A sermon preached for the Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 27, 2022
I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘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.
These are familiar words to us, the words of the so-called prodigal son after he realizes how far he has fallen into sin. After squandering all he has been given, here he finds himself in a pig pen–a Jew in a pig pen–with no hope. But he comes to himself and realizes he can go home, even just as a servant. And he hopes beyond hope that his father will somehow find it in his heart to forgive him.
We all know this story so well. It is one of Jesus’s best known parables, and it is all about forgiveness. About how God forgives us and never gives up on us. It’s also about how we can accept forgiveness, or grow in pride, resentment, and hatred.
We call it the parable of the prodigal son, but that’s not what Jesus calls it. Jesus starts the parable by saying, “there was a man who had two sons.” For Jesus, this is the parable of the two sons. Which son would you rather be? The one who finds himself rehearsing his lines in the pig pen, or the one who dutifully stays home and cannot believe his father is such a pushover? No matter which son we are, the father is there, waiting for us. For like Jesus, the father in the parable, our stand-in for God, “welcomes sinners and eats with them.” That’s you and me.
Let’s look at the parable. Out of greed, the prodigal son cashes in his inheritance early. He goes off to a distant country, outside of Israel. There he squanders everything on dissolute living. He hits rock bottom, and only then is he able to look up, to realize what he had, and he dares to go back to his father. But he does not do so with any pride or arrogance; all of that has been stripped away. He goes humbly, knowing he has messed up, simply asking to be a servant.
He is a model of what repentance looks like. He knows he has messed up, and messed up badly. He acknowledges he has messed up, and he confesses his sin to his father. He asks for grace. He isn’t demanding his former place, for he knows he could not deserve that. He lowers himself as low as he can, and he begs for mercy. The youngest son that once was oozing pride and greed and lust and envy at the beginning of our parable has now been taken down to size. Instead of pride, greed, lust, and envy, we see humility, lowliness of heart, sincerity, meekness. He knows he is a sinner. And he prays that simple prayer: Father, have mercy on me, a sinner.
Truthfully, most of us cannot identify with that youngest son. In fact, when I ask folks who they identify with in the parable, at least 90% of people will say the oldest son. The youngest son is just too much unlike many of us. But I bet he wasn’t unlike the people Jesus was eating with. Maybe, as they heard the story, they exchanged looks of recognition with one another. “Oh yeah, I’ve been there before.”
We usually identify with the elder son–I always have. But I’m not so sure about that now. The elder son shows up at the end of the parable, but he’s been there all along. He saw how brazenly his younger brother took his inheritance. He would shake his head in disbelief as his father doled out the cash. Maybe he had already written off his younger brother. As the father watched the road for the return of the younger son, I wonder where the elder son was? Did he care anymore? When his brother comes back, all of this hatred comes out on his father. Jesus tells us he is so angry he even refuses to go into the party, refuses to welcome his brother back. He’s dead to him. “Listen!” he tells his father, “For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” Can you hear his anger, his resentment and bitterness?
The parable ends there. No reconciliation. The older son refuses to show mercy, refuses to give grace to his brother, he cuts off the relationship. The father gives his explanation, but Jesus doesn’t tell us that the elder son admitted his wrong, asked forgiveness, and went into the party to welcome his brother home. No. Jesus just leaves us hanging.
Maybe Jesus doesn’t have to tell us the end, because everyone in the room around him already knew it. When Jesus finished telling the group about the prodigal, we imagined that all those sinners and tax collectors in the room shared a knowing glance. “That’s me. I’ve been there before. Thank heaven I’m not there now.” In the same way, when Jesus ends the parable, I imagine there are some more knowing glances, but this time between those grumbling pharisees and scribes. “Oh, Jesus is saying we’re that elder son.”
Is it better to be the prodigal, or the older brother? Is it better to be the one who fell so fast but asked for mercy, or the one who did what he was told but in pride, with hatred, resentment, and bitterness in his heart, refused to show mercy?
Maybe we haven’t fallen as low as the prodigal. Maybe we have. Regardless, I hope we can all adopt his spirit of lowliness, of humility. I hope, like him, we can all recognize that we need mercy and grace, even if we don’t deserve it. I certainly hope we are not like that older brother, so full of ourselves, so puffed up with pride, that we close the door to mercy, we close the door to grace, we close the door to reconciliation and healing and wholeness and love. It’s better to be prodigal but repentant, than prideful and merciless.
The truth is, we’re all sinners in need of the Father’s mercy and grace and forgiveness. And it’s on offer. God’s got it on tap. But like the elder son, it is so easy to cut ourselves off from it. It is so easy to get puffed up in pride, to put our noses up in the air at those sinners over there, and to rely on our own work, our own righteousness, our own goodness–when the truth is our own work and righteousness and goodness do not amount to anything at all. No matter who we are, we need the Father’s mercy and forgiveness and love. And we can have it. We just have to take a lesson from the prodigal, and, in humility and sincerity, ask for it. Jesus is telling us today to be like the prodigal.
We carry around a lot–each one of us. We carry shame from past mistakes. We carry guilt that keeps us awake at night. We carry around those what-ifs that never go away. Those old tapes of past misdeeds play in our mind on repeat. We think that what we’ve done, who we are, is somehow unforgivable–that the father will have nothing to do with us. Perhaps like that elder son, we carry around pride, too, some resentment, bitterness, and hatred. Whatever it is we carry, we beat ourselves up, never letting go of that past, never letting ourselves be forgiven or daring to forgive ourselves. And we fear–fear that there is no hope for us and we will be left alone, unloved by God our Father, unloved by Christ himself. We fear we cannot be redeemed.
But that’s a lie. We can be redeemed. We can be forgiven. We are loved. When we dare to be like the prodigal, we ask for mercy and grace and forgiveness, and we lay all of those heavy burdens down. We don’t find a vengeful father who throws us out. We don’t find that all of our worst fears of rejection come true. We do not find that we can never be loved or forgiven. By no means. Instead, we find a Father who picks us up again, who restores us even though we do not deserve it, who gives us grace and love. Because for the father, for God, forgiveness is easy and love is who he is. We don’t have to keep beating ourselves up. We don’t have to wallow in shame and guilt. We just have to ask for forgiveness.
You and I, we can go home. The Father is already watching and waiting for us. The arms of God are open wide, waiting to embrace you, waiting with forgiveness and love.
Storied Grace 