Journey Home

Martha C Langford First Presbyterian Church, LaGrange 31 March 2019—Fourth Sunday in Lent Luke 15:1-3, 11-32 JOURNEY HOME If you Google the word prodigal you get a pair of definitions, a pile of synonyms and an almost infinite number of web pages on the parable of the “Prodigal Son.” For the reckless spender the synonyms run the usual: wasteful, spendthrift, improvident, imprudent, immoderate, thriftless… you get the idea. But there is that second definition: having or giving something on a lavish scale. This prodigal is lavish, generous, unstinting, unsparing, bountiful. Both definitions are on full display in this story Jesus tells. First, we need the background—Jesus is healing and teaching and preaching his way to Jerusalem. Large crowds now gather wherever he goes. It seems that many among the tax collectors and sinners were drawn to his message—and that Jesus accepted their hospitality when offered and joined them at table. Now, tax collectors were almost universally despised—something we might sympathize with given that April 15 is just around the corner. These were Jews who worked for Rome extracting public taxes and a little something for themselves. Their collaboration with an occupying power and their corruption made them unwelcome among faithful Judeans. And when Luke mentions sinners—he’s talking about those whose actions “fracture community welfare.”1 This offends the religious lawyers and some among the Pharisees, who see table fellowship as a tacit approval of destructive behavior. They grumble among themselves, “This fellow welcomes sinners… and he eats with them.” We know that the scribes and Pharisees are among the people who flock after Jesus just as they are among those who host Jesus at table. But they do not understand Jesus’ association with these others, people who work against community interests and against the interests of their own kind. Jesus tells them a series of parables—first the lost sheep that causes the shepherd to leave 99 perfectly good sheep behind in order to rescue the one sheep in danger; then the lost coin that causes the woman to sweep her entire household until it is found. Shepherd and woman both invite the neighbors in to celebrate, Rejoice with me, for I have found—the lost sheep, the lost coin… Jesus says this is what it is like in heaven: JOY in the presence of the angels when just one sinner repents. With the final parable—Jesus kicks it up a notch. “There was a man who had two sons…” Sheep and coins are property and valuable things, but Jesus invokes the human dynamics of family. This faithful Jewish audience would have been familiar with biblical stories about families with two sons. AND, they would have been accustomed to identifying with younger son. After all, the story of God’s people comes down through younger sons: through Abel and not Cain; through Isaac and not Ishmael; through Jacob and not Esau.2 1 | Page Imagine their surprise when the younger son makes his audacious request—Dad, you’re as good as dead, don’t make me wait. Give me my inheritance now. Surprise would have become shock as Jesus tells them the younger son sold the land and wasted the money. Family land was sacred—a gift from God—and this younger son squanders his heritage for a season of easy living. I can imagine the Pharisees and scribes thinking: Hmmmm… If the father is God, we can’t be God; and the younger son is a sinner; perhaps we are the older son? That’s how we experience so many of these gospel stories isn’t it—we find ourselves in them. Every time I hear this story something new leaps out at me—this time it was a throw-away line at the very beginning. Asked to give over the inheritance, the father “divided his property between THEM.” From the very beginning both sons—younger and older—have received their inheritance. This is so out of character for a first-century Judean—violating the prevailing custom and wisdom found in the Jewish texts of the day. With this reading, my attention was drawn to the father rather than to his sons. And I began to wonder if we shouldn’t call this the Parable of the Prodigal Father. Hear me out! As his younger son demands his inheritance, the father is silent. He doesn’t make the younger son beg, he doesn’t give advice, he does not give warnings, he doesn’t express anger at the insult or the shame of his son’s demand. He quietly and generously and prodigally divides the property and watches while his youngest son cuts ties—to his family, to his community, and to his faith. Can you imagine the pain the father feels? This wayward son “squanders” his property—the stuff that sustains life—in dissolute living. I’m sure that the parties were epic and that while the music lasted, this man had a Hollywood entourage of friends. But famine begins, the money is gone, and his friends have vanished. Suddenly, this youngest son finds himself hungry and alone in the world. To survive, he attaches himself to a local landowner who gives him a job slopping the pigs. How far this young Jew has fallen—as he hungers for the scraps fed to unclean animals. In his hunger, the son recalls the bread his father’s servants received; not just bread but a prodigal, super-abundance of bread that was his father’s customary provision for day-laborers. “He came to himself” Jesus says. Relieved of the fog of his spiritual amnesia the son says, “I will arise and go to my father.” Of all the scenes of reunion that the crowd might have imagined, what happens next was surely unexpected. The son has a carefully rehearsed speech ready to go—confession and repentance and a plea for a servant’s place at the table. Yet, the father sees his son coming down the road. He throws dignity to the wind and runs—robe flapping in the breeze, sandals slapping the hard-packed earth. When he reaches his boy, he is filled with compassion grabbing in a bear hug and giving him heartfelt kisses. 2 | Page The son stammers out part of his planned speech—confessing his sin and his unworthiness to be called “son”—but the father interrupts sending his slaves to fetch the best robe, the family signet ring, and shoes for his feet. He lavishes care upon this son; generously, prodigally calling for the killing of the fatted calf the one that was being prepared for a special ritual sacrifice. “Let us rejoice” the father says, “for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” The whole community is invited to celebrate as this “lost” boy is reintroduced to all that he once threw away—family, community, and faith. Jesus now aims at the Pharisees and scribes. Everyone on earth and in heaven is dancing to the joyful sounds of reunion; all, save one. We watch as the father’s prodigal ways continue, when his elder son and sole heir absents himself from the party, the father leaves his guests (violating the rules of hospitality) and seeks out his older son—like the lost sheep or the lost coin. The father goes outside and begs him to enter the celebration, pleads with him to take part in this reunion. “I have slaved for you,” his older son says. “Slaved for you, obeyed your commands, and yet— where is my celebration?” “This son of yours” he calls his little brother, “who has devoured your property with God-knows what kind of heathen shenanigans, gets the ceremonial calf?! What about me?” With spiritual amnesia all his own, this elder son mocks his relationship with his father and denies his relationship to his brother. With a final word, the father reminds him of who he is and whose he is—“Son,” he says, “you are always with me… 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…” The father doesn’t love the younger son any less for his waywardness, he doesn’t love the older son any less for his sense of estrangement; he loves them both, celebrates the one and seeks the other with a boundless, prodigal compassion. I first heard the phrase, “the God who loves in freedom” in my systematic theology class. Thanks to the Rev. Dr. Tom Currie, this quote from Karl Barth has stuck in my head. I was reminded of it while reading this parable. This phrase describes the generous, prodigal, unfathomable love of God who continually seeks relationship with human kind. God loves us when we are unlovable. God loves us as we wander the world without regard for family or community, even as we squander the gifts of faith. God seeks us out, sending only Son as an agent of reconciliation so that we might find our way out of spiritual famine. God loves us when we are unloving. God loves us as we slave away at faithfulness but fail to understand the depth of our relationship to God and to our brothers and sisters in Christ. God seeks us out even as we fail to comprehend the breadth of God’s love and mercy and compassion, even as we turn our backs on the message of God’s grace. God seeks us out, sending only Son as an agent of reconciliation so that we too might find our way out of spiritual famine.

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