Some of you know that, for the first 20 years of my adult life, I did not go to church.  In fact, during those two decades, I stayed as far away from organized religion as possible.  I will admit that, during my years in my spiritual “distant country,” I wasn’t the nicest person.  My ambition frequently displaced my kindness, and my competitiveness often overtook my compassion.  I had more than a few sharp edges.

 

And I thought I had no need of God.  I was independent, on my own, able to make decisions for myself without being accountable to anyone or any deity, thank you very much.  The problem was, during those years, things didn’t unfold exactly the way I had envisioned.  Life turned out to be a lot more difficult and a lot more lonely than I had expected. 

 

And so, when the hunger in my heart became overwhelming, I finally admitted to myself that I needed God, and it was time to come back to church.  One Sunday, as I walked through the doors of the big white church in the center of town, I wondered if people could tell that I had been away for decades – if I had a big “H” for “heathen” on my forehead.  I braced myself for knowing looks and a cold reception; I figured I deserved them, and I was prepared to make amends.  But to my surprise and relief, I was met with a warm welcome and open arms.  The prodigal had come home.

 

The Prodigal Son is perhaps the most beloved and well known of Jesus’ parables.  It has been called “the gospel within the gospel” and “the pearl of parables.”  Charles Dickens, the great English author, called it “the greatest story ever told.”  Poet Robert Bridges judged it a “flawless piece of art.”  Small wonder that through the centuries, this story has inspired composers, poets, and artists.  The reason is -- this parable captures the essence of the Christian faith and sums up the central message of the whole New Testament.

 

I suspect the Parable of the Prodigal Son is so familiar that we almost don’t pay attention to it anymore; we hear the first line and immediately jump to the familiar interpretation – the father is our patient and loving God who waits for us while we wander away and then, after we mess up and decide to come back, graciously and joyously forgives us and welcomes us back home.  And if Jesus had ended the parable after verse 24, when the party begins, we probably could assume that this was the intent of his story.

 

The thing is – Jesus doesn’t stop there; he continues on with a description of the older brother, and by doing so, adds another dimension to the story.

 

It is on his final journey to Jerusalem that Jesus tells this parable to an audience full of Pharisees and scribes.  They are the dutiful, religiously devout keepers of the law, and they have been criticizing Jesus for eating with sinners, tax collectors and outcasts, the very people they consider unclean, unlovable and unworthy.  And so this parable becomes not just a story for Jesus’ audience but also a story about the story-teller and his audience.

 

This is called the Parable of the Prodigal Son, yet, all the main characters are in fact prodigals.  The word prodigal means wasteful, extravagant, or squandering.  And certainly the description applies to the younger son in the story, who does something unthinkable in Jewish families – he demands that his father give him his inheritance.  And in an insanely indulgent act that any sensible parent might question, his father gives him the money.  Flush with cash, the younger son runs off to a “distant country,” where he recklessly squanders it all on fast living.

 

To make matters worse, a famine then hits the land, and with no money, no job, no prospects, and no friends or relatives to fall back on, the younger son is reduced to taking a job feeding pigs -- truly rock bottom for a Jewish boy.  It is there, next to the feeding trough, that the tired, broke and hungry young man decides to return home and throw himself on his father's mercy, offering himself as a servant.  And so, smelling of pigs, he slinks home with a practiced apology on his lips.  But before he can even open his mouth, his joy-filled father comes running out to him, arms open in forgiveness.

 

The righteous religious leaders in Jesus’ audience would have been startled by the father’s welcome.  They would have been hanging on every word as the story unfolded, certain that the younger son was about to get everything he deserved and more.  They fully expected to hear that the father has banished him forever.  Yet where they expect judgement, the father shows love; where they expect condemnation, he shows compassion. 

 

This is, after all, no ordinary father.  He is a prodigal father.  Remember, prodigal means wasteful, squandering, or extravagant.  And the love with which he greets his younger son is indeed extravagant.  Without any hesitation, he forgives his wandering child and welcomes him home.  As his son was lavish in living, the father is lavish in grace, mercy and love.

 

Now, as I said earlier, if the parable ended there, this would be a nice, neat story with a happy ending.

 

But there is one more prodigal in this family – the elder son.  The first son in ancient Israel would have enjoyed many privileges, not the least of which would have been a double portion of his father’s estate.  And in this parable, the older brother has always done the right thing, always worked hard, always obeyed his father.  His life is all about being righteous and faithful, and he believes in fairness and justice. 

 

On the white insert in your worship bulletin, you will find several depictions of this parable painted by the great Dutch artist Rembrandt, who was fascinated with this story.  One of the paintings is his work entitled, “The Return of the Prodigal Son.”  Interestingly, Rembrandt’s painting does not depict an actual scene from the parable, because the way Jesus tells his story, the older son is dutifully working out in the fields when the younger son arrives home to his father’s welcoming embrace.  And by the time the older son comes in from the field, a festive party is in full swing. 

 

Hearing the sounds of celebration and finding out what is going on from a servant, he adamantly refuses to join the banquet.  And that’s when he becomes a prodigal.  He has the lavish love of his father, but he wastes it in resentment, anger, and bitterness.  In doing so, he journeys to an emotionally distant country somewhere inside of himself, unable to receive his father’s prodigal love and becoming as estranged and separated as the son who went away.  And just as the father ran out to greet his younger son, he now goes outside to find his older son and invite him into the party.

 

And that is where Jesus ends his story -- not with a happy reunion of this prodigal family, but with Dad outside in the back yard, trying to convince his older son to come inside and join the celebration.

 

I spoke last week about metanoia, the Greek word for “repentance.”  Metanoia means to turn around, away from sin and toward God.  The Hebrew word for repentance is shoo-vog, and it means to return.  If sin is separation, then repentance is to return -- from exile, from estrangement from God, from the distant country. 

 

No matter which son we identify with, we have all been to that distant country, even if it has only been in our heart.  Maybe we have been to the distant country of material obsession, of deceit and dishonesty, of squandered gifts and talents.  Maybe we have been to the distant country of broken relationships, empty promises, unfulfilled commitments, failures and disappointments.  You don't have to go far to go to the distant country.

 

On this Fourth Sunday of Lent, as we draw ever closer to the cross, that is our message for this morning.  To repent is to return and reconnect with the who one stands, waiting at the window, on the front porch, in the back yard, ready to run and wrap divine arms around us and welcome us home.  On his way to Jerusalem and the cross, Jesus stands ready to restore us, renew us, and return us to right relationship with God.

 

But Jesus hasn’t finished the story.  The older brother is still outside.  And maybe it’s because Jesus wants you and me to finish the story in our own lives -- to allow ourselves to be found and forgiven and loved by him, to be restored and returned, that we might walk into the banquet hall and take our seat at the table -- God’s beloved child, home and safe — forever.[1]  Amen.

---