March 30, 2025
By Kristin Berkey-Abbott
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32
Today’s parable is a response to the grumblings of religious leaders, to the question of why is Jesus acting differently than we might expect. Today’s parable is actually the third in a series. Before the parable of the lost sons, Jesus tells the very short parable of the lost coin, the longer parable of the lost sheep and the shepherd who goes out to find it, and now, the parable of these two lost sons. We tend to focus on the prodigal son, but both boys are broken.
We’re probably familiar with this story, and our familiarity can keep us from seeing some of the finer nuances. The set up of the story: man acquires wealth, ne’er do well son wants his share in advance, father agrees—we might see these plot developments as serious breaches of etiquette, but we likely don’t understand it the way that Jesus’ listeners would have.
Jesus taught in a time when it became increasingly difficult to hang onto ancestral lands, and at a time when loss of land meant an instant plunge into poverty and precariousness. A younger son asking for his share of the inheritance might shock them in the same way that it might shock us, but there would have been the additional shock for first century listeners at the audacity of the son assuming he would get an inheritance at all. Customs were changing by the time of Jesus, but historically, the younger son would get no more than 1/3 a share of inheritance. The father’s decision to liquidate land holdings would have been seen as much more scandalous. There’s also the complication of selling ancestral heritage. Many of us are not living in homes that our parents and grandparents lived in, and even if we are, we don’t see the land and the home on it as prepared for us by God. If we sell our homes, we don’t see it as an act that negates a covenantal relationship with the Creator, the way that first century humans would.
The younger son takes his inheritance and goes off to a distant land where he won’t be bothered by family connections. We might understand this yearning, but first century humans would not. Just as land gives security, so does family, according to a first century mindset.
The younger son squanders his money, the same way he squanders all the advantages that he had at home--no surprise to us or to first century listeners. His decision to accept a job feeding pigs would be a profound shock to Jewish listeners, as would his temptation to eat pig food himself, if any had been offered to him. This part of the plot would show how profoundly debased the younger son has become.
But then, the younger son sees an opportunity. He comes to his senses. Another translation says, “He returned to himself.” He remembers who he is, and whose he is—or was. He has hope that his father will let him return as a servant. It’s one of the only wise decisions we’ve seen the younger son make. There’s also a less generous interpretation, that the younger son sees an opportunity to get even more money out of his father, that his return to himself is the self we see at first, the manipulative, conniving self.
The father’s response probably makes sense to us in the 21st century. We’ve probably had a variation of this type of experience—love goes silent, but then, somehow, we rekindle it. Friends leave, children leave, family members leave—but if they’re still alive, some part of us yearns for them to return, and some part of us might always be watching, and in the meantime, we make do with phone calls and video chats.
First century listeners would be shocked at the father’s reaction. Just as the younger son debases himself, the father debases himself in rushing out to greet the younger son. First century listeners would expect the father to reject the son who has so dishonored him. Perhaps we do too: fool me once, shame on you, fool me twice . . . But the father not only embraces his boy, but throws a party to have the whole community participate in the welcoming. And where is the older son? Has he been invited? He has to hear what is going on from a slave. No matter where we are in our family systems, we must feel that sting.
And then, the next dishonoring: the older son throws a jealous fit. I suspect that the older son’s reaction is not unfamiliar to many of us. We’re here in church, week after week, which suggests to me that we are the responsible ones in the family and society dynamics where we live. We’re the ones who go to work, whether we feel like it or not. We’re the ones who save for the future. We’re the ones who make the weekly phone calls, who plan the family get togethers, the ones who know which members are OK and which are faltering. And what reward do we get? I know that there are seasons where we choke on the unfairness of it all. It’s easy to envy the ease with which some of our society just do their own thing and give themselves to riotous living—or worse, take from others who can least afford it and have not received their just compensation. It’s normal to feel resentful when those riotous partiers do not get any sort of punishment and worse, are given even more opportunities and celebrated.
The older son’s response might not have puzzled first century listeners or us, but the father’s actions towards the older son would have. The father goes to talk to the older son. He leaves his guests whom he has invited to his house—a serious breach of etiquette. He argues from a place of abundance, while the older son reacts out of a space of scarcity and righteous indignation. It’s worth considering where we are. Who are we in the story? Are we the oldest son, feeling overlooked and abandoned? Are we the younger son, scattering resources? Are we the father, eager to share and rejoice when the lost have been found?
The traditional approach to this parable is to see the Father character representing God, with a love that we cannot hope to offer to others. In writing a book-length exploration of this parable, theologian Henri Nouwen says, "Perhaps the most radical statement Jesus ever made is: 'Be compassionate as your Father is compassionate.' . . . "what I am called to make true is that whether I am the younger or the elder son, I am the son of my compassionate Father. I am an heir. . . . The return to the Father is ultimately the challenge to become the Father" (123).
How on earth can we accomplish this? Nouwen suggests that we cultivate these three traits: "grief, forgiveness, and generosity" (128). To those I would add that we should commit ourselves to believing in resurrection. Believe in the possibility of second (and third and fourth and fifth) chances. Continue to hope that the lost will be found. New Testament scholar Amy-Jill Levine reminds us that we may not need to go far—the lost ones may be in our own households. We can rejoice at the return of the prodigals. Levine tells us not to wait for apologies that may never come or forgiveness that may be far away before we throw a fabulous party to rejoice.
And here’s the way that we can mirror the radical love of God. When we notice that someone is missing from the party, someone is standing in the shadows, stewing in resentment, anger, grief, envy—we can leave the guests that are more fun and go get that person, assuring them that they were always invited, never an afterthought. God calls us to love each other in this way.
The parable is unfinished, probably on purpose. We don’t know the older son’s response. Is family harmony rebuilt? Does the prodigal son leave again? Does the older son believe that he has a place in his father’s heart? We don’t know. We don’t even know what the son says. We want to know what happens next, and Jesus doesn’t tell us. It could be his way of indicting the Pharisees and us—or it could be Jesus’ way of inviting us into the story. What does the son say to his father’s radical love? What will we say in the face of God’s radical and abundant love?
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