The prodigal son. The bad boy who
decided he didn’t want to stay at home on the family farm. The kid who was
bored and itching to go out into the world. What an idiot!
He asked his father for his
inheritance ahead of time, essentially saying “you’re not dying fast enough for
my plans, so give me the money now”, went out to see the world and experience
something beyond the farm, spent all the money he had gotten on wine, women and
song, realized he had made a major mistake, and came home, asking his father’s
forgiveness.
Yup, we know the story.
And we hear the word “prodigal,” and
we think that it modifies the word “son.” Well, it does. It means “spending
money recklessly and freely.” Sure sounds like the wild boy.
I expect we know someone like this –
everyone does, it seems. We may have been that boy ourselves. It’s a common theme in movies and novels, and
in life: we have to leave home to appreciate what we have at home, and we have
to make a few mistakes along the way. We may not have done it in as dramatic a
way as the bad boy in today’s tale, but we recognize the urge, even as we may
judge.
This kind of behavior is usually
associated with a young person (or a middle-aged person, sometimes) saying “Who
am I? No really…who am I?” and then the person goes out and acts in an
irresponsible way to test out their perception of who they are.
Perhaps our bad boy thought “I’m not
really a farmer-type. I’m a city boy. I’m a party boy. I’m a playboy. I just
need to go live that life!”
So he got the cash and went to
fulfill his vision of who he thought he was…until it all fell apart. And in that
moment, something happened. The Gospel says “he came to himself.” It’s as if
the veil fell from his eyes and he realized that he was not the crazy playboy
city party guy…he was simply his father’s son. He came to himself, and realized
that he had made a mess of things, and he wanted to go home.
Like Dorothy in the Wizard of Oz, he
wanted to click his heels and say “there’s no place like home.”
So he went home again, not knowing
quite what he would find there. He had squandered his inheritance, he had acted
like an obnoxious fool, he had insulted his father, and by extension, his whole
family, by abandoning them. It would serve him right if they made him lower
than the lowest slave. They owed him nothing.
But what was the response when he
approached his father’s land? Not scorn. Not excoriation. Not a snub and the
words “you are dead to me.”
No, his father was as prodigal with
his forgiveness as the son had been with the spending of his inheritance. It
was a reckless, wildly over-the-top forgiveness, as incomprehensible and
illogical in its way as the son’s behavior was. He forgave the boy’s rude and
heartless demand for his inheritance ahead of time. He forgave the son wasting
his money on profligate living, living in a manner that rendered him ritually
unclean. He forgave his son coming home with nothing to show for his adventure
but pig waste under his fingernails. And this father not only forgave, but he
celebrated the boy! A party!
Why? Because the boy finally came to
his senses. He finally came to himself, and in coming to himself, he realized
what truly mattered.
A prodigal forgiveness, beyond what
any son like this one would rightfully expect for the sins he had committed.
And we think of this story of
prodigal forgiveness as a marker of the new covenant that Jesus brought, a
shift in mood from the Old Testament where God exacted fearful judgment on his
people…
…and yet it isn’t that simple.
Look at our Old Testament reading
this morning. We hear the dialogue between the Lord and Joshua, as the
Israelites arrive in Canaan. This is the first generation of Israelites who
have no memory of Egypt. They are landed in their promised land. There is no
more need for manna. They have finally and truly been released from their
slavery, and God says to Joshua “Today I have rolled from you the disgrace of
Egypt.” Prodigal redemption from a prodigal father who loved his children
despite all their murmurings, their complaints, their infidelity to him over
the years of wandering. There is no love to compare to the prodigal love of
such a father…
…unless
we see the prodigal love that is demonstrated when the Psalmist tells his
story: “Then I acknowledged my sin to you, and did not conceal my
guilt. I said, ‘I will confess my transgressions to the LORD.’ Then you forgave
me the guilt of my sin.” And who is this prodigal son, this psalmist who asks
the Lord’s forgiveness? King David, regretting his sin of the murder of his
lover’s husband. Talk about reckless, prodigal squandering of the inheritance
of God’s blessing! And talk about the even more wildly reckless and prodigal
forgiveness, spoken of in this psalm in such understated terms!
This
God of the Old Testament forgives exactly as Jesus described in the parable
from Luke: love trumps punishment. Forgiveness trumps recompense. Yes, God
judges, but if we acknowledge our sin and ask for forgiveness, God forgives.
And forgives. And forgives. The God of second chances, and third, and fourth,
and fortieth.
If we
have spent the previous weeks of Lent reflecting on who we are, and have seen
where we have failed, where we have not lived into our promise as God’s beloved
children, we have the prescription for the cure here: ask for God’s
forgiveness. God gives it. It is as simple as that. God gives it. God sets a
table for us as we come to ourselves once again, a table around which we will
gather in a few minutes, a table where all of us, the prodigals of every
stripe, are welcome, a table where we will be fed in ways that will help us to
live into our best selves. We, too, will experience a resurrection as we join
God at the table. All because of a prodigal father and his prodigal
forgiveness.
Amen.
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