The story of the prodigal son in Luke 15 was my ex-husband's favorite Bible story. That knowledge still grieves me. He was touched by the image of a God who sought and welcomed home a wayward son, but he himself never walked the path back home. He never grabbed hold of the grace and feast offered by his heavenly Father.
When I finally saw Rembrandt's "Prodigal" painting in person at the Hermitage, I was struck by how diseased and decrepit was the son - his head and face are shaved (not the typical Jewish man look), his shoes and clothes are shredded, and he is covered in sores, including on the bottoms of his feet. His knees are on the ground with his face buried in his father's robes. This is not a son who made a few wrong turns; this is a man who has truly "hit bottom," as we say today.
I have grieved for years that no one came to our rescue, that no one noticed the evil happening in my marriage and in my home. I am not resentful towards any one person for not holding my husband accountable - I understand that a man must sense a calling to speak the gospel into another's life and then have the courage to speak. But I was, at times, resentful towards the Christian community in general that wholly failed to know and minister to my husband as he walked, lived, and worshiped among them.
As a married couple, we attended two Biblical churches over 28 years, rarely missing a Sunday even on vacation. We joined church couples groups and Bible studies and taught Sunday school. In the church, my husband was a deacon, a boys club counselor, and was asked to serve as an elder several times. There were many Christian men who came into my husband's life who could have been godly challengers - knights with the lance of truth. I remember my husband's wild college roommate with a revived faith he visited but did not venture into the mess that was our lives. I remember a pastor, and a Christian marriage counselor - neither had impact because both were too nice to call out sin.
A few brave souls with gospel courage ventured into relationship with my husband to offer healing and accountability, and for those few men I am grateful to the point of tears. I remember the first pastor my husband spoke to about his early forays to prostitutes; the pastor offered him accountability, hope and healing (my husband declined). I remember the devout graduate school friend who regularly shared his Christian faith from within a secular university department. There was a neighborhood friend and a work colleague, both with vibrant faith who looked for openings to speak into my husband's life but were kept at a distance. There was a young man, a friend of the family, who talked openly about sexual temptation and his reliance on a men's accountability group. He spoke this even among older, more cynical adults like my husband. I was profoundly grateful for his young, strong, witness. And I remember the octogenarian neighbor we visited on his death bed, a World War II veteran who pointedly asked my husband whether he was ready to meet Jesus. God bless you Wilbur! I look forward to thanking you in heaven.
A few men have since apologized to me for not fostering a culture of spiritual growth, discipline and accountability among the men of our church. Those apologies, although completely unexpected, have been healing for me. But the vast majority of men did not notice, did not invest or intimately befriend, did not hold my husband accountable. They wanted male church relationships to be high-fives and barbeques, with no vulnerability or soul care. Ultimately the church leaders said things like, "well, all men look at that sort of thing" and, as to marital unfaithfulness, "it is what it is." How painful is this message to the betrayed spouse.
I remember clearly God's last invitation to my husband before he spiritually turned on his heels to walk the road away from his Father's house. Together we listened to a powerful young preacher at a mega-church speak about freedom from sexual bondage and healing of marital struggles. The preacher ended with a call to repentance and inviting all who heard to an Easter baptism service at a local beach park. Surprisingly, my husband turned to me and said, "well, maybe we should go to that Easter service." Later that same Sunday, a stranger ran into my husband among crowds on that same beach and recognized him as being in church that morning! The stranger said, "hey, I saw you this morning and I hope you can come to the service and baptism here next week?" It may have been my husband's last invitation to repent from that which was destroying himself, his family, and his marriage. But he turned on his blistered and diseased bare feet and walked away. Was God's fatherly heart broken? Did Jesus weep knowing his prodigal child would not be burying his head in robes of comfort and beg for forgiveness?
Rembrandt van Rijn, The Return of the Prodigal Son, c. 1661–1669. 262 cm × 205 cm. Hermitage Museum
