In preparation for this week’s message, I’ve been
considering Jesus’ parables from the fifteenth chapter of St. Luke’s
gospel—particularly that of the prodigal son.
My life and ministry have always been oddly connected to this narrative
for a number of reasons—not the least of which is it’s the text I used to
preach my first sermon. I don’t remember
much about that offering, other than it was quite short (I believe about seven or
eight minutes) and followed the standard “as the son strayed from his father, so
we’ve all strayed from God/as the father welcomes him back, so God welcomes us
back” model. Not that there’s anything
wrong with that; it’s a perfectly legitimate reading of the parable, I think,
because it’s true: God does welcome
us back, time and again, though we’re prone to wander.
But as I re-read the story, I encountered some of its words in ways I previously hadn’t. Toward the end, as we know, the wayward son returns. And the elder son, incensed by the reception little brother receives, refuses to celebrate the homecoming. Indeed he fumes over the ways in which the prodigal is so unquestioningly and generously embraced by their father, even though he’d been so disrespectful and wasteful, and outwardly expresses his anger about it. He’s so upset, in fact, that he can’t even bring himself to acknowledge the prodigal as his brother. Instead, as the elder son speaks to his father, he simply calls the prodigal “this son of yours.”
That’s significant, to be sure. But what really catches my attention is what the father says, as he lovingly responds to his irate firstborn: “All that is mine is yours.” The money, the land, the livestock—all of it. But is there more to what the father says? The thing is: it was common in the first century for offspring not only to be counted as a sign of divine favor, but also to be counted as contributing to one’s material wealth; children were, in some sense, the property of their parents. Thus when the father says, “all that is mine,” it’s likely he imagines his progeny to be included in that inventory. Why this matters is because he tells his eldest, “it’s yours.” This one whom you’re so quick to cut off and castigate remains your brother, whether you like it or not.
Sometimes, we too fail to see our connectedness to those around us. We frequently see only the differences which are present. We see only their mistakes, or their flaws, or their faults—all the while maintaining, of course, our uprightness and piety. Am I truly to see them as sisters, as brothers? Those tax collectors, those sinners? Those prostitutes, those adulterers? Those druggies, those drunkards? Those [insert sin here]? They’re reprehensible! They’re despicable! They’re shameful! And, as the father says to his livid son, “They’re yours.” The father reminds the elder son, “Whatever this boy has done or failed to do, he’s still mine—and is therefore still yours.”
And if we’d listen, I think we’d hear our heavenly Father saying the same. “These lost, these fragile, these drifting souls—whatever they’ve done or failed to do, they’re still mine. Therefore, they’re still yours. They belong to me, so they belong to you. They are your brothers; they are your sisters. Love them as such.” This is, after all, the gracious response: one which, in truth, we’ve all needed (and, really, continue to need) from God and from neighbor. So may we do our best to live this response, opening ourselves to all of our sisters and brothers: to all those whom God has made.
But as I re-read the story, I encountered some of its words in ways I previously hadn’t. Toward the end, as we know, the wayward son returns. And the elder son, incensed by the reception little brother receives, refuses to celebrate the homecoming. Indeed he fumes over the ways in which the prodigal is so unquestioningly and generously embraced by their father, even though he’d been so disrespectful and wasteful, and outwardly expresses his anger about it. He’s so upset, in fact, that he can’t even bring himself to acknowledge the prodigal as his brother. Instead, as the elder son speaks to his father, he simply calls the prodigal “this son of yours.”
That’s significant, to be sure. But what really catches my attention is what the father says, as he lovingly responds to his irate firstborn: “All that is mine is yours.” The money, the land, the livestock—all of it. But is there more to what the father says? The thing is: it was common in the first century for offspring not only to be counted as a sign of divine favor, but also to be counted as contributing to one’s material wealth; children were, in some sense, the property of their parents. Thus when the father says, “all that is mine,” it’s likely he imagines his progeny to be included in that inventory. Why this matters is because he tells his eldest, “it’s yours.” This one whom you’re so quick to cut off and castigate remains your brother, whether you like it or not.
Sometimes, we too fail to see our connectedness to those around us. We frequently see only the differences which are present. We see only their mistakes, or their flaws, or their faults—all the while maintaining, of course, our uprightness and piety. Am I truly to see them as sisters, as brothers? Those tax collectors, those sinners? Those prostitutes, those adulterers? Those druggies, those drunkards? Those [insert sin here]? They’re reprehensible! They’re despicable! They’re shameful! And, as the father says to his livid son, “They’re yours.” The father reminds the elder son, “Whatever this boy has done or failed to do, he’s still mine—and is therefore still yours.”
And if we’d listen, I think we’d hear our heavenly Father saying the same. “These lost, these fragile, these drifting souls—whatever they’ve done or failed to do, they’re still mine. Therefore, they’re still yours. They belong to me, so they belong to you. They are your brothers; they are your sisters. Love them as such.” This is, after all, the gracious response: one which, in truth, we’ve all needed (and, really, continue to need) from God and from neighbor. So may we do our best to live this response, opening ourselves to all of our sisters and brothers: to all those whom God has made.
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| Return of the Prodigal Son (detail), Rembrandt van Rijn |
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