Two Lost Sons

I have been thinking a lot this week about the gospel appointed for the fourth Sunday of Lent: in a Bible study we had at St. Francis on Tuesday night and in an ecumenical clergy gathering on Wednesday over lunch. I've had a chance to reflect once again on this amazing story that is sometimes called the Parable of the Prodigal Son, but maybe should more appropriately be called the Parable of Two Lost Sons. (Luke 15:11b-32) I'm not preaching this weekend, but went back and found a sermon I preached six years ago on Fourth Lent; an edited portion of that sermon can be found below.

At the end of this story, the younger brother has been found, and he is celebrating. His story is like the hymn, “Amazing Grace,”—he once was lost, but now he’s found; he was blind, but now he sees. He is the recipient of an abundant outpouring of love that helps him to see the wideness of God’s mercy—as he encounters not only a father but a God with open arms, who welcomes back all the lost, all who are afraid and are ashamed. But the jury is still out on the elder brother as the story ends. Will he uncross his arms and join the party or not? Even if he does, will he be able to let go of his anger and hear the words of his father? The fatted calf awaits him, too, after all—there’s more than enough for everyone. No one has excluded him from the party. But to enter he needs to let go of that sense that his brother is undeserving. Like the scribes and Pharisees who listen to Jesus tell the story, he needs to let go of the false notion that he is “holier than thou” and risk embrace.

Whether or not we know how lost we are, Christ desires to find us all. We are all beloved of God, and there is room at the Table for all of us. If we are more like the younger brother, we need to “come to ourselves” by getting up out of the pig pen and making our way back home again. If we are more like the older brother then we need to “come to ourselves” by letting go of our resentments and grievances. The truth is though that these two have much more in common than either realizes—not just because each is lost in his own way, but because both are children of a compassionate father. So are all of us, children of a compassionate God—whose steadfast love and mercy abound. We are invited to sing and to dance and to love. Both of these brothers are in need of grace and healing and love. But as the story ends, only one of them has recognized that fact and received that gift. Only one has allowed love to heal and transform him, and to unleash the peace that passes all understanding.

Now I admit that I may be overly optimistic about this; but I like to believe that while it may have taken him a while longer, eventually the older brother joined the party. He, too, “came to himself.” Maybe he tentatively walked toward the party; hesitating at the door. His younger brother sees him and runs to embrace him, mimicking the role that the father played for him. And the tears began to flow. That is how the world will truly be made new. Eventually, I’m convinced (or at least want to believe) that the two brothers did embrace—even if it didn’t happen that day. At some point they came to see that they are more alike than different, and that they share a common responsibility that comes from being at the receiving end of such amazing grace.

But of course, we cannot know that for sure. Because the story does end where it does, it forces us to at least consider the possibility that the two never reconcile, and that the betrayal the older brother feels causes a permanent rift with his father. Perhaps he leaves home in disgust, never again to speak to his father or to his brother. We must consider that ending, because all of us know that it can happen that way, as sad as it is to admit. We are free—all of us—to refuse love; and even to convince ourselves that being right is more important to us than to love or to be loved.

Of course it’s just a story. But it is a story that leaves so many questions hanging in the air, stories those first hearers took home with them—sinners, tax collectors, scribes and Pharisees. What kind of lives would they live, after hearing such a story? So it is with us, as well. The story confronts us where we are, with our own unique ways of being lost. It leaves us pondering whether or not we will take the risk of being found. Like so many of Jesus’ great parables, the story lingers in the air, and across the centuries, still haunting us; still calling us. We oldest children and we prodigal children, we sinners and we saints, are all invited to join the party. There is enough fatted calf and cake and ice cream for everyone.