Does the bible know best about fathers?

Contemporary scholars look at the Bible cross-culturally to determine the meaning of the text in the context of the values the biblical authors held. Understanding how the culture of the biblical authors differs from the culture of contemporary American readers is the first step because culture provides the lens through which people perceive reality. Thus, in every society people use words such as father and son. But the roles and responsibilities of fathers and sons are embedded in the culture of each society and differ considerably from one to another.

For example, how cultural expectations in the ancient Mediterranean world differ from those in any contemporary American suburb is apparent when we take a fresh look at Jesus' parable of the prodigal son. We usually take this parable as a message about the father's unconditional love for his wayward son. What else is there? The story is of an adult child who returns home to stay. Yes, to stay! That is the whole point: like his older brother, he will now live with his father. Imagine a U.S. pastor concluding his homily with the new beatitude: Happy the parent whose adult child returns to the nest, there to abide forever!

In Jesus' world, people expected sons to stay home; adult sons were dependent until their father's death. In the U.S., unable to imagine fathers desiring such an outcome, we label such sons "Mama's boys." However sexist our label, it does the work of pushing adult children out of the nest.

Such labels reveal our cultural values. Proverbs such as "Spare the rod, spoil the child" serve the same purpose. In traditional cultures with few books or readers, proverbs provide practical advice in areas such as child rearing. The Book of Sirach is perhaps the best example of the proverbial wisdom of the ancient Mediterranean world on many topics, among them bringing up children.

Sirach's advice on child rearing begins, "He who loves his son will whip him often, so that he may rejoice at the way he turns out" (Sir. 30:1). In the 13 verses that follow, fathers hear advice such as, "An unbroken horse turns out stubborn, and an unchecked son turns out headstrong. Pamper a child and he will terrorize you; play with him, and he will grieve you" (Sir. 30:8-9). In sum, to raise sons properly in a culture where a "thrashing and discipline are at all times wisdom" (Sir. 22:6), Sirach took corporal punishment for granted.

Opening a window on the value system of the ancient Mediterranean world, Sirach instructs a father about his son: "Give him no freedom in his youth, and do not ignore his errors. Bow down his neck in his youth, and beat his sides while he is young, or else he will become stubborn and disobey you" (Sir. 30:11-12). Here, the goal becomes apparent: punishment is aimed at creating obedience and submission, if not lasting subservience.

By contrast, 20th-century efforts to understand the child's point of view and consider his or her feelings aim to encourage the growth of an independent adult. Each culture tends to tailor its child-rearing techniques to produce the type of adult best able to cope with life's responsibilities in the future.

What were adult men expected to do later in life in the ancient Mediterranean world? They were to provide material support to their fathers, continue their father's trade or work, and in every way extend their father's name--even after death, by being his spitting image. A notable part of this role was the responsibility to avenge the father's enemies and extract satisfaction from those who wronged any family member. In all this, clearly, the adult male was not to think of himself or his own needs but to loyally and uncomplainingly stay the course set by his father no matter what. The son's life was sacrificed, at least figuratively, for the sake of his father.

Nothing could be further from the U.S. model of parents sacrificing their lives for the sake of their children, so that their children will have the life they never had. Future-oriented Americans expect their children to have their own lives and better lives. Fathers ideally cultivate their sons' friendship, not subservience.

Since Vatican II, many churches have replaced images of the suffering Jesus with images of the triumphant, risen Christ. The newer image reinforces the subtle shift in our proclamation from "Jesus died for us" to "Christ lives for us." In so far as we also tend to speak more frequently of Christ as "brother," perhaps we have shifted more to "Christ lives with us, among us." In all this, we are far from the notion of Christ as having paid a price for sin demanded by his father.

Yet the biblical images remain of a submissive, suffering Jesus, indeed of a son who suffered because his father willed it. There remains also a vision of Christian life as "taking up the cross," which parallels Sirach's "Discipline your son and make his yoke heavy" (Sir. 30:13) and all too many other admonitions in the spirit of the proverb "Folly is bound up in the heart of a boy, but the rod of discipline drives it far away" (Prov. 22:15).

All this came to mind when a priest now in retirement asked me, "Do you think we really knew what child abuse was?" He was trying to make sense of ever-growing reports of child-abusing priests. Has child abuse been with us all along, perhaps unnamed? I suggested that much of what late 20th century Americans call child abuse--which is not the same as, though perhaps related to, child sexual abuse--has not only been there; it has been morally acceptable. At least, so it seems in the biblical world.

When we look at the readings assigned for Lent, two sides of one abusive pattern confront us. Early in Lent, we find Abraham's test, "Take your son, your only son Isaac, whom you love...and offer him as a burnt offering" (Gen. 22:2). On Good Friday, we hear Jesus putting off Peter, submissively asking, "Am I not to drink the cup that the Father has given me?" (John 18:11). We will undoubtedly speak of Abraham's faith and Jesus' obedience. Yet, at the same time, in these passages, father love approaches the outer limit of child sacrifice, while son love is epitomized in submission.

Too readily modern readers turn to biblical commentaries to avoid the harshness of this parent-child pattern. Pointing to the ram God provided at the last moment to save Isaac, obliging commentators relabel the story as a protest against the child sacrifice practiced by primitive people surrounding ancient Israel. And so, indeed, Israel's record contains no child sacrifice. Nonetheless, we still hear the angel proclaim, "I know that you fear God, since you have not withheld your son" (Gen. 22:12). The record that stands could be a formula for abuse: fathers prove their fear of God by a willingness to sacrifice their sons, while sons respond by unflinchingly accepting their fathers' will.

Traditional commentaries overlook these possibilities for various reasons. Thinking the Abraham story is ultimately about how Israel should worship, they limit the issues at stake. The accounts of Jesus' willing acceptance of his death are meant to show his self-sacrificing love for all humanity. Is this all these scriptures meant and mean?

We can draw a line dividing discipline from child abuse just as surely as we may distinguish dramatic images of Abraham's faith and Christ's love from child sacrifice. There is more, however, we need to consider and do because abuse is more than a matter of physical blows. Abuse is directed more at the mind than at the body. What the abuser says is more powerful and damaging than what the abuser does. The abuser says he has life and death power over his child. The child is told his life is not his own.

This message, that Isaac's life is in Abraham's hands, remains after the ram appears. In fact, this message is reinforced by the message from the Lord, "Because... you have not withheld your son,... I will indeed bless you" (Gen. 22:16-17). The father who used his son to obtain divine favor has indeed been favored, and the Son who does not question his Father's will, who places his life in his Father's hands, still dominates Christian consciousness. These themes are replayed over and over again throughout scripture and in later Christian instruction, hymns, and stories, many of which originated in European cultures sharing the vision of personhood of the ancient Mediterranean world. In these settings all that might ever be asked was how far fathers might go. Their cultural antennae were not focused to recognize child abuse.

As U.S. Christians, blessed by a uniquely sharp vision of the ultimate worth of each individual person, adult or child, we must go further. As these themes are replayed in our worship and lives, we have a responsibility to question the themes themselves. We know that abuse begins with attitudes. We are culturally suspicious of the very notion of unquestioning obedience. We honor those who challenge authorities to explain themselves. Have we not a right to suppose that a Bible written in our midst would never have featured a father ready to sacrifice his son or a son willing to submit? If so, if we also think that in the life of the church God still speaks with people in the here and now, are not our questions precisely the questions that must accompany a contemporary reading of these ancient foreign texts?

As we hear and consider these themes and texts, our first task is to really hear all that they do say, to understand as clearly as possible what the authors of Genesis or Sirach or John actually meant within their own cultural settings. But our second task is no less important: to address our own questions to the ancient authors, to challenge their culturally conditioned assumptions.

The one thing responsible readers are not permitted to do is to let a text provide even a subliminal justification for letting things happen we now know to be wrong. We have ample means for identifying child abuse and naming it when it appears. We have no excuse for letting ancient stories, even in the Bible, dull our sensitivity. Rather, we must reflect on such stories to sharpen our sensitivities. The last thing we may do is allow ourselves to become sons unquestioningly accepting a script from our fathers, even our fathers in faith.