Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
This story is one of the most famous parables in the Bible. Unfortunately, it has become known by an inaccurate—or at least incomplete—name. The Prodigal Son. The title was written in the margin by some helpful scribe a few hundred years after the gospel was written, and the name stuck. Some scholars claim that parables should be named the way hymns are named: by the first line of the text. This story would then be called “A Man Had Two Sons.”[1]
But whatever name we use, it’s a familiar tale. My favorite preacher says that “the problem with a really good parable—especially one as beloved as this one—is that it can become limp from too much handling. Like [a stuffed animal], it can lose its eyes, its whiskers, and a lot of its stuffing, until it conforms to the arms of whoever picks it up…. That’s how you know you don’t have a live parable anymore … capable of leaping from your arms and leading you out to where you did not mean to go. Instead, you have a domestic pet, as captive to you as you are to your culture.”[2]
We take this story and we dwindle it down to a nice little morality tale, like “the little engine that could” or “the boy who cried wolf.” Through the lens of our culture, we see it as a story of a young man who goes out to seek his fortune in the world. He wastes his money on things that don’t really satisfy, and when he learns his lesson he returns home and all is forgiven. “The prodigal son becomes the ‘Comeback Player of the Year.’”[3]
We don’t realize the shock value of this story when Jesus told it. So let’s see if we can’t unchain this domestic pet of a parable and see what it really means because it is a scandalous story.
The action begins with the younger son saying, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” This was not a simple request in an agrarian society. Their livelihood came from the land—land that had been held in trust for them by their ancestors and would be held in trust for their descendants. It was their livelihood, their legacy, and their gift from God. For a son to ask for his portion of the land in order to sell it meant that he was rejecting everything his family had to give him. He was decreasing not only the present holdings of his family but the income for future generations as well.
Even more significantly, property was not given before the patriarch’s death. So he was saying, in essence, that he couldn’t wait for his father to die. The whole request “was an offensive, slap-in-the-face, ‘I-wish-you-were-dead’ disregard of all that was accepted, expected, and respected.”[4]
We know what happened next. He took his family legacy and wasted it on God knows what in a Gentile land, then ended up broke and feeding the pigs. Of course, as a Jew, he couldn’t even touch the skin of a pig without being made unclean. Then again, that ship had already sailed. He already was so far outside the realm of what it meant to be a good Jew, his life was already an abomination. But still . . . pigs? Did he have no shame?
Finally, we are told, “He came to himself.” It’s an odd phrase in the original language, and we don’t know for sure what it means. Perhaps he came to his senses. Perhaps he found his better self. Perhaps he felt remorse or perhaps he just felt hunger. But whatever the feeling or motive, it was clear: he had hit rock bottom. His pride was broken. His dreams were broken. His identity was shattered—the Jewish son of a wealthy landowner feeding pigs.
So he broke down … and went home. He went prepared with a speech: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.” We don’t know if he was remorseful, but we do know that he was broken.
Last week a song appeared in my mailbox that connects perfectly with our story, that applies it to our lives more clearly than I could with words. I’ve asked my favorite soprano [my daughter] to come sing it with me.
Truth is harder than a lie
The dark seems safer than the light
And everyone has a heart that loves to hide
I’m a mess and so are you
We’ve built walls nobody can get through
Yeah, it may be hard, but the best thing we could ever do, ever do:
[Chorus:]
Bring your brokenness, and I’ll bring mine
‘Cause love can heal what hurt divides
And mercy’s waiting on the other side
If we’re honest
If we’re honest
Don’t pretend to be something that you’re not
Living life afraid of getting caught
There is freedom found when we lay our secrets down at the cross, at the cross
[Chorus]
It would change our lives
It would set us free
It’s what we need to be
[Chorus][5]
Mercy is waiting on the other side … on the other side of the breaking.
Back at home, the father had experienced a different kind of breaking. He had a broken heart. It’s difficult to imagine a worse scenario for a father in his time. Yet he missed his son so badly that he kept one eye on the horizon, just in case. Finally, one day, out of the blue, he saw his son “from far off” and he ran to meet him—which simply wasn’t done. Aristotle said, “Great men do not run.” Children ran. Women ran. Slaves and servants ran. But men—especially wealthy landowning men—did not run.
The father was in a hurry—not just because he couldn’t wait to see his son, but because he knew what awaited his son if he did not intervene. You see, the son not only lost all his money, but he lost it to Gentiles in a foreign land. The Jerusalem Talmud tells us that the Jews of the time of Jesus would punish any Jewish boy who lost the family inheritance to Gentiles. If he dared to return to his home village, they would perform the qetsatsah ceremony. The ceremony itself was simple—breaking a large earthenware jar in front of the guilty individualwhile shouting “‘So-and-so is cut off from his people.’ From that point on, the village would have nothing to do with the wayward [son].”[6]
But the father wouldn’t let that happen. If he could get to his son before the villagers did, he could prevent the village from declaring his son “cut off from his people.” Offering mercy instead of punishment would cause him to lose all credibility in the village … or what little credibility he had left, after allowing his son to sell their land. He would be seen as weak, incompetent, impotent. But he didn’t care. His heart had already been broken, so what good was pride? And so he ran to offer mercy—humiliating himself in order to protect his son.
I’m guessing we all would do the same for our children—or we already have, or we’re waiting for them to return so we can. Some of us can easily identify with the father in this parable because our hearts have been broken by one we love. Others of us can more readily identify with the one we call the prodigal son. We remember hitting bottom. We remember the long journey home. We remember whether we were met with mercy … or not.
Still others of us identify more closely with the character we haven’t talked about yet—the older son. He was angry with his brother but even more with his father for welcoming the foolish kid back home with a party. Where was the punishment? Where was the public shaming? At the very least, where was the groveling that should be required so the older brother could pretend to be gracious in giving a handout?
Oh, we don’t like that comparison, do we? We’d rather be the young foolish brother than the older self-righteous sibling—partly because we hate self-righteousness, and partly because we hate people who reflect our worst characteristics. It’s also partly because the story ends before we know if he relented.
But the best part of the story for us is knowing that the father loved both brothers. Our God is willing to forgive anything, willing to love anyway, willing to risk the suffering of human life—and death—to meet us. I don’t know about you, but that sure feels like good news to me.
If you were here last week, you know our theme for Lent is Broken Blessings. Last week I invited you to write on the slips of paper either an area of brokenness, a blessing, or a broken blessing (those areas of brokenness that became blessings). This week I am giving you two different options of what to write on your slip of paper. First, you can write when you broke down—when you hit rock bottom, when you admitted that you didn’t have it all together, when you admitted that you probably never would. Or I want you to write down what keeps you from offering mercy to those who are broken. Maybe it’s pride and you’re afraid of being vulnerable.
Maybe it’s fear of losing your place. Maybe it’s distrust of people who “work the system.” Maybe it’s the belief that everyone has bootstraps.
There are four or five pens in every pew, some on each end. Share with your neighbor and write either when you broke down, or what keeps you from offering mercy to others who are broken. But first, let’s sing. You probably don’t know this song, but it’s easy, and the words will prepare us for honest writing. Turn with me to page 78: There Is Love All Around You.
I now invite you to write on your slips of paper—again, a time when you broke down, or what keeps you from offering mercy to others who are broken.
[Time given.]
Please put yours slips in the baskets marked “Broken Blessings” on your way out of church.
We start every worship service with the words “No matter who you are, or where you are on life’s journey, you are welcome here.” Whether you are the prodigal son or the older brother, if you feel wounded or broken, if you hide from other’s brokenness and run away from others’ pain … none of it matters to God. There is mercy on the other side. There is love all around you. Thanks be to God.
[1] Bernard Brandon Scott, Hear Then the Parable.
[2] Taylor, Barbara Brown. “The Parable of the Dysfunctional Family.”
[3] Long, Thomas G. “Surprise Party.” The Christian Century, March 14, 2001.
[4] Sweet, Leonard. “Are You Part of the Scandal?”
[5] by Francesca Battistelli, Jeff Pardo and Molly E. Reed. Copyright 2014 Word Music.
[6] Bailey, Kenneth E. John Mark Ministries. http://jmm.aaa.net.au/articles/2396.htm