Fourth Sunday in Lent

Does he, or doesn’t he? We don’t know. It’s one of the more clever aspects of Jesus’ story of the forgiving father. Jesus was a masterful story-teller, knowing exactly how to draw an audience in and how to hook them so that the story would stick with them. Maybe even forever. Or at least 2000 years.

The end of the story we’ve just heard leaves us sort of hanging there. Does the older brother join the celebration, or not? We don’t know. We never will. We can only suppose. That’s the beauty of this story. It’s not nearly as cut and dried as we tend to remember it. But the story is actually rather ambiguous. That’s probably one of the reasons that it’s persisted for the past 2000 years, too.

There are so many points of entry into this story for us, the hearers. We can see ourselves as the younger son, we can see ourselves as the older son… There’s a great book that goes into this story quite in-depth. It’s by Henri Nouwen. And it’s called, “The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming”. It’s a collection of reflections on the painting, “The Return of the Prodigal Son” by Rembrandt. I would encourage everyone to find a copy and read it. Multiple times. I’ve read this story more times than I can remember, but every time I read it there’s something different that jumps out at me.

This time, it was one of the lines of the father: “Son, you are always with me, <pause> and all that is mine is yours.” That’s a point that, during the course of our reading the story, we often forget. Why is that important? Because it helps us to realize that the older son is no different from the younger one. To understand that, we need to go back to the beginning of the story.

"There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' This is much more than an impertinent request. The younger of the two sons goes to the father and asks for his share of the inheritance in advance. He’s not asking for a partial advance. He’s asking for what he is to receive when his father dies. In making this request, he’s essentially telling his father that he wishes him to be dead. It’s offensive. It’s shameful. It brings disgrace upon the whole family, and it scandalizes the entire village.

Usually, when we hear this story, we assume that the older son doesn’t make an appearance until the second half of the story. But what’s the very next line that comes after the younger son’s deeply offensive request? "There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, 'Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.' So he divided his property between them.” Enter the older son. “So he divided his property between them”. The older son is there, he has to be in order to receive the property of the father, divided between them. And evidently, he’s more than happy to take part in the division of assets. Where’s the indignation that he so readily expresses later on? Does he upbraid his younger brother for wishing his father dead?  Does he scold him for being so rude and insolent?  Does he rush to his father and say, “No, wait!  Don’t do it!  Don’t bring this shame upon our family! Let’s talk about this first”?  The answers are, of course, “No, no, and no.” He raises no such objection. He voices no protest.

“So he divided his property between them.” And the older brother, by voicing no objection, participates just as equally as the younger brother in the shame that they, together, bring upon their father. So then later, when the father says, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours”, it’s quite literally true. Both brothers are equally culpable in the shame, which they, together, bring to their father. The younger brother, of course, sinks into a world of wasteful, prodigal living. The older brother sinks into a world of jealousy, resentment, and anger. Both of them take their share of their father’s possessions and go off on their own. Each of them suffering their own sort of death. And yet, in both instances, the father comes rushing out to meet them.

The younger son, having died to himself, returns. Probably looking half-dead. Clothes tattered, feet dirty, sandals worn through, hungry. The older son is likewise dead. Death begets death and brokenness desires to see more brokenness. And so, when the younger brother returns the older brother’s desire is to see him cast out again. The older brother’s desire is that the younger should not be restored, but that he should remain dead. But the story is unclear as to whether the older brother also “comes to himself”. It ends before it gets that far. It leaves us hanging, Drawing us deeper into the story. Urging us to try and understand it better. Bringing us to see ourselves in the story.

When we’re being honest with ourselves, we can probably see ourselves in either of the sons. We know the times when we have run off by ourselves. Caring only for our selves. Dying to God so that we can live for the world and all that it promises. But then… We discover that what seemed to offer life and immortality offers only our destruction and desolation. And we return, tattered and worn, asking only that we be given shelter. Finding that we are, in fact, fully restored.

We likewise know the times when we sink into ourselves. Caring only for our selves. Dying to God so that we can nurture our jealousies and envies, comparing ourselves to others, allowing ourselves to be devoured by past hurts and slights, real or imagined. Becoming bitter and feeling cheated. Even as we continue to enjoy in great abundance the basic necessities of life. Enough Food, adequate shelter, clothing that doesn’t hang in tatters, shoes for our feet, loving and supportive relationships. Regardless of our material comfort, we become emotionally and spiritually starved, cut-off, alone, destitute…

But then…

We hear the footsteps of the one who loves us more than we can imagine. We hear the still small voice, coaxing, cajoling us. “Come out of yourself.  Come out of your bitterness.  Relax.  Rejoice”. And we find that we are, indeed, truly blessed. In both instances, the response of the father is the same: to come out and meet the suffering sons. The father doesn’t wait. As soon as he sees the first son in the distance, he rushes out to meet him. As soon as he hears of the second son’s discontent, he goes out to meet him. The father demands nothing. He doesn’t demand confession. In fact, in the case of the younger son, he cuts off the rehearsed confession and request. Before he gets the whole thing out the son is embraced, lifted up, clothed, and restored. Likewise the older son: The father doesn’t scold, he doesn’t yell, he doesn’t even come out with a “what are you thinking”? He invites. Come in. Join us. Celebrate with us.

It’s easy for us to identify with the younger son. He is, after all, the one who “comes to himself”. He’s certainly is the most obviously pitiful. He returns to his father. And ultimately, he’s restored. It’s a tender, heart-warming story. But if we’re in for a penny, we must be in for a pound, and we need to be willing to identify with the older son. If, that is, we’re willing to admit our hardness of heart. Because, Lord knows, there are times when we resent the blessings that others receive. There are times when we resent the grace we ourselves have received being bestowed upon others.

But if we spend enough time with the story of the lost sons, we must realize that it’s also the story of the generous father. And eventually, we must realize that this is a story that involves vocation; call. When Israel enters into the Promised Land, God announces, “Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.” They are a freed people. No longer are they to think of themselves as those who had been enslaved, but they are freed to be the people of God. They are freed to be something more. Something better.

Paul, in the lesson from 2 Corinthians writes, “So if anyone is in Christ, there is a new creation: everything old has passed away; see, everything has become new!” It’s not enough that we should be restored and then simply to continue in our old ways. We are called to something more, something new. We are called to embody the grace, generosity, and love of the father. We aren’t called to be protectors or gate-keepers. We’re called to meet people where they are. We are called to be the generous father/the generous mother.

This is a story that demonstrates the radical grace and love of God like no other. A God who rushes out to meet us. A God who invites us to rejoice. In his book, “The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming”, Henri Nouwen insists that it’s not enough for us to identify with the younger son. Nor is it enough for us to identify with the older son. He insists that, ultimately, we are called to find ourselves in the father. We are called to imitate him. It’s awfully frightening to suggest that we are called to embody that amazing kind of love ourselves, because after all the father gives entirely of himself.

We willingly call ourselves the Body of Christ: If we aren’t called to be the incarnation of God’s miraculous, generous, gracious love, what’s the point of being the church? God removes our sin, our guilt, our shame, in order to make room for a new creation, a new creature! A child of God! Who embraces the world and it’s children, with the love and grace that we ourselves have received, by which we have been transformed.

AMEN