Past Sermon

Lesson:  Luke 15:11-32

Yes, even I, when the parable of the Prodigal Son comes up in the lectionary every three years, wonder to myself, “Shall I preach on it again this year?  What new can I say?”  I looked the passage up in my records and found that I had preached on it here back in 2004, in ‘01, in 1998, ’95 and ’91.  Five times.  Do any of you remember what I said?  Neither do I, and I didn’t bother to look in my sermon files either.

Yet it is, indeed, such a compelling parable, perhaps Jesus’ longest, that it draws us in and challenges us to read it once again, and to find some kernel in it that we overlooked before, and, perhaps, to see which of the characters we might identify with.

While commonly called the parable of The Prodigal Son, the actual meaning of prodigal is “excessively extravagant” or “lavish”, as in the word prodigious.  So perhaps a better title would be The Prodigal Father.  A child who rejects family and wastes the family fortune is not news.  Neither is a child who harbors resentment that a parent might forgive such a sibling.  However, a parent who is willing to risk prestige and wealth to let a child leave the family and then extend forgiveness when life apart from family sours – this is news.  It’s good news when we consider how this is a story about God’s nature.

According to Jewish customs of the time, the oldest son receives two thirds of the estate at the time of the father’s death, and for one or more younger sons, the remaining one-third would be divided among them.  The estate would be handed over near to or at the time of the father’s death.  However, it was not completely unusual to give the inheritance early.

This helps us to understand that the younger son was not entirely out of bounds in asking for his inheritance early, compared to the lens of our own culture through which we hear this story.  And the father gives not only the portion requested by the younger son, but also distributes his wealth to the older son as well.  We’ve all heard instances in which a family-owned business is turned over to the next generation while the founder is still living, who then becomes chairman emeritus or consultant or still goes into the office every day just to keep busy.

The younger son travels to “a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living.”  The mind boggles at what this means.  Give someone $100,000 and tell them to have fun in Las Vegas.  You get the picture.

He runs out of money; they won’t extend any more credit at the casino; he doesn’t even have enough for a cup of coffee at McDonalds on the Strip.  So he hires himself out to a local resident.  He ends up, literally, slopping the pigs.  Pretty dirty work.  Two commentaries I read said the carob pods he was feeding the pigs, and resorted to eating himself, were eaten by the poorest of people, and had no nutritional benefit for humans.  On top of that, we presume this was a Jewish son feeding the pigs, and Jews do not eat pork for they regard it as unclean. 

Then, two remarkable things happen.  First, amid his dissolute living, his depression, his dejection, Jesus says “he came to himself.”  He came to his senses.  He stood up, looked around, realized the situation he was in compared to his father’s servants, who had far better living conditions and food to spare.  Second, he runs over in his mind what he will say to his father when he goes home and pleads for mercy:  “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son…”

We have all heard about the act of confession.  Catholics were used to sitting in the confessional booth and beginning, “Father, forgive me, for I have sinned.”  On many Sundays, as today, we have a corporate prayer of confession, followed by a time of silence for you to make your own prayers to God.  But does anyone tell you what you are to say?  No.  Confession is not foisted upon you.  It is your own act, like the younger son, after you come to your senses about who or what you have wronged, and thought of what you should say or do in light of that.  Even if the younger son had been struck down and killed on the way home before he got to his father, he was already living in a state of grace for he had realized his mistake and had already prayed his confession.

Perhaps the most striking element of this story for Jesus’ original hearers would have been the image of a father running to meet his son.  Men of wealth and position never ran in public and certainly never ran to someone who held a less honorable position. 

Also, the fatted calf killed at the son’s return would only have been prepared for a visiting dignitary or for the wedding of one’s child, both opportunities to demonstrate prestige in the community.  The father discounts such honor in welcoming home the “lost” son.

Jesus is here trying to teach the Pharisees and scribes to whom he originally told this story, and us, of the endless mercy and grace of God, especially to those who think God is a merciless judge.  Jesus tells the story, I think, for our healing.  Your craving can be satisfied.  Your seeking is over.  God, even now, is running toward you, lifting you, twirling your around, hugging you, saying “I love you.”  God is the Father in the story.  God is our Father, no matter how good or bad your relationship might have been with your birthfather or stepfather or adoptive father.  God is Father to the Fatherless.  He runs out to meet us halfway.

I shared with Wednesday’s Bible study an image of what the final judgment might be.  In light of this story, you get to heaven, you fall down before God and begin your confession, hoping you are worthy to get in.  Do you think God is going to say, “Yes… umm-hmm… go on”?  Or do you think God is going to interrupt you in the middle of the confession, grab you by the shoulders, and welcome you in?  What is your image of heaven?

The parable could end here.  Its resolution is unfinished.  We really don’t know what happened next.  Don’t suppose for a minute that this son stayed home for the rest of his life.  After all, the father had already turned the estate over to the older brother, saying “all that is mine is yours.”  In time, the former prodigal was going to have to head out and make his own living.  So once he got his feet back under him, he no doubt left again, only this time under the right circumstances.

We all know of persons, perhaps ourselves, our siblings, our children or grandchildren, who have slipped, gone the wrong way for a while, made a course correction, and poorer but wiser, set off on a better path.  It happens.

Yet the story does not come to a tidy end with the return of the younger son.  The father had a powerful love for both the younger and the elder sons.  And he reaches out to the embittered, angry, always there, faithful older brother.  Abraham Lincoln was one asked what he would do with the Confederates once the Civil War was over.  He said, “I will treat them as if they had never gone away.”

This very parable has been played out over every century in every country since Jesus first uttered it.  If you think hard enough, you’ll figure out some instance not far from you.  Sometimes the father is forgiving and accepting, other times not.  Sometimes the siblings are welcoming of the lost, other times not. 

You see, the father, in giving the younger son the robe and the ring, hosting the big barbecue, renting the tent, the tables and chairs, the band and all its expenses, it’s getting charged against the older brother, because the father had already turned two-thirds of the estate over to him.  That rotten, no good younger brother is taking the stuff the older brother deserves, indeed, already owns!

Most of us—we’ve worked hard, we’ve earned what we have.  We’ve got a lot of good stuff.  We enjoy it and we deserve it.  It’s ours!  But we need to let go of what is rightly ours to restore that lost brother or sister.  We need to part with what is ours not just for them, but for our own joy!

The parable leaves us not only unsure of what ultimately happens to the younger son, but also wondering whether the elder brother joined the celebration.  Did he go in and welcome his brother home, or did he stay outside pouting and feeling wronged?

The parable ends here because that is the decision each of us must make in life, whether we are the wayward person or the person who felt wronged.  If we go in, we accept grace as the Father’s rule for life in the family.

Jesus speaks through this parable of God’s love for all, both the “sinners” and the righteous.

(NOTE:  Another sermon will not be posted until Palm Sunday, April 1.)