Lk 15:1-3, 11b-32
14 March 2010
4th Sunday in Lent
“Prodigal”
Have any
of you ever come back to a place—possibly home, or somewhere else you’ve been
missed—after an extended period of time, and heard this greeting: “The prodigal has returned!” I realize that that’s based on the parable we
just heard. Probably the only parable
that is more well-known and well-loved is the one about the Good Samaritan,
which Luke also tells (10:29-37).
Still,
unless you’ve been wasteful and extravagant, it’s not the best choice of
words. Once or twice I’ve asked, “Do you
really think I’ve been prodigal?”
Jesus
tells the story, responding to complaints by some Pharisees and scribes. They’re upset because he’s been sitting down
and eating with tax collectors and other undesirables. He isn’t behaving the way decent people
should!
Jesus
seems to understand that the methods of the religious authorities aren’t the
best. That’s why his response to the
Pharisees and scribes comes in the form of three parables about the lost. The first is about a lost sheep, the second
about a lost coin, and the third, our scripture text, is about a lost son.
Jesus
starts simply enough: “There was a man
who had two sons” (v. 11). The younger
son presents his father with a blunt request.
He’s interested in his portion of the inheritance. The trouble is, he wants it right now! Many
have commented on how outrageous a
request this is. As things turn out for
the young man, things really do become serious.
Barbara
Brown Taylor speaks of a ritual in the Talmud, the qetsatsah ceremony.
It’s designed “to punish a Jewish boy who loses the family
inheritance to Gentiles. Here’s how it
works. If he ever shows up in his
village again, then the villagers can fill a large earthenware jug with burned
nuts and corn, break it in front of the prodigal, and shout his name out loud,
pronouncing him cut off from his people.”[1] Keep that in mind as a potential hazard
lurking for him.
Having
said all that, the father still agrees “to [divide] his property between them”
(v. 12). And within a few days, the son
takes his massive amount of spending
money, and as the scripture says, “traveled to a distant country” (v.13). This is the road trip of a lifetime. He wants to get as far away as possible. Young and rich, “he squander[s] his property
in dissolute living” (v. 13).
Dissolute: that suggests depravity and debauchery! As we’ll see in a moment, that’s how his
brother describes him. Still, the Good
News Bible does a better job with the Greek word here, aswtw"
(asōtōs), simply calling
him “reckless.” We don’t know for sure
that he throws his money away on booze and women—it’s likely—but it could also
mean that he’s just lousy at budgeting! Whatever
the case, the funds run out before he knows it.
And adding
insult to injury, the place gets hit with famine.
Desperate,
the young man agrees to work for a pig farmer.
Feeding swine, probably not the most sought-after occupation on anyone’s
list, is truly an abomination for a Jew.
And what’s worse, with this job, he can’t even afford enough to eat. In fact, his constant hunger makes the pods
that he’s been feeding the animals look pretty tasty. He literally wants to “pig out.”
Eventually,
he grows weary of this hogwash and realizes something. “How many of my father’s hired hands have
bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger!” (v. 17). And he rehearses what he’ll say: he’ll admit his guilt and beg to be taken on
as one of the workers. So off he goes. Somewhere in the back of his mind, he’s
hoping to reach his father before anyone sees him and calls for that darn qetsatsah ritual!
At this
point, I want to inject a thought.
Remember, Jesus isn’t simply telling a fascinating story. He intends for his hearers to see themselves
in what he’s saying. I invite all of us
to do the same. Think of ways in which we’ve been the younger son. Think of blessings we’ve squandered, only to be
craving the food of swine.
With
verse 20, the tone changes. The focus shifts
from the younger son to the father. He’s
really the glue that holds this whole thing together as a story. In describing the father, Jesus paints a picture
totally at odds with what the society of his day would expect. Jesus says that, at the first glimpse of the
returning prodigal son, the father immediately sprints toward him and embraces
him.
Many
commentators have noted that “[i]n ancient Palestine it was regarded as
unbecoming—a loss of dignity—for a grown man to run.” Servants
are the ones supposed to be running around!
“Yet the father set aside all concern for propriety and ran.”[2]
The
younger son launches into his speech, confessing his sin and admitting that he
no longer deserves to be considered a son.
But before he can beg for a job, his father interrupts, calling for the
best robe they have, a ring for his finger, and sandals for his feet. And as for the fatted calf—slay it! It’s time to eat, drink, and be merry! Not only is the prodigal son restored, but he’s
restored in style!
At verse
25, we come to the second major section of the parable. This is where the elder son enters the
picture. If the younger son represents
irresponsibility and wastefulness, then the elder son symbolizes responsibility
and duty. While the younger son was off
playing, he was making sure things got done.
While the prodigal was nowhere to be found, he was the good son, the
model son. And while he’s out in the field—wouldn’t
you know it?—singing and dancing are going on!
When a
slave tells him the occasion for the party, he isn’t pleased. He refuses to go back to the house. This prompts the father to go out to him and
plead. It’s at this point that the elder
son unleashes the flood of anger and resentment and pain that has welled up
within him.
For
years, I’ve worked like a slave for you, “and I have never disobeyed your
command” (v. 29). He feels like a
glorified servant. And to what
thanks? You’ve never given me so much as
a stupid goat so I can feast with my friends.
“But when this son of yours came back, who devoured your property with
prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” (v. 30). That bum may not be dead to you any longer,
but he’s still dead to me! I haven’t
forgotten the humiliation he brought on the family!
Notice
that the older son refers to his wayward brother as “this son of yours,” not “my
brother.” His heart remains closed to
him. The older brother needs to undergo
conversion as much as the younger one.
But in his case, it isn’t quite so obvious. He hasn’t lived a wild life; he’s always done
the right thing. But like everyone who makes sure that they do the right
thing, his sin is on the inside. It is, as the word suggests, more “insidious.”
And the
father understands that. He also
understands the pain of his son, the son who stayed at home, rather than going
off in search of adventure. He feels his
pain! The father’s response in verse 31
begins with the word teknon (teknon), translated
in the NRSV as “son,” but it has the more intimate meaning of “child.”
He
appeals to his embittered offspring: child,
my son, “you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we
had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has
been found” (vv. 31-32).
Celebrating
his return is by no means a matter of repayment. You’re right—he doesn’t deserve
anything. And I’d be justified in forcing
him to grovel at my feet. I’d be justified
in saying, “Who are you? You look like a son I used to have!” No, celebrating your brother’s return isn’t a
matter of repayment—it’s not a matter of justice; it’s a matter of joy and
love.
At last
Wednesday’s Taizé service, I shared some readings by the late Henri Nouwen. He was a Dutch Roman Catholic priest who
continues to inspire millions all over the world. Of his many books, the one he considered to
be his favorite was The Return of the
Prodigal Son.
Published
in 1992, four years before his death, it tells how Rembrandt’s painting of the
same name sent him on a spiritual journey that shaped the rest of his
life. In fact, he was on his way to
Russia in 1996 to do a TV documentary on the painting when, during a stop in
the Netherlands, he died from a heart attack.
Anyway,
in the book he makes the painful confession that he sees too much of the elder
brother in himself. “It is strange to
say this,” he says, “but, deep in my heart, I have known the feeling of envy
toward the wayward son. It is the
emotion that arises when I see my friends having a good time doing all sorts of
things that I condemn. I called their
behavior reprehensible or even immoral, but at the same time I often wondered
why I didn’t have the nerve to do some of it or all of it myself.”[3]
Nouwen
identifies with the elder brother’s sense of loneliness—the bitter and terrible
loneliness of those whose resentment makes them a stranger to joy. He admits, “Often I catch myself complaining
about little rejections, little impolitenesses, little negligences…As I let
myself be drawn into the vast interior labyrinth of my complaints, I become
more and more lost until, in the end, I feel myself to be the most
misunderstood, rejected, neglected, and despised person in the world.”[4]
I wonder
if there isn’t anyone who hasn’t
felt that way? For Nouwen, his
deliverance came in the knowledge that he had to move from being either of the sons to being the father,
the one who extends grace.
Part of
the artistry of this parable is that it’s incomplete. We don’t know the ending. Is the elder son able to overcome his hurt
and anger and join the festivities? Are
the two brothers ever reconciled? The
question is left open for all concerned.
That includes not only the characters in the story, but also Jesus’
audience: the scribes and Pharisees, his
disciples, the people in the crowd. It
includes the readers of Luke’s text; it includes us.
We have
a say in how the story unfolds. When we
see in ourselves the wastefulness of the younger and the resentment of the
older, we can remember that this is the gospel.
This is the good news: that there
is one who gives his life to us that we may be reconciled. The good news is that God is prodigal: prodigal in generosity, in hospitality. The final paragraph of Henri Nouwen’s book
contains the joy of that discovery:[5]
“When, four
years ago, I went to Saint Petersburg to see Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son, I had little idea how much I would
have to live what I then saw. I stand
with awe at the place where Rembrandt brought me. He led me from the kneeling, disheveled young
son to the standing, bent-over old father, from the place of being blessed to the
place of blessing.
As I
look at my own aging hands, I know that they have been given to me to stretch
out toward all who suffer, to rest upon the shoulders of all who come, and to
offer the blessing that emerges from the immensity of God’s love.”