Response to Return of the Prodigal Son by Stephanie Frostad

Today my world shifted a smidge on its axis. Today, I took in a painting. Really took it in. The painting is “The Return of the Prodigal Son” by Stephanie Frostad, and the reason I took it in is that I watched a video where Ms. Frostad described her process in the creation of it. (The interview with Frostad begins 6:45 minutes into the video.)

The painting is named for the Biblical parable about the return of a son who has been away from home, wasting his family's money by living a life of irresponsible debauchery. Upon his penitent return, he is welcomed by his parents, who celebrate by slaughtering the “fatted calf.” The parable is filled with themes near and dear to Christian theologists: the redemption of the sinner, unconditional forgiveness, turning the other cheek, and so on.

Frostad has done something shocking. She has told the story—in painting—from the perspective of the calf, its mother, and the sober, responsible son who has stayed at his post, as a steward of the land and of the animals. The idyllic, pastoral relationship between the mother cow and her calf dominate the painting to such a degree that it appears at first glance to be a portrait of cows. The next most visible figure is what Frostad refers to as the “dutiful son.” In her video, there is a close-up of this figure. He stands aloof, watching the joyful reunion with a poker face. What is he feeling? Anger, ambivalence, resentment, skepticism, disgust?

Finally, way in the background, is the scene that takes center stage in the Bible—the reunion of the wastrel son and his grieving parents. The figures are so tiny, they almost appear to be stick figures, their personalities reduced to gesture.

On the three-month anniversary of the most dangerous nuclear accident on the planet, with radiation continuing to spew into ocean and air, I experienced a paradigm shift as I viewed Frostad’s work and as I listened to her words. The story—the real story, the important story—is the cow and her calf, the sanctity of the innocent. The drama of the disconnected, dissociated son returning home, because he has finally run through his resources and is out of options, seems suddenly small, insignificant, obscene, out-of-focus. Who cares about him? And why should any more of the planet's precious resources be wasted on him? Frostad has finally put the story of the prodigal son in its true, planetary perspective... and along with it, the toxic theology and pedagogy that spawned it. No small thing.

I am a playwright, and this drama of the bad-boy acting out  occupies an inordinate amount of the canon of Western drama. It is perpetually compelling. There was an entire school of  "angry young man" plays. And the ongoing parade of "mommy-shocking" films. There is the angst of the dying salesman, the corporate criminal, the hubris-ridden king, the corrupt politician. Whatever will become of them? Will they be saved in time by the love of a good woman(or man... but mostly woman)? Will they die unrepentant? Will the long-suffering partner be amply rewarded by a show of gratitude? And then the homecoming... the tearful reunion, the joyous return to the marital bed, the father-son reconciliation, the sentimental return to the mother's embrace...

Let's face it: The addict takes focus. Why wouldn't he or she? The addict's actions are dramatically erratic and potentially disastrous, the monstrous selfishness is compelling to watch, the mounting debt and burden of guilt carry their own momentum. It's a plot that fairly writes itself. The storyline of the victims is nowhere near as fun. And the sober citizen? Well....zzzzzzz.

At least this is how  we have been conditioned. This is The Story. This how women learn about relationships with men, how children learn about relationships to parents, how minority cultures learn about relationships with the dominant culture, how underdeveloped countries learn about relationships to developed ones, how workers learn about relationships to bosses, how underclasses learn about relationships to the privileged classes, and so on.

We watch with anguish as these favored "prodigal sons" of patriarchal culture repeatedly betray our loyalty, as they take our resources and squander them on their selfish pleasure. We wring our hands, wondering when they will realize how much they owe us, when they will come back and make amends. And if they do return (invariably for more access to our resources), we are just desperate or self-deceived enough to receive them back with open arms, eager to spare them any humiliation... and pressing upon them more of our already-plundered resources.

The parable of the prodigal son plays out in our unending hopes that the men who run the governments and the corporations will gain a smidgeon of self-awareness, some glimmer of compassion for the lives that are so affected by their greed-driven, war-mongering policies. The drama of the return of the prodigal plays out in our living rooms with the focus on the addict or the alcoholic—with whole families held hostage to whims of this most banal of diseases. What is so fascinating about the self-absorption of the dissociated individual, or government, or corporation?  It must be our investment. The investment of a parent in the child they have raised. The investment of the lover in her partner. The investment of the electorate who has campaigned for a candidate. The investment of the stockholders in a corporation. And the investment of the just plain desperate, whose already hellish lives can actually be made worse.

But this drama, as Frostad makes so clear has nothing in common with the natural world, its seasons and its cycles. Our investments have been misplaced and we must collectively cut our losses. It is time for the “dutiful son”-- those on the planet who are attempting to live moderate, sustainable, environmentally conscientious lives--to turn away from this tedious drama of redemption, to reject the pseudo romance of reconciliation, to refuse to kill any more fatted calves for this obscene celebration of non-accountability. And it is time for the “dutiful son” to examine destructive loyalties to a family that is so absorbed in that drama that it cannot focus its priorities.

Looking at Frostad’s painting, I am aware that the peaceful relationship of cow and calf is about to be shattered, that the animals are oblivious to the distant drama that can seal their fate. But the figures do not come off as vulnerable or as victims. Frostad has painted them as integral to nature. It is as if she wants the viewer to understand that this essential rightness of relation in the natural world will endure, and that it is the unstable and disconnected humans who will be displaced.

What this painting has done for me is to push me to examine all the ways in which I have internalized the drama of the return of the prodigal as a meaningful narrative. What are the ways I am complicit with it? Am I still susceptible to the romance of redemption, to the paradigm of the mother, eternally delighted to reward the males who show any signs of coming home, thrilled at any return, however meager, of my investment? Am I the father, flush with the power of "forgiveness," sponsoring the prodigal back into the family? Am I the prodigal herself, expecting the world to be waiting for me with open arms when I realize the extent of my profligacy, arrogance, participation in a culture of  greed and exploitation?

The parable of the prodigal son is a tale of enabling, and it has always been a luxury. Now, as it has become a planetary imperative for all us to be learn what it means to become "right-sized," we need to flip the parable, as Frostad has done, privileging the narratives of the innocent and of the accountable. We need to shrink the romance of the reformed sinner to a distant memory from a dying planet.