was that!” she exclaimed.
Her husband knew well enough exactly what it was. Some of the native men had taught him the use of bow and arrow, with which every man in the jungle was deadly accurate.
He was on his feet in an instant, pulling his wife’s hand with sudden urgency.
“Come . . . come quickly!” he said, moving toward the door.
“What—”
“Just come!”
In moments they were out of the chapel and flying across the ground to the small adjacent structure of their home. He half dragged her behind him as fast as she could manage.
A quick glance over their shoulders revealed that the first fiery arrow had been joined by a half dozen more. Within minutes the chapel was ablaze.
“Schnell . . . geh unter . . . in dem Keller!” implored the Swissman, in panic abandoning his English as he threw back the faded, threadbare scrap of rug and yanked up the hinged door.
It had been one of the instructions he had argued against when they sent him here. How could he earn the trust of the natives if he kept secrets from them? But he had built the secret room below the floor of their home at the insistence of the board’s director. Now he was glad for the mission’s foresight.
He fairly dove into the dark opening himself, then quickly helped his wife down the steep ladder, a precarious operation given her advanced condition. He fumbled about, lit a candle, settled her onto a cot, then turned.
“Where are you going!” she said. She no longer tried to hide her terror.
“To talk to them,” he replied. He turned back briefly to face her.
“No, please . . . stay with me.”
“If they don’t see me, they will search until they find us.”
“Klaus . . . please!”
“I have to talk to them and show them I am not afraid.”
“But I am afraid!”
He paused, drew his face close to hers, gazed into her eyes, and kissed her.
“So am I,” he said softly. “But the Lord is our protector. He sent us to these people. We must not flinch at the devil trying to undo our work. We knew there would eventually be resistance. We have to weather this with courage and faith, even if it means starting over.”
“Please, Klaus—”
“Just pray, my love. He is with us.”
“But—”
“Blow out the candle when I am gone,” he said. “Here are the matches in case you need them. I will be back before you know it.”
He squeezed her hand, kissed her again, then turned and hastily ascended the ladder.
Tears filled her eyes even as she felt the baby kick inside her womb.
Why did men insist on being brave and courageous and spiritually-minded at times like this?
Before she could think further, she heard the secret door above close tightly down upon the floor. A scraping sound followed. Klaus must have moved something on top of it.
She leaned over and blew out the candle, and was left alone and trembling in the darkness.
1
Whisperings
High on a mountain path, where the air was thin, clean, and invigorating, a woman in her late forties—bundled up with several sweaters, mittens, and hat—walked alone, her heart full of prayer for one whose name she did not know.
As is not unusual for men and women of prayer, both her object and purpose were vague and undefined, yet such did not deter her from the vitality of this day’s supplications. What had prompted her up and out at this early hour, only the Spirit of God knew. She had ceased inquiring into whys, wherefores, times, and seasons years before. She had begun to learn that most elemental yet difficult of life’s needful lessons—to trust.
It had not been an easy lesson.
She had studied in the various classrooms of tragedy, heartbreak, and disappointment. And Romans five had done its work. Suffering had indeed produced perseverance, character, and hope within her. Nor had that hope disappointed, for God had poured out his love into her heart.
As the Comforter had carried out that maturing operation within her, she had come to cherish the healing power of hope, and thanked God for developing within her an expectant heart.
Though her memory bore its share of deep personal scars, her eyes glowed with peace and with the wisdom that came from walking at her Master’s side in that hope, listening to his voice rather than trying to make sense of life’s unanswerables.
She knew her heavenly Father. She knew him to be both sovereign and good, and infinitely so. In that truth she rested, because she knew she could trust him. As she prayed on this morning, therefore, she knew that all would be well.
Last night’s was the first snowfall of the season, a mere dusting of half an inch. Autumn had scarcely begun, but she could feel the change in the air. Colder temperatures would come, and snow would descend upon them by the yard rather than the inch. Yet she always relished in the first fresh fall of every new winter. It never failed to remind her of the gentle, quiet ways in which God often answered her prayers differently than he had Peter’s from the Joppa housetop, not with giant white sheets, but rather with tiny crystalline flecks of joy. How many times, it seemed, did the snow come quietly and at night—like a million silent invisible answers to prayer—to cover the landscape with peace.
And with the powdery whiteness had come again, as so many times before, the sense of preparation for a new opportunity to care in some way for one of God’s dear ones.
When he first began sending people, she had been full of questions. As years had passed, however, and her comrade sisters had joined her, and as people had come and gone, she had learned that when the prompting came, she must simply pray for a quieting of her heart, that the Spirit’s needful whisperings might be heard.
Who was coming and what might be the need were specifics rarely revealed beforehand. She and her sisters must merely be ready, and pray for the human soil into which they would be given opportunity to plant the seeds of their compassion, prayer, and tender ministration.
Twenty minutes ago before coming out, she had given instructions to Sister Agatha to begin getting a room ready.
2
Out of Vienna
On a train increasing its speed as it bore south out of the great Austrian capital of Vienna, Amanda Rutherford Halifax sat back in her seat with eyes closed, trying to steady her nerves, calm h
erself . . . and think.
Her heart was pounding like a hammer on an anvil.
The image and voice of her husband of less than a month, Ramsay Halifax, still rang in her ears crying after her in angry defeat as the train pulled out of the station.
“Amanda . . . Amanda!”
The echo of his shouts reverberated in her brain. She had never seen such a side of him before that moment. The look of wrath in his eyes pierced through her as if he was glaring at her even now, as in truth he was, though all he could see was the back of the last car of the train.
She could never go back to him, thought Amanda, not ever again. Not after what she had learned. Not after realizing what he was, and how she had been used.
The sickness gathering in her stomach right now was not about politics. It had nothing to do with conflict between nations. At this moment she was not thinking of the fact that the world was at war. Her personal anguish concerned no ideologies.
It was about another woman. Amanda felt dirty.
How could she have been so foolish as to marry Ramsay!
She thought she knew him. But she hadn’t known him at all. She had only seen the surface, what he had wanted her to see—the suave, confident journalist, so dashing and charming and worldly-wise. She had never paused to look beneath the smiling veneer, to ask herself what Ramsay might be like inside.
Now she was far from home. Reminders of the war were all around her—the propaganda posters lining the station walls, soldiers everywhere en route to the nearby battlefields in Belgium and France. She was trapped in a foreign country that was fighting against her homeland, alone behind enemy lines.
Tears gradually filled Amanda’s eyes.
They were not quite yet the tears of contrition, but rather tears of mortification at having been so blind. But at least she had awoken from the stupor that had landed her in this fix. Therefore, the tears were beginning to wash the cobwebs from her brain. Her heart would come in for its share of that same cleansing in time. When it did, full healing repentance would not be far behind.
Heathersleigh Homecoming Page 2
