Saint Luke, evangelist and physician, is the only one of the four gospel writers in the New Testament who documents Jesus’ confrontation with the Pharisees in which he tells the parable of the Prodigal Son. The reading of Luke’s account was part of the liturgy this past Sunday. I attended the worship service while reminiscing about my deceased father whose 102nd birthday would have been celebrated on March 5th, and also reflecting on author Pat Conroy’s death the day before.
In the parable, the younger son of a wealthy landowner asks for his share of his father’s estate. The father complies with his son’s request, and the latter moves to a distant country where he squanders his monies and becomes destitute. Neither Jesus nor Luke suggests reasons for the son’s request and subsequent lifestyle—although “dissolute living” can be alluring. Was there dysfunction in the family? We are left to wonder, and though that’s not the point of the parable, as a clinician I wonder about the father and son’s decisions. The son eventually returns to his family of origin, much to the chagrin of his older brother, where he is embraced and feted with food and drink during a festive community celebration.
I have read and studied Luke’s narrative, but on this Sunday the words “…he came to himself…” drew me into the tale in ways I’d not experienced before. The young son, penniless and starving, found his way into reconciliation with his past, and a renewed life.
Pat Conroy, in his novels “The Great Santini,” “The Lords of Discipline,” and “The Prince of Tides,” used his childhood experiences to shape and inform his characters and their stories. He was the eldest of seven children, and like his siblings he was subjected to his father’s sadistic abuse and incessant ridicule. In a 1986 interview the author stated “The reason I write is to explain my life to myself.” Following the publication of “The Great Santini” Pat and his father, Donald, found some peace and reconciliation in their relationship.
My father, unlike Donald Conroy, was not brutalizing and sadistic, but he was critical and judgmental, demeaning and dismissive of me. Like the author, I grew up hating my father, and often considered running away.
Brokenness affects many of us, and can be handed down from parent to child if left unexplored. We may be born into families in which love’s expression becomes intertwined with harmful, if not destructive communications that mute the loving. My personal life, including broken relationships and divorces, has been a perpetuation of those experiences with added twists of my own.
When on trial, Socrates is said to have stated that the unexamined life is not worth living—his choice was death over exile because he believed that he would be able to continue [unabated] questioning and examining in the after-life. His words are often paraphrased to encourage self-examination through which insight and healthier living might occur.
We know that the prodigal son “came to himself” when confronted with the brokenness of his dissolute life. I interpret this to be the result of connecting the messy external world of pig-feeding and squalor to his soul’s desire for reconciliation with father and family.
Pat Conroy used his gift for story-telling and skill as a writer to explain his life to himself, and subsequently to discover some peace and reconciliation with himself and his father.
My psychotherapy while in graduate school, and for years afterward, brought healing to my brokenness—a lifelong effort of coming to myself that remains challenging and at times elusive—many years after my father and I reconciled.
“Coming to one’s self” is not for the timid, whether you’re in a “pig sty” wanting something more, putting pen to paper or words on a screen to see yourself more clearly, or immersing yourself in the “gentle art of psychotherapy.”
by 
My father wasn’t at all a kind and loving man. He was abusive, critical, and dismissive of anything I had to say or do. My memories are of unpleasant occurences. It took me many years to realize that I was OK. On my first leave at home from the Marines he raised his fist at me, and I responded by saying,” You’d better know that this will be the last time you ever threaten me.” He never again did anything like that. It’s sad that he only understood that kind of violence. Those experiences made me a much better dad.
Tom,
The lesson learned–not to perpetuate violent response–is a difficult one to embrace. I’m glad that, for you and your sons, the painful experiences stopped with you.
Than you for commenting,
Roger
What a remarkable quote by Pat Conroy: “The reason I write is to explain my life to myself.”
That stopped me in my tracks. Thank you for opening up your heart in your posts, allowing us to see inside. The deeper you do that, the more we learn about ourselves and I thank you. We crave it. We need it. This deep self exploration causes many writers to turn to the bottle as they ironically become greater writers. The more you can come to yourself as a writer or as a human being, the more connected we become with others. Why should this be such a painful experience? But also liberating, freeing and healing. We have so much to learn from each other. Thank you for making me think. It’s a wonderful thing to do.
Jo Anne,
Thank you for commenting. I agree with you–we turn from connections for which we yearn, but find liberation when the painful is embraced. Keep singing, and writing!
Roger
A new friend of mine, a theologian, wrote; “…the preacher’s hope–that those who hear the sermon will in turn “preach” their own sermon to themselves in the personal terms of their own lives. Many Biblical stories are given to interpretation through psychological lenses; I often find this is a helpful way into their deeper meanings.”
Well said…
Another quote from Pat Conroy, who is sadly missed.
“If your parents disapprove of you and are cunning with their disapproval, there will never come a new dawn when you can become convinced of your own value. There is no fixing a damaged childhood. The best you can hope for is to make the sucker float.”
And…
“As his children, we were treated as some species of migrant workers who happened to be passing through. My father was the only person I knew who looked upon childhood as a dishonorable vocation one grew out of as quickly as possible.”
Good post on the prodigal son. I always wondered how the father felt knowing how his son was failing and flailing. He must have experienced feelings of disappointment that he had failed to instill in him the necessary fundamentals that would prevent his decline.
I appreciate how you blend the biblical with Socrates, and the more modern stories of Pat Conroy, as well as your own unabated questioning as you seek to come to yourself. I like to think that the brokenness you mention is like a broken heart, unavoidable, and offers perspective and balance to living a full life, open to the yin and yang of it all. Thank you for sharing
yourself so honestly as you put your thoughts into words and your heart into your gentle art of psychotherapy. Write on, mon ami.
A friend from my graduate school days in California wished to remain anonymous, but wrote of running away as an adolescent–needing to escape parents whose self-absorption left no room for their children. The journey into and through adulthood was “rocky,” but a successful one with the assistance of a therapist.
I choose the gentle art of psychotherapy to facilitate integration of past experiences with the newness of life I have experienced as an adult.
I know, my friends and family know, that I am a happier more giving person as a result
Thank you Roger
Kay,
I’m glad this was a positive and beneficial choice for you. Sometimes it takes great courage to step into the inward journey–even when the promise of a healthier way of living seems certain–it is not without risk.
Thanks for reading and commenting,
Roger