Two Rivers Pastoral Charge
March 31, 2019
Scripture: Luke 15:11-32
The story we just
heard, the parable of the Prodigal Son, is probably one of the best-known
passages of scripture. We could probably
lump it together with the parable of the Good Samaritan, the 23rd
Psalm, the 10 Commandments, and maybe the Beatitudes, and package them up as
“Bible: Greatest Hits.” Many people are familiar with the outline of
the story, even if they have never read it.
The story of a son who leaves his family, wastes his inheritance, and is
welcomed back by his father with open arms.
Books have been
written about this parable, paintings have been painted, poems have been
composed. Many years ago, a bible study
group that I was a part of read and discussed Henri Nouwen’s book, The Return of the Prodigal Son. Over the course of a month and a half, we
read Nouwen’s reflections about the famous painting by Rembrandt depicting the
moment when the younger son returns and is embraced by his father.
Rembrandt van Rijn - "The Return of the Prodigal Son"
(Public Domain)
Nouwen dives deeply into the experience of
all three characters – the younger son, the father, and the elder son – such a
deep dive that at the end of the bible study we jokingly said, “If you ever run
into Nouwen at a party, whatever you do, don’t ask him about the painting or
you’ll be there all night!”
So it is a well-known
story, and I’m guessing that if I were to ask you, most of you would relate
with one or the other of the sons.
Maybe you relate more
with the younger son who demands his share of his inheritance, then goes off
and spends it all on “riotous living” or “extravagant living” or “undisciplined
and dissipated ways” depending on the translation that you are using. And when the money was gone and you had
nowhere to live and nothing left to eat and you had hit rock-bottom, you have
come back to your father, hoping for a job that would put a roof over your head
and food on your plate; and instead you have been welcomed with open arms and a
completely unearned, undeserved lavish feast.
Grace at its best.
Or maybe you relate
more with the elder brother. You have
seen your younger brother demand his share of the inheritance, basically
telling your father that he wished that he were dead. And after that, you only heard rumours about
what might have been happening – rumours of a high-flying lifestyle followed by
the inevitable crash. And then you have
watched your younger brother come crawling back, and while you don’t want your
father to turn him away, you also don’t understand how your father can welcome
him so. After all, you have been working
for all these years for your father. You
have never wished your father dead. And your
father has never offered to throw a party for you and your friends.
I’m guessing that most
of you can relate to one brother more than the other, but don’t worry – I’m not
going to take a poll to see where everyone stands!
I have two sisters, so
believe me when I say that I get sibling relationships. When we were growing up, the most consistent
refrain that you would have heard in our house was, “That’s not fair!” Nobody gets fairness like an outraged
sibling. To our cries of unfairness, our
father would usually reply, “Well, life’s not fair.” But despite Dad’s matter-of-fact statement,
we did our best to ensure fairness.
Treats had to be divided up equally; experiences had to be had equally;
playtime, bedtimes, allowances – believe me when I say that we kept track of
all of these! And yet there was always
something going on that caused us to complain, “That’s not fair!”
I think that our two
brothers in today’s reading would relate with our complaint of unfairness. The elder brother sees his brother receiving
an extra-special treatment after behaving extra badly, and cries foul. The younger brother comes home expecting to
be treated the way that he deserves, and instead receives a welcome greater
than he could ever imagine, let alone ask for.
Nothing about this story is fair.
In my mid-week e-mail
this week, I asked the question – is there anything new to say about this story
that is so well known. For me, I
realized this week as I read this story of the Prodigal Son, that I had no idea
what the word “prodigal” meant. My only
association of the word was with this story.
Even when I have encountered the word “prodigal” in conversation or
books, it was always related to this parable.
Based on how it was used, I always assumed that the word “prodigal”
meant something like “repentant” or “penitent” – coming back, knowing that you
had done something wrong.
But this week, I
actually looked up the word “prodigal” to see what it means, and turns out that
I was way off in my guess. The word
“prodigal” actually means “recklessly extravagant” or “lavish” or “luxurious.” (Most of you probably knew this already, but
it was new to me!) So when we talk about
the “Prodigal Son,” we are talking about the period of time just after he left
his family, not about the time when he came home again.
With my newly acquired
understanding of the word “prodigal” I started to wonder then if it is really
the son who is prodigal in this story, or is it the father?
After all, when his
younger son returns in disgrace, the father casts off dignity and runs out to
welcome his son and can’t stop hugging and kissing him. He then gives this wayward son authority over
the household, presenting him with the robe, ring, and sandals of the head of
the household. And then he prepares an
extravagant feast.
Isn’t it the father
who is being recklessly extravagant, lavish, and luxuriant in the story?
And even with respect
to his elder son, I see the father as the prodigal here. His son is being petulant, refusing to join
into the welcome-home party, refusing the joyful celebration of the party; and
instead of leaving his elder son outside to stew in his own juices, the father
goes out to plead with him and beg him to come inside. A prodigal love, a love that is extravagant
doesn’t want anyone to be excluded from the celebration.
And so instead being
the story of the prodigal son, I see this parable as the story of the prodigal
father – the story of a father who loves with abandon, who loves extravagantly,
who loves beyond any reasonable expectations.
One of my favourite
theologians, Jürgen Moltmann, writes about “the infinite grief of love.”[1] A love that is so strong that any separation
leads to grief. A love between parent
and child that is ripped apart yet paradoxically reaches its fulfillment when
the child was crucified on Good Friday.
A love that carries in it the possibility and force of new life. After all, the grief that we feel when we
lose a loved one is really all of the love that we carry within us that no
longer has a place to go.
And I see this
“infinite grief of love” in our story today.
A parent’s love results in profound grief when rejected by a child;
followed by extravagant, prodigal love when that child returns. A parent’s love that results in profound
grief when a child refuses to come inside; refuses to join in and share the
joy.
The thing about this
parable of prodigal love, of extravagant love, is that the ending is
open-ended. We know that the younger son
has returned home and has been welcomed with open arms, but we don’t know if he
stays home. We don’t know if the
restlessness that drove him away the first time is gone. We don’t know if he will be able to settle
down to a quiet life on the family farm.
In the same way, we
don’t know how the elder brother responded to his father’s pleading. We don’t know if he stayed outside, wallowing
in resentment, or if he was able to come inside, welcome his brother home, and
enter the joy of the celebration that his father is throwing.
We don’t know what
happens to either of these brothers. But
what we do know is that their father’s love is constant, extravagant, and limitless. We can be assured that whether we relate more
to the restless younger brother or the resentful elder brother, that we are
loved. You are loved. God, like a loving parent, is seeking you
out, is running out to meet you where you are.
You are loved. We are all
loved. Thanks be to God!
[1] Jürgen Moltmann, The Crucified God, trans. R. A. Wilson and John Bowden (London: SCM
Press, 2015), 251.
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