the prodigal gospel and aftermath

more than meets the eye

The gospel according to St. Luke contains one of the most beloved parables of Jesus, the Prodigal Son. The story of this prodigal son is like a treasure chest, filled with priceless jewels, and going along with the theme of the story, jewels being frittered away. The word “prodigal” means “wastefully extravagant” — not simply someone who’s been away for a long time, as it’s often taken.

When Banu and I were in Jamestown, one year the congregation had an interesting Lenten series. People of various faiths (or faith-related practices) were invited to share their stories. They joined us for sessions each Sunday. One of our members invited her Tai Chi instructor to speak and to demonstrate some movements of the ancient Chinese exercise.

A teacher from the local Islamic center was present for one of the Sundays. He asked me an interesting question. He wondered, “What do Christians mean by grace?”

I took a lesson from Jesus, who in the scriptures tends to tell stories rather than give textbook answers or utilize charts and diagrams! So, in brief detail, I told the tale of the prodigal son. I said the father is the picture of grace.

In Luke 15, some Pharisees and scribes are upset because Jesus is being friendly with undesirables, those whom they consider ritually unclean. Apparently, Jesus thinks these fellows need a refresher course on grace, because that’s exactly what they get.

As I just said, Jesus loves to tell stories. On this occasion, he responds with stories of lostness: a lost sheep, with the fellow leaving the ninety-nine and going in search of the single lost one. There’s the lost coin, which prompts the woman to ransack her house until she finds it and then calling her friends over to celebrate.

(Quick question. Have you ever noticed that when you’re searching for something, it tends to be in the last place you look? I don’t know why that’s true.)

And then finally, a lost son. He introduces that last one by saying, “There was a man who had two sons” (v. 11). The younger son presents his father with a blunt request. He wants his portion of the inheritance. And 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 get outrageous.

Barbara Brown Taylor speaks of a ritual in the Talmud called the qetsatsah ceremony, which might have been performed. It was designed “to punish a Jewish boy who loses the family inheritance to Gentiles. Here’s how it worked. If he ever showed up in his village again, then the villagers would 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.” He would be shamefully sent away.

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. He’s young, rich, and ready to party!

Unfortunately, our boy is not paying attention to his spending. The Bible says he squanders his property in dissolute, reckless living. He’s no longer Mr. Popularity. He’s no longer throwing those wild parties his “friends” love to attend. Adding insult to injury, the place gets hit with famine.

The young man is desperate. What is he going to do? Finally, he agrees to work for a pig farmer. Feeding swine, not the most sought-after position, is truly an abomination for a Jew. And with the crappy paycheck, he can’t even afford to eat. His gnawing hunger makes the pods he gives the animals look pretty tasty. One might say, he literally wants to “pig out.”

photo by Pascal Debrunner on Unsplash

Eventually, he gets tired 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 a worker. So off he goes.

(Side note: how many of you have ever rehearsed what you’ll say when facing a dreaded prospect, and as it turns out your fears were unfounded? I know I have.)

At this point, I want to inject a thought. Remember, Jesus isn’t simply telling a fascinating story. He wants 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 wasteful son or wasteful daughter. Think of blessings we’ve squandered, 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 entire story together. In describing the father, Jesus paints a picture totally at odds with what his culture would expect. At the first glimpse of his wayward son, the father immediately sprints toward him and embraces him.

In ancient times, no self-respecting man would run like that, “like a girl, like a mother instead of a father.” Aristotle reportedly said, “Great men never run in public.” In running, the father bears the shame his son deserves. He exposes himself to scorn to protect his child.

Maybe that sounds like the one telling the story.

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 get to the point of begging for a job, his father interrupts and says, “Let’s get you dressed up in style. Slay the fatted calf! It’s time to really party!”

At verse 25, we come to the second major part 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? — he hears singing and dancing! What the heck is going on?

When a slave tells him the reason for the party, let’s just say he is not 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 even given me 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).

Notice that the older son refers to his sibling as “this son of yours,” not “my brother.” His heart has become hardened. The older brother needs to undergo conversion as much as the younger one. But with him, it isn’t so obvious. He hasn’t lived a wild life; he’s always done the right thing.

The father understands all of that. He also understands the pain of his son, the son who stayed at home, rather than going off and sowing wild oats. He feels his pain! The father responds in verse 31, beginning with the word τεκνον (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 casting him out. No, celebrating your brother’s return isn’t a matter of repayment — it’s not a matter of justice; it’s a matter of grace.

That’s what my Muslim friend needed to hear, not to mention the folks in the church!

I wonder, do we relate to any of the characters in the story? Do we see hints of them within ourselves?

One of the most beloved spiritual figures of the twentieth century was Henri Nouwen. 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 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.

In the book he confesses 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.” (70)

“The Return of the Prodigal Son,” Rembrandt (c. 1661–69)

Nouwen identifies with the elder brother’s sense of loneliness — the bitter and terrible loneliness of resentment that prevents joy. (And instead of the chest tightening up, the ability to take a deep breath!)

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.” (72)

That’s a lot to carry around!

I wonder, haven’t we all felt that way to some extent at one time or another? 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 sheer 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? Those questions, and others, remain unanswered.

But 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 so that we may be reconciled.

The good news is that God is prodigal. God is wasteful: wasteful in generosity, wasteful in hospitality, wasteful in grace. The final paragraph of Henri Nouwen’s book contains the wondrous joy of that discovery:

“When, four years ago,” he says, “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.” (139)

Grace is not easy. Grace can be quite painful.

Friends, that is the gospel, the good news. May we stretch out our own hands — weathered by age or youth, hope or hardship — toward all who are lost, including ourselves. We receive prodigal, wasteful grace, and we are called to share that freely. And may we discover that in blessing others, we are blessed.