Prodigal

Scriptures: Laetare Sunday, A.D. 2016 C

Homily:

Grace, mercy and peace to you from God our Father and from our Lord and Savior Jesus Christ. Amen.

Emerson called Jesus’ Parable of the Prodigal Son the best story in the entire Bible, and in the entire world. It is a work both remarkable and ridiculous. One could argue, rather plausibly, that it is the tale of three fools: one a fool for pleasure; another a fool for righteousness; and the third a fool for love. Yet only one of these fools proves his foolishness wiser than human wisdom.

There was once a man who had two sons. The younger, clearly a brash sort of fellow, demanded of his father the share of family property that would one day belong to him. Mind you, this is quite the slap to the old man’s face. Typically the family property would be divvied up after the father’s death. He’s basically saying, “Dad, I wish you were dead.” This sort of thing was risky business in the ancient world. Back then, a father’s authority was well-nigh absolute. The Old Testament recommended the death penalty for children who abused their parents. And Roman law would allow a father to dispatch with a rebellious son for far less than that.

Yet the father, in a remarkable act of composure—perhaps of overindulgence—grants his son’s request. He doesn’t yell. He doesn’t whack him with a stick. He doesn’t even weep. Rather, he divides the property prematurely, and gives his son its worth in coin. The young man then does exactly what most of us would do in our immaturity, were we given a dramatic windfall inheritance. He travels. He feasts. He woos. Off he goes to a distant country, there to squander his property in dissolute living. (This should sound rather familiar to any of us who attended state college.)

Lo and behold, this proves an unsustainable lifestyle. He soon finds himself broke, destitute, and unemployed. (Again, rather like college.) The fair-weather friends have left him, so he must hire himself out to slop pigs—doubly humiliating, given that pigs were ritually unclean animals for Israelites and Arabs. And he says to himself, “What have I done? Think of how well my father treats even his hired hands, who eat far better than I and with bread to spare. I must return, contrite, hat in hand, and confess that I am no longer worthy to be called his son. Perhaps then I can return to the household as a servant or laborer. Anything’s better than starving as a pig-slopper.”

I should note that there’s some ambiguity here as to just how genuine his repentance might be. Has he experienced a real change of heart, or is he just hungry? Regardless, he has a plan to work his way back into his father’s good graces, to earn himself a place beneath the familial roof.

But he never gets the chance to use it, does he? The younger son’s elevator speech proves all for naught. Because as soon as his father spots him on the horizon—before there’s any chance to apologize or repent—his father hikes up his robes, runs out to greet him in manner most undignified for any man of quality, seizes him, hugs him and kisses him. “Father,” sputters the son, doubtless shaken and perplexed, “I have sinned against heaven and before you.”

But his father isn’t paying any attention. “Quickly,” he tells the servants, “bring out our finest robes! Bring rings and supple sandals for his feet! Find the tender fatted calf and prepare it for the feast! For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and now is found!” And against all odds, the whole household breaks into raucous celebration. Not because he repented. Not because he humbled himself. Not because his rehearsed speech earned him a way back in. No. They celebrated simply because he was home.

Traditionally we call this story the Parable of the Prodigal Son, prodigal meaning profligate, spendthrift, someone who is overly generous, even foolish, with his wealth, frittering it away. But this story isn’t about the son. It’s about the father: “There was a man who had two sons.” It is the father who is prodigal, who is overly generous, superabundant with his wealth. He is prodigal when he acquiesces to his son’s arrogant request. He is prodigal when he sells half his possessions. And he is prodigal in his forgiveness, in his lavishing of gifts and love upon the wayward child who wished him dead. The old man is foolish in our eyes, overindulgent. He is, however, a fool for love.

The story isn’t over yet. No, indeed, for you shall recall that there were two sons, and now the elder returns from a hard day’s labor in the fields to find the entire household in an uproar, rejoicing. And when he hears from the servants what has happened—that his bloody fool of a brother has returned penniless and destitute, and is now being rewarded for his brash stupidity—the elder brother, the good brother, is beside himself. And just like his younger sibling, he refuses to come home.

Yet as he did for the younger brother, the father does not wait for his elder son to come to him. No: he goes out to his son. He does not send a servant with a command, but goes out himself, out of the party, out of the household, to beg his other child to come join in the feast. But junior’s having none of it. “All these years I have stayed with you!” snarls the elder brother. “I have worked for you, slaved for you, toiled and obeyed and been loyal to you! And you never threw me a feast half this lavish! But when my brother returns—my brother the fool, my brother the sinner—you celebrate him over me? It isn’t right! It isn’t fair! I’m better than this, father, better than him, better than you!”

One son a fool for pleasure. The other a fool for righteousness.

“Oh, my child,” the father replies, “you are with me always, and all that I have is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life. He was lost and has been found.”

And that’s what God is like, says Jesus. That’s what God is like.

God is like a father whose love for his children is so great as to be foolish in its generosity, in its superabundance. God will grant us freedom when we demand it, even stupid freedom, freedom from goodness and beauty and truth. God will not force us to abide in His love, in His household. But God will always run to us, embrace us, kiss us, lavish us with honor and grace and celebration. He will welcome us home, not as slaves but as children, always, always, always. He does not care if His generosity looks foolish to the world, if His actions are deigned undignified, or unworthy, or unfair. He is the Prodigal Father, the Prodigal God. And He does not care how much His love may cost Him.

God does not reject us from His household. We reject Him! We do so for foolish, fleeting pleasures, for lives of sin and regret. But we also do so for self-righteousness, for the perceived right to judge others, to show the world that we are better, we are worthy, when really we’re the same rebellious spoiled brats as everybody else. I mean, what sort of God would let His children get away with such disrespect, such arrogance? What sort of God would forgive His children even for wanting Him dead?

Ah. Now that, my brothers and sisters, is the question of Lent.

In the Name of the Father and of the +Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen.