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I have not suffered greatly for my faith. I worship God freely, where and how I choose to do so. My property has never been confiscated because of my convictions. I have never been threatened or harmed because of my faith. The greatest pain I have suffered as a Christian has been self-inflicted—sorrow over sins committed, discouragement over recurring temptations.

These minor sorrows are assuaged by the comfort the parable of the Prodigal Son offers. When I read this story, it is the image of loving, open arms of the waiting Father for his raucous, repentant son that leap off the pages. But this interpretation has something to do with the context in which I read the parable. If I had grown up as a member of a persecuted, endangered church, I might read and interpret it differently.

For the early church, persecution sporadically erupted against the Christian community, inflicting intense abuse and suffering. How, I ask myself, would I have reacted to an order to sacrifice to the emperor, particularly if I knew that simply a pinch of incense sprinkled on the coals of a Roman altar could save my life, family, and property? Or what if I were put on trial, as in the case of the beloved Bishop Cyprian in the middle of the third century:

The proconsul Galerius Maximus ordered Cyprian to be brought before him . …

Proconsul: "Are you Thascius Cyprianus?"

Cyprian: "I am."

Proconsul: "Have you allowed yourself to be called 'father' of persons holding sacrilegious [that is, Christian] opinions?"

Cyprian: "I have."

Proconsul: "The most sacred emperors have ordered you to sacrifice [to the emperor as a god]."

Cyprian: "I will not do it."

Proconsul: "Have a care for yourself . …"

Cyprian: "Do as you are bid. There is no room for discussion when the issue is so clear."

Proconsul: "You have lived for a long time holding sacrilegious opinions. You have gathered a large number of accomplices around you in your blameworthy conspiracy. You have proved an enemy to the Roman gods and their sacred worship. Nor have the pious and most sacred Emperors Valerian and Gallienus, the Augusti, and Valerian, the noble Caesar, been able to recall you to the observance of their rites. And so since you have been convicted as the instigator and ringleader in most atrocious crimes, you shall be an example to the accomplices in your crime. Your blood shall be shed in accordance with the law."

After saying this, the proconsul read the verdict from his tablet: "We command that Cyprianus be executed by the sword." Bishop Cyprian said, "Thanks be to God."

Cyprian persevered in his faith to the very end and received the martyr's crown.

But what of those who had lapsed in their faith and offered sacrifice to the emperor? Was a second chance, a new beginning, possible for those who had so gravely sinned? Could the ruptured and violated relationships between Christians—between those who had courageously confessed their faith and those who had rejected it—experience restoration? Could those who had lapsed in their faith be forgiven? What does the parable of the Prodigal Son have to say to this situation?

Some early Christians, many of whom lived under constant stress because of their uncertain status in the Roman world, reacted differently than I do to Jesus' parable.

Tertullian, a gifted theologian writing roughly 150 years after the apostle Paul, argued that the parable of the Prodigal Son must never be applied to Christians. Could a Christian sin in such a rebellious, high-handed manner and still be forgiven? Tertullian said no. To extend forgiveness so broadly would release a torrent of sin within the church. Not only "adulterers and fornicators," but "idolaters, blasphemers, and renegades … every class of apostates" would use the parable as an excuse for sin. "Who will worry about losing what can be so easily regained?" Tertullian asked. "Security in sin develops an appetite for it."

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October 26 1998, Vol. 42, No. 12