Prodigal Sons and Daughters, Part II

Luke 15:1-3, 11-32

March 28, 2004

"There was a man who had two sons ..." Well, you can relax this morning. I'm not going to ask you to get up and strike any dramatic poses today. But I do want to carry forward some of the feelings you expressed last week, for this old, old story certainly stirs up a cauldron of emotions ranging from joy to resentment, from anger to relief, from exhaustion to rejuvenation.

Surely, the power of this parable lies in its ability, in a few short paragraphs, to touch us deeply.

But as we explore the story, and reflect on how it might speak deeply to us ‚ to the church at Clarendon, 2004 ‚ let's remember, first, that it is a story. The return of the prodigal, the story of the welcoming father, by whatever name, it's just a parable, and its images are metaphors ‚ powerful, yes, but just that, after all, and not a systematic theology or Christology.

So, as we look again at this story, I want to be prompted by the details but not trapped within them. Before we read it together again, then, a couple of background notes may be helpful. The entire story is set up by an incredible breach of custom that Jesus' audience would have recognized immediately. The younger son's share of the inheritance would typically be one third, while the older son would get two thirds, and for the younger son to ask for his share of the inheritance while the father was still living would be tantamount to wishing the father dead. It amounted to saying, "Dad. I wish you were dead. Give me what's mine, now." It simply wasn't done.

Likewise, to wind up feeding the pigs and wishing to eat their food would have been abhorrent to a Jewish audience. The younger son's behavior cast him not only outside of his family, but outside of the Covenant people altogether. It would have rendered him unclean, at best, and a Gentile at worst. [1] In the face of that reality, the father's actions might have been met with scorn, too. A patriarch of his obvious means ought not rush out in such an undignified way to meet anyone, all the less so to meet a son who has, in affect, wished him dead and cast his lot with the infidels. [2] While these details would have been obvious and striking to Jesus' audience, they would have thought nothing of a missing detail that, by contrast, certainly strikes modern listeners: the complete absence of women in the story. In the patriarchal culture of first-century Palestine, that would be perfectly normal, but for us it is a strong reminder that "father" or "mother" are always, only metaphors for God and not a descriptive reality.

With that little bit of background, listen, again now, for a word from God:

"There was a man who had two sons ..."

Last Sunday, as we "embodied" this text together and talked about how it felt to take on the various roles, it seemed fairly easy for us to imagine ourselves as either of the two sons.

So, are we prodigal sons and daughters? Well, most of us have, at some points in our lives, wondered far from the paths expected of us. If we have not actually "squandered our money on a life of debauchery," most of us have, from time to time, wasted what we have been given whether in the form of time, talents or money. And many of us have secretly desired to waste a lot more.

On the other hand, most of us have also, at other points in our lives, been the dutiful older sibling who tries to do everything right, play by the rules and live up to the expectations of those around us; and, just as with the older brother in the parable, most of us have, from time to time, felt resentful of folks who seem to get away with everything, or who get way more than they deserve. I cannot count the times I have had conversations with folks in which each of us took great glee in declaring how unfair it is that celebrity athletes and entertainers get paid so much when so many of them seem so despicable. Prodigious talents? Maybe. Profligate living? Absolutely. Prodigals, one and all! Meanwhile we are doing things that are so much more valuable to the community, yet nobody appreciates us!

Well! We'll show them. We're not going into that party!

With children like that, it's no wonder the father in Rembrandt's painting looks so worn out.

And yet, worn out as he may be, he welcomes home the prodigal one without questions. And again, worn out as he may be, he responds to the older son's anger and resentment not with defensiveness, but with love and welcome and invitation and assurance that "all that I have is yours."

Such words offer deep comfort to us; whether we see ourselves as prodigals or elder siblings, we can find a welcome and a rest in this story. That is good and right and as it should be.

And yet, as we look at this scene, I cannot help but hear Jesus' voice saying, "be compassionate as your Father is compassionate" (Luke 6:36). Nouwen calls this "perhaps the most radical statement Jesus ever made." [3]

Nevertheless, in the end, that is the challenge of this parable for the church ‚ we are called to become the place of such compassion, of such radical welcome, of such grace-filled inclusion. We are called to become a community of compassion. We are called to embody the love of the Father and Mother of us all.

Paul describes that love ‚ "patient, kind, not envious or boastful or arrogant or rude; not insisting on its own way; not irritable or resentful; not rejoicing in wrongdoing but in truth; bearing, believing, hoping, enduring all things; never ending." And, significantly I think, he closes that reflection noting the maturity involved in understanding that love and, certainly, required of all who might follow its ways: "When I was a child, I spoke like a child, I thought like a child, I reasoned like a child; when I became an adult, I put an end to childish ways" (I Cor. 13).

Certainly, the prodigal child and the older sibling are parts of each of us, and will be there always. But what we have been in the past, and what we will likely be again from time to time, does not determine all that we are or can be. This call to compassion is central.

As Nouwen puts it, "Becoming like the heavenly Father is not just one important aspect of Jesus' teaching, it is the very heart of his message. The radical quality of Jesus' words and the seeming impossibility of his demands are quite obvious when heard as part of a general call to become and to be true sons and daughters of God. ... That is the core message of the Gospel. The way human beings are called to love one another is God's way." [4]

If we are called to become true sons and daughters of God, then we are called to belong fully and completely to God. Thus we are called to liberation from all the snares of the culture around us; from its values and expectations.

Marcus Borg names those values the three A's: achievement, affluence and appearance. He says, "We live our lives in accord with these values, with both our self-worth and level of satisfaction dependent upon how well we measure up to these cultural messages. Not only is the effort to measure up burdensome, but even when we are reasonably successful at doing so, we often find the rewards unsatisfying. We may have the experience of being satiated and yet still hungry." [5]

We are enslaved to that culture in very real ways. Consider for a moment: high-stakes testing all but defines school children as winners and losers; global competition brands our economy and the winners live in incredible affluence while the losers struggle to survive; and our popular culture is defined by "wardrobe malfunctions" and gratuitous violence all for the sake of appearing sexy or manly or successful or powerful ‚ to say nothing of how these values play out in our politics both domestic and international. We are all taken up in these systems, and our lives are certainly shaped by them.

But the good news of liberation is that the work of God is to transform slaves into sons and daughters.

The prodigal sojourns into that culture and returns "unworthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands," he says. But the father says, "get the robe and the ring and the sandals; throw a feast." As Walter Brueggemann says, "The son was welcomed to the father's table of joy, for a son does not gain his worth by his performance but by the will of the father." [6]

The culture wills a slavish obedience to its values, but God calls forth liberation; the culture wills a slavish obedience to its systems of hierarchy and dominance, but God calls forth justice based on compassion.

Over and against the values of the culture, Jesus offers a way of compassion; a way that offers a completely different set of values. Rather than achievement, the way of compassion offers grace that is measured not in terms of affluence but in terms of abundance beyond measure. Rather than value based on appearance, the way of compassion values according to fundamental identity: we are the beloved children of a loving God.

As such, as the beloved, we are heirs to the promise. As heirs we are called to inhabit the household of God, the community of the beloved ‚ and we are called to be its gracious, welcoming embodiment in the world.

This is not sweetness and sentimentality. This is not simple and painfree. The suffering of each son in the parable is obvious and real, and it is ours. Recall also the gospel setting of the parable: Jesus has just told his followers that "whoever does not carry the cross and follow me cannot be my disciple" (Luke 14:27). We read this story on the final Sunday of Lent. Holy Week lies just before us, and you cannot get to Easter and Resurrection without passing through the cross of Good Friday.

Yes, suffering a part of the story, but it is not the point of the story, and suffering is certainly not the point of the Christian life. If that were so, the story would end with the Passion ‚ the suffering of the Christ. It does not end there. It passes through that way, to be sure, but it passes through ‚ it passes through passion to compassion: to suffering with.

For that is the story of our God, the one who rushes out to greet us, to welcome us home ‚ Father and Mother of us all, freeing us from our bondage to the world in order that we might embody compassion for the world. This is the story of the welcoming Father; and in it we hear this simple yet profound charge to the church at Clarendon: Sisters and brothers, be compassionate as our Father in heaven is compassionate.

Now, I can imagine you saying at this point, "OK, David, that's all well and good. Be compassionate. We're trying to. So tell me, what does that look like concretely in the life of Clarendon Presbyterian Church?"

To that I can only answer in all honesty and with all seriousness: God only knows.

God only knows. But don't despair, for I am convinced that God is even now calling us toward specific ways of enfleshing Jesus' words to us.

I have spoken often these past seven months about call in this place. We have spoken about call in the work of the session on the mission-driven areas of focus presented at the congregational meeting. I believe passionately that we can discern God's particular calling on us, and much of our worship and our Lenten study have focused on practices of discernment.

We are preparing for an intentional season of discernment in this place, and I want each of you to consider prayerfully how you may be called to be part of the discernment of mission here. The details of this effort will unfold in the days immediately after Easter. So rather than set out a process right now, let me instead close where we began: with a story of the prodigal.

There was a man who had two sons ... well, no, actually, in this story there was a church ‚ an Episcopal church, in a ski town in Colorado, to be precise. [7] It had, actually, no sons ... or daughters to speak of. But for some reason, it felt called to have a ministry to sons and daughters, to young people. Having none to speak of, they were a bit confused about the sense of call. But they decided to pray on it, and they entered a season of discernment ‚ not unlike a Pastor Nominating Committee, except instead of reading pastor information forms they read the Bible. They were listening for God's call.

They me regularly ‚ weekly, I believe, to begin with. They would pray: for each other, for the church, for the young people they did not yet know. And they would read scripture. They engaged in the ancient devotional practice known as lectio divina, or sacred reading. They'd read and listen for a word or phrase that spoke particularly to them, then talk about what God might be leading them toward in the passage at hand.

For some reason, images of food and feeding and hospitality kept coming up in their reading. Go figure ‚ bread in the Bible! But still, no images of youth ministry and no sons and daughters at their door. They kept at it, for months.

Then one weekend a young person in the town died of alcohol poisoning. It was sad, but no one at the church thought too much of it. It was a ski town, after all, with lots of prodigal sons and daughters spending their parents' money on lives of, well, let's face it, debauchery.

But early the next week, the priest was as the local copy shop. A group of friends of the young man who'd died spotted the priest and approached him. Their friend's boy had been flown back East for a funeral and they wanted to do something to mark his passing. Could the priest help?

He said sure, and they arranged for a small memorial service for that Saturday evening.

The priest called on the discernment group and said, "you know, I think we have a chance to do some feeding." So they set up a room, made some soup and sandwiches and waited for the 20 or so 20-somethings they anticipated.

When 80 showed up, panic set in. But, as the service was being conducted, calls went out, bread came in, sandwiches were slapped together and by the time the memorial was finished there was a simple meal ready. The church folks ‚ older brothers, perhaps, living into the call to be welcoming fathers? ‚ they greeted the young people, offered them food, and engaged them in conversation. And they discovered that evening that their town was full of prodigals, that many of them did not get enough to eat ‚ especially on weekends, that they were also hungry for something more.

Now that Episcopal church that had a vague sense of call but no young people has a Saturday evening meal and a service that draws about 300 twenty-somethings ‚ prodigal sons and daughters welcomed home to their gracious Father's house every week.

May it be so ‚ according to God's leading, by way of our gifts, in a way suited for our context ‚ for us, the church at Clarendon growing into our call to create the community of the beloved in our time and place. Amen.

Rev. Dr. David E. Ensign