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CHAPTER 1
The Art of Disruption
I know a man who has two sons.
Both of his sons are married, and both their wives became pregnant in the same year. Out of the two pregnancies,
one ended in a miscarriage,
the other in a healthy baby boy.
And so twice in that year this man I know went to the same hospital, walked down the same hallways with his same family membersāthe first time to grieve and mourn, the second time to rejoice and celebrate.
We live in the hallways, donāt we?
In the hallways.
Weāve left one room and gone to the other. Weāve sat outside, waiting. Weāve felt that kind of pain and been overwhelmed by that kind of joy.
Weāve all been in the hallways in one way or another, havenāt we?
Maybe not in the same family,
in the same hospital,
in the same hallways,
but this man with two sonsā
we know his story,
because his story is our story.
Jesus told a story about a man who had two sons. The story begins with the younger son asking for his share of the inheritance, which in first-century Jewish culture was a deeply offensive request, the equivalent of saying,
āDad, I wish you were dead.ā
What an odd way to begin a story.
Whatās even more unusual is that the father grants his request. The son leaves with the money and eventually spends it all. In his humiliation and poverty, the son decides to head home, where he hopes to get work as one of his fatherās servants.
But when he arrives home, he isnāt shunned or punished or treated as a servant. His father rushes out to welcome and embrace him and then throws a party for him. Normally, on an occasion like this, a lamb would be sacrificed for the meal, which would be enough for a family.
But the father in this story has a calf prepared, which would be enough for the whole village.
Apparently, the consequences of the sonās departure were so destructive that he needed to be reconciled to the whole community.
This celebration infuriates the older brother. He refuses to join the party and instead argues the injustice of it all to their father, who responds,
āMy son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.ā
The older brother then has a moment of profound enlightenment. He puts his arm around his father and says, āYouāre right, Dad. Iām sorry Iāve been such an ass. Can I get you a beer?ā
Uh . . . actually, thatās not how the story ends. The story ends with the fatherās words about how everything he has belongs to his son and how they have to celebrate because his son āwas dead and is alive again.ā
Thatās it.
Thatās how the story ends.
The fatherās words hanging in the air . . .
And we never learn what the elder brother decides to do.
What an odd way to end a story.
If this story was a film, it would end with the fatherās words, and then the camera would pan back, showing the party in the background. Youād hear the clinking of silverware and laughter and the thump of the bass drum on the dance floor and then the screen would fade to black and the credits would roll.
Jesus leaves the story unresolved.
We never find out what the older brother decides to do.
Jesus doesnāt give the story the proper Hollywood ending weāve all come to expect.
You can picture one more scene, canāt you?
The older brother enters the party and the younger brother is surrounded by people who want to talk to him but he sees his brother and so he says to them ājust a minute, pleaseā as he starts walking toward his brother and the orchestra music in the background gets louder and louder as they get closer and closer until they embrace and everybody at the party circles around them and starts clapping and then the camera pans over to that one last shotāthe one of the father holding a glass of Champagne with a smile on his face and a tear in his eye.
But thatās not how it always goes, is it?
Some elder brothers never join the party.
Some fathers never throw one.
Some brothers never come back.
Some things never get resolved.
Lots of parties are missing somebody.
And when we try to resolve things too quickly or pretend that everyone is there when they arenāt or offer hollow, superficial explanations . . . itās not honest and itās not right and itās not real.
Itās not how life is.
Iāve heard people trying to be helpful in the midst of a tragedy or accident or death by saying, āThatās just how God planned it,ā while Iām thinking, āThe god who planned THAT is not a god I want anything to do with.ā
Others with far more wisdom and experience than me have tackled the āwhyā questions of suffering.
Here, in these pages, Iām interested in another question . . .
Not āWhy this?ā
but āWhat now?ā
This is a standard question on undergrad applications:
āIn order for the admissions staff of our college to get to know you, the applicant, better, we ask that you answer the following question: Are there any significant experiences you have had, or accomplishments you have realized, that have helped to define you as a person?ā
An applicant named Hugh Gallagher sent this response to NYU:
I am a dynamic figure, often seen scaling walls and crushing ice. Iāve been known to remodel train stations on my lunch breaks, making them more efficient in the area of heat retention. I translate ethnic slurs for Cuban refugees. I write award-winning operas. I manage time efficiently. Occasionally, I tread water for three days in a row.
I woo women with my sensuous and godlike trombone playing, I can pilot bicycles up severe inclines with unflagging speed, and I cook Thirty-Minute Brownies in twenty minutes. I am an expert in stucco, a veteran in love, and an outlaw in Peru.
Using only a hoe and a large glass of water, I once single-handedly defended a small village in the Amazon Basin from a horde of ferocious army ants. I play bluegrass cello, I was scouted by the Mets, I am the subject of numerous documentaries. When Iām bored, I build large suspension bridges in my yard. I enjoy urban hang gliding. On Wednesdays, after school, I repair electrical appliances free of charge.
I am an abstract artist, a concrete analyst, and a ruthless bookie. Critics worldwide swoon over my original line of corduroy evening wear.
I donāt perspire. I am a private citizen, yet I receive fan mail. I have been caller number nine and have won the weekend passes. Last summer I toured New Jersey with a traveling centrifugal-force demonstration. I bat .400.
My deft floral arrangements have earned me fame in international botany circles. Children trust me.
I can hurl tennis rackets at small moving objects with deadly accuracy.
I once read Paradise Lost, Moby-Dick, and David Copperfield in one day and still had time to refurbish an ent...
