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The parable is known as the Prodigal Son. But it is the father's story. He sees his son while he is yet a great way off — and he runs. The dignified patriarch of a prosperous house, abandoning dignity, running toward the returning failure. This is the image that has endured two thousand years.
The fourteenth century German mystic said: God is not good. I am good. If I called God good I would be doing God an injustice. He was tried for heresy. The charges arrived after his death. He had already disappeared into the desert of the Godhead he spent his life describing.
Guru Nanak was told to pray facing Mecca. He slept with his feet pointing toward Mecca. The qazi was furious. Nanak said: turn my feet to where God is not. They turned his feet in every direction. Mecca moved with them.
An anthropologist placed a basket of fruit near a tree and told a group of African children the first one there could have it all. The children joined hands and ran together. When asked why, they said: Ubuntu. How can one of us be happy if all the others are sad? Three words. The whole of social philosophy.
Nelson Mandela walked out of Robben Island after 27 years with his fist raised and his step steady. What almost nobody knows: the night before, he had thanked his jailer. Not ironically. Bitterness is a second prison. He had served enough time.
Hafiz fell in love with a woman he could never have. He vowed to stay awake for forty nights at a saint's tomb. On the fortieth night an angel gave him a cup. He drank. He woke with every poem he had ever written already inside him. The woman remained unattainable. The poetry remained.
Mansur Al-Hallaj walked through the streets of Baghdad crying: Ana'l Haqq — I am the Truth. The theologians heard blasphemy. The mystics heard the most precise theological statement available. He was executed for it. He went to the gallows laughing.
Prince Hui's cook had been using the same knife for nineteen years. The blade was still as sharp as the day it was made. The Prince asked his secret. The cook said: I follow the natural lines. I do not cut through bone — I find the spaces where the joints naturally open. A good cook changes his knife once a year. A poor cook changes his knife every month. The Prince said: I have learned something about living life.
The Emperor Ashoka won the battle of Kalinga in 261 BCE. One hundred thousand people died on the field. He rode through the aftermath and looked at what his victory had produced. He issued an edict: I am filled with remorse. He never fought another war. The greatest conqueror of his age chose to be remembered for what he stopped.