A sermon for the Fourth Sunday in Lent
March 30, 2025, at St. Luke’s Episcopal Church, Hot Springs, AR
Readings: II Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
“But he’s not sorry!” I was a counselor at Choir Camp, and I was in charge of the boys in 2nd-4th grade. Sometimes they fight. (Before I forget: Send your kids and grandkids to choir camp this summer. It’s a ministry sponsored by St. Luke’s and led by our own organist Charlie Rigsby.) Anyway, sometimes the boys fight, and I told the offending boy to apologize or he couldn’t go to the pool. I don’t remember any details. But I remember the other boys in the group spoke up. They weren’t involved in the dispute at all, but they spoke up to make sure I knew that the offender wasn’t actually sorry. He had even said it under his breath, they said. After the offender had apologized on command, under his breath, he had said, “sorry, not sorry.” So the other boys, indignant, offended at the injustice, had spoken up: “But he’s not sorry!” they had said. “He’s not sorry, so he shouldn’t get to go to the pool! It’s not right!” If you’ve worked with children, you’ve encountered this exact situation. If you work with adults, you have encountered it there, too. The offending boy had said, “sorry, not sorry,” and now Counselor Mark had to figure out what to do because the boys had all agreed, in council no less, that the apology did not count unless the offender meant what he said, and he shouldn’t get to go to the pool.
Today we read one of Jesus’s most famous parables. Luke tells us it is all about forgiveness. In Luke’s accounting, this parable immediately follows two shorter ones: the parable of the lost sheep and the parable of the lost coin. It’s clear there. After those, Jesus says, “There is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents.” And he immediately follows those parables about true repentance with our parable today. So this parable must have the same lesson. Right?
Well, that’s typically how we teach it and preach it. I’ve preached that sermon before. It’s a good sermon. We all need to repent. St. Paul says as much today in our reading. Be reconciled to God today, he says. Don’t wait. In Luke, Jesus says there was a father with two sons. We call this the parable of the prodigal son, but the way Jesus tells it, both sons were prodigal. Both had gone their own way and left home, albeit differently. The younger son, the one who gets the air time, had done it big, a lot like those sinners and tax collectors Jesus was eating with. The younger son ends up in a pig pen. He comes back to his father with a speech. And there’s a party. The elder son is a little different. He never leaves home physically, but he has resentment and hatred in his heart–to the point that he can’t even go into the party to welcome his brother home. The parable ends and we don’t know what happens. But it’s all about repentance. Say you’re sorry. Be reconciled to God and to one another. Do it today. Don’t wait.
We like that sermon. We need it. We like to put a pretty bow on things. We hear that the younger son comes home, and we rejoice. It’s good that he’s sorry. It’s good that he has apologized. Thank heaven, because he was close to death. And the elder son? Well, surely he went in. His father talked some sense into him–he just needed to be convinced. Thank heaven, because that resentment could have killed his soul. There is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents.
Call me cynical, but I don’t think it ended that way. And for what it’s worth, at least one scholar of Second Temple Judaism agrees with me, and further argues that the people listening to Jesus probably agreed, too.
Here’s the truth as I see it: The younger son’s not really sorry. The text is pretty clear about this. The text says he comes to his senses when he gets hungry. The text says that his motivation for going home is that the servants have something to eat. The text says that he wants food, so he goes home to be reconciled with his father. That’s what the text says; we read other things into it because we want him to be reformed. He’s not reformed; he’s not repentant; he’s hungry. But he puts on pious language: “I have sinned against heaven and before you…” Yada yada yada. He’s like that camper I had who said, “sorry, not sorry.”
The elder son’s not budging in the text. I don’t think he does off the page, either. He might go into the party because there’s good food and fun, but he’s not going to reconcile. Oh, he might put on a show; hug his brother; say, welcome home! But he’s holding on to his hatred, anger, and resentment because those things are pretty delicious when you’re in the right. Hatred, anger, and resentment, when you’re right, can satisfy you for a while, like those pods that feed the pigs. And besides, he thinks the father is having the wool pulled over his eyes. Poor old man can’t even see that the younger son is taking advantage of him. He’s like those other campers who complained: “He’s not sorry, so he shouldn’t get to go to the pool! It’s not right!” The prodigal shouldn’t get to come back home.
Sorry, not sorry; your apology is not good enough. These are not matters for children only. Adults struggle with forgiveness and mercy. We all struggle with reconciliation when we’ve been hurt. We all struggle to apologize honestly and sincerely, to admit we’re wrong. We all struggle. We’re the two brothers.
But Jesus is the father. The father knows that the younger son is not really sorry, just like I knew that the little boy at camp wasn’t really sorry. The father knows. The father forgives anyway. The father welcomes him anyway.
Jesus knows that we’re not always sorry; we say, ‘sorry, not sorry,’ under our breath, too. Jesus knows that even though we repent, we might find ourselves right back in the pig pen. Jesus knows that we prefer to hold on to hatred, anger, and resentment–and even if we go into the party, even if we say all the right things, even if we put on a show, Jesus knows we like to hold on to our grudges. Jesus knows.
“But God proves his love for us in that while we still were sinners Christ died for us.” St. Paul writes that in Romans. While we were still sinners; while we were not sorry; while we held on to our anger, hatred, and resentment; before we even knew we had offended; Christ died for us, sinners all. Christ died for us to forgive us before we could ask. Christ died for us to welcome us home before we even missed it. Christ died for us. And on the cross, he says, “Father, forgive them, for they do not know what they are doing.” He’s not only praying for those at Calvary who drove the nails and mocked and killed him; he’s also praying for us, even for you and for me.
“Sorry, not sorry.” That’s what the little boy had said. I’ve said it, too. So have you. “He’s not really sorry, so he shouldn’t get to go to the pool! It’s not right!” That’s what the onlooking boys had said. I’ve said it, too. So have you.
I pulled the boys together. I looked at the boy who had been hurt. I looked at him, and he said the most extraordinary thing. He said, “I know he’s not sorry, but I forgive him anyway.” Why? I wanted to know. Why do you forgive him anyway? The boy thought for a second. He said, “Because I’m not always sorry either. But other people forgive me.” “Well, okay,” I said. But I thought about it on the way to the pool. I wondered if he had learned it in Sunday school, the little boy. I wondered if he had already learned the words of St. Paul: “While we still were sinners Christ died for us.”
Storied Grace 