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Many of us know this parable that Jesus tells today as the Parable of the Prodigal Son. It’s one of the longest parables Jesus tells. And one of the most complex because of the familial relationships. No matter how many times we hear it, we find ourselves in it.
Jesus told parables as a way of engaging his listeners in theologically complex ideas. Parables use a story of some familiar situation to highlight something that doesn’t make sense by the world’s standards. Parables often illustrate some promise of the kingdom of God, the spreading of which Jesus began and we continue. Notably, parables seldom ‘finish’ the story; they usually leave the ending open, the storylines waving in the breeze, as a way of engaging us in living the next part of the story.
As with many of Jesus’ stories, it helps to understand the context in which Jesus is telling the story. In Luke, this parable begins with the scribes and the Pharisees sneering at Jesus because, “He welcomes sinners and eats with them.” In other words, by eating with tax collectors and beggars and other socially undesirable people who might not be observant Jews, Jesus violates Jewish purity laws as well as the strict social codes of his day. Today we might say Jesus eats with gang members and homeless people and sex workers.
In response to this criticism about his dinner companions, Jesus tells three parables. Two of them are quite short, and are found in the verses missing in the middle of this passage. They are stories of lost things that are found. One story is about a lost sheep, and the other about a lost coin. Both are things of seeming insignificance, and yet of great value to their owners. Upon realizing their loss, both owners drop everything to find them. And when these valued items are found, the owners throw huge celebratory parties for all their friends and neighbors. If you’ve ever lost something of great personal value, only to find it again, you know that sense of relief and delight that could lead to such celebrating.
This longer parable about a father with two sons moves away from society’s margins and into a privileged family. The story is more complex and more ambiguous. So much so that it is known by many names: The Lost Sons, The Welcoming Father, The Lost Son and the Welcoming Father, the Forgiving Father. What we call this story depends on where we find ourselves in it.
Often this is called the parable of the prodigal son. Prodigal is an interesting word to use here. Prodigal does not mean wandering, or returning, or even found. Prodigal means spending resources freely, or lavishly, OR wastefully extravagant. Luke 15 could be the Prodigal Chapter, since all the parables in it have elements of lavish or even wasteful spending on extravagant celebrations.
Back to this parable about a father and his two sons. Given the other two parables in this chapter, it’s easy to see how the return of the younger son gives cause for a big party. The younger son’s seeming remorse or regret makes some sense – at least Dad will make sure he has something to eat, even if he has to work for it. The father’s delight at welcoming home a wandering child: understandable to any worrying parent. And then there’s the older son.
The son who is angry. Because he has not left. He has worked hard and faithfully. He has been responsible. And where is the party for him? His baby brother, the one who has been nothing but a screw up – he’s the one that gets the big party? Just because he crawled home, broke. Again.
Two different brothers. Two different reactions to the grace offered by the father. Grace offered to one, in a rock-bottom moment of despair, received with surprise and delight. Grace offered to the other, in a place of self-righteous indignation and resentment, feels like too little, too late.
It’s easy to identify with the older brother. He very much reflects our life in the world and our need to keep track of things. We count. We make sure things add up. We compare and measure…to make sure life is fair, to make sure things are running right, that there’s equity.
In some things in life, counting IS important. Like finances and stock inventory. And sometimes counting just doesn’t work. Like in relationships. Imagine counting every good thing someone did for you and using that to measure how much they love you. Or imagine keeping track of every unhelpful or hurtful thing people in your life do or say to you and demanding restitution. Even worse, imagine them demanding payment from you for your mistakes!
Counting just doesn’t work for relationships. If it did, this father would never have extended grace and forgiveness to his sons. It cost him too much, in social credibility. He does things no self-respecting land-owning man of his culture would have done. He divides his property before his death. He RUNS (how undignified!) to meet his returning son, instead of waiting for the son to come to him. He doesn’t listen to his son grovel, he restores him to full status in the household immediately. These things alone would have been cause for social ridicule.
And then he deals with his older son with equal disregard for social status – and a high dose of grace. He doesn’t call his son inside – he goes outside to meet him where he is. He pleads with his son to come to the party. He doesn’t care who sees him humbled like this – his role as a loving parent is worth more than his standing at town council.
The elder son tries to refute the love of his father with all the things he has counted up. But his arguments have no weight. There is no scale to calculate love. His father’s extravagant, wasteful, even lavish love and forgiveness cannot be counted or measured or tracked. This love and grace is the promise of a prodigal God. The same God who promises that “if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; everything has become new!” (2 Corinthians 5:17).
Some of us feel like the younger brother. The one who thought he could make it in the world on his own. Who now crawls home, hoping beyond hope, to be accepted back on some small level, to at least be acknowledged as alive. Knowing the things we have done to survive in our lives, we may feel undeserving of love or respect, or even forgiveness. We may wonder how God could ever want us back.
Some of us feel like the older brother. The one who has done all the things we were supposed to do. Who has been there, faithfully, toiling away. And our efforts have been ignored or unappreciated. We may feel angry or disappointed, or sad and disheartened. We may judge others we think are less deserving than we are. We may not even be sure we believe in God.
It doesn’t matter what we have done, the doubts we have, the resentment or fear we harbor, or whether we even believe in God.
God stands before us, loving us – fiercely as a parent, courageously and vulnerably, and relentlessly. God invites us, with open arms, to receive the grace of knowing ourselves found… loved… welcomed into new life, with the reckless and extravagant grace of our prodigal God.
Let us pray.
Undignified God, spirit of dangerous feasts, inviting the unclean to your table: find us in the far country of hopelessness and greed; free us from the prison of resentment and envy and bring us back to life; through Jesus Christ, friend of sinners. Amen. [1]
[1] Steven Shakespeare, Prayers for an Inclusive Church (New York: Church Publishing, 2009), collect for Lent 4, Year C, page 90.
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