4th Sunday in Lent                      Luke 15:11-32                        March 14, 2010

Perhaps no Scripture text has logged more pulpit time in our culture that today's parable of the Prodigal Son.
It is a storehouse of sin and redemption, of grace and the refusal of grace, and one can read it from several different perspectives—the father, the younger son and the elder brother.

To many of us it is a story about the vastness of the father's love for the wastrel son.
It is a story about our individual relationship with God, and how when we decide to go home and say we're sorry, we too can be sure that a banquet awaits us—a feast given in our honor by a father whose divine grace exceeds all human reason.

Kenneth Bailey, who has lived in the Middle East for forty years and has studied the peasant culture in that part of the world actually went around asking people what they thought of our gospel reading for today.
He told them about the younger son's request for his portion of the inheritance and then asked them: "Has anyone ever made such a request in your village?"
"Never!"
Could anyone ever make such a request?"
"Impossible!"
"If anyone ever did, what would happen?"
"His father would beat him of course!"
"Why?"
"This request means—he wants his father to die!"

For those of us who have grown up with the idea that it is not uncommon for young men to strike out on their own in the spirit of rugged individualism and Horatio Alger like success stories—there is nothing unusual or scandalous about this story.
And yet no tradition in the Middle East promotes the idea that an heir should get a share of the inheritance while the parent is still living.
And that's where we need to remember that this story was not told to an American audience and we need to set aside our Western middle class lenses and read this text from the perspective of the original Middle Eastern listeners, and in doing so we too will hear the scandal and the audacity of the entire household.

So let's start by remembering that the land that Jesus walked was largely agrarian, for one thing.
Chances are that nine out of ten of Jesus' listeners were rural farmers, like the family in the parable.
Their land was their livelihood.
They received it in trust from their ancestors and they held it in trust for their children.
There was no courthouse where they could record their claims to it.
Those claims were kept in the memory of the community, where honor was everything.
Break faith with the community or lose its respect and your property lines might be "forgotten," just like that.

A great deal depended on being and having good neighbors.
When you needed help getting your crops in before the rain came, or raising a barn—or having a baby, or digging a grave—you counted on the neighbors, the same way they counted on you.
You traded a dozen of your chickens for one of their lambs.
You invited them to your parties and they invited you to theirs.
If things worked out the way they were supposed to, then your children married their children, strengthening the kinship bonds between your clans and linking your farms in a patchwork family quilt.

In this world, an individual had little meaning apart from his or her family.
Identity was conferred in the plural, not the singular.

I suspect we understand the whole family thing—the family name, the family history, and the family standing in the community.
But there are other things about Jesus' Middle Eastern world that we have no reference for—such as the huge honor owed the patriarch of a clan, and the elaborate code for keeping that honor in place.
Patriarchs did not run.
Patriarchs did not leave their places at the heads of their tables when guests were present.
Patriarchs did not plead with their children; they told their children what to do.

Told in this kind of culture, today's parable becomes the parable of the dysfunctional family—a story about a weak patriarch with an absentee wife and two rebellious sons he seems unable to control, who is willing to sacrifice his honor to keep his community together.
In this light, this is a reunion story, not a repentance story.
It's a story about the high cost of reconciliation, and the importance of relationships.

When the younger son asks for his share of the family property, he deals his father a double blow.
He not only means to break up the estate; he also means to leave his father, who counts on both of his sons to care for him in his old age.
But the younger son is not thinking about his father, his family's honor or his village.
He is thinking about himself—what he needs, and what he wants.
Staying in relationship is not high on his list of priorities.

Whatever his reasons, he asks for his share of the family property and his father responds to the double blow with a double turning of the cheek.
He not only divides his property between his sons, though he is still very much alive; he also allows his younger son to sell his share, so that the boy can liquidate his assets and take them with him when he goes.

The "for sale" sign is not up very long, apparently, but long enough for everyone in town to see it.
What kind of patriarch cannot prevent his son from carving up the family farm?
Does the boy have no shame?
What is a bag of money, compared to land that has fed his ancestors for generations?
When people see the father in town, they do not know whether to shun him or feel sorry for him.
Because they cannot decide, they stop inviting him to their parties, but he does not look like he is in the mood for a party anyway.

It is as if his son has died, and after a while people stop talking about whose fault that is.
The father is still part of the community, and the community protects him.
The only way that boy of his is ever going to step foot back inside that town is to come back ten times richer than he left, with fabulous presents for every member of his family and enough left over to buy back the farm. Then he will have to throw a banquet and invite the whole community, honoring them as extravagantly as he shamed them when he left.

But of course this is not what happens.
Instead, the younger son loses everything, and he loses it to Gentiles—Roman citizens, pagan pig-owners, complete strangers to the God of Israel.
What he does is so reprehensible that the Talmud even has a ceremony designed to punish a Jewish boy who loses the family inheritance to Gentiles.
Essentially, it works this way… If the boy ever shows up in his village again, then the villagers can fill a large earthenware jug with burned nuts and corn, break it in front of the prodigal, and shout his name out loud, pronouncing him cut off from his people.
After that, he will be a cosmic orphan, who might as well go back and live with the pigs.

The wayward son's hope, apparently, is to reach his father before the village reaches him.
He has his less than sincere confession ready.
He isn't returning home out of love, and he won't pretend he is.
He is returning home out of hunger.
Once again, being in relationship is not on the son's list of priorities.
Being in groceries is.
Being under a dry roof is.

So he heads home, rehearsing his confession as he goes. He is ready to take the initiative.
But someone must have seen him coming and told his father, because his father is on the lookout for him.
His father sees him while he is "still far off," and is filled with compassion.
Then his father does one of those things that patriarchs do not do.
His father runs to his son—runs so that everyone can see his pale ankles, runs so that his robes get wedged between his legs and flutter out behind him like an apron—he runs like a mother instead of a father—he runs and puts his arms around his son, and kisses him right there on the road, where everyone can see them.

Aristotle once said; "Great men never run in public."
The father's flouting of this advice may spring from affection but of course it is protection too.
If the father can get to the son before the village does, then he can save his son from being cut off.
He can save his relationship with his son and his family's relationship with the village all at the same time.
This reconciliation will cost him his honor—his greatness in others' eyes—but that is a price he is willing to pay. The father runs to greet his son, before anyone can treat him like a hired hand.

Then he turns to his slaves and tells them to bring his son the best robe in the house (which would be his own robe), to put a ring on his finger, and sandals on his feet (only slaves go barefoot).
Next he orders his servants to kill the fatted calf—not a goat, or a lamb, or a dozen chickens, but a calf--a clear sign that the celebration about to take place is not a quiet family affair but a feast of roast veal for the entire village.
It is a feast to restore the family's honor, as well as a feast to restore the family's son.
It is a banquet of reconciliation for anyone who will come.

And just like that, before anyone really has time to process what a genius he is, the father throws a banquet before the townspeople can cut him off and cast him out. The wayward son is saved, though not in isolation.
He is saved by being restored to relationship with his father, his family, his clan, his village—who are also saved by the father's willingness to be a really poor patriarch. The reconciliation of his community means more to him than his own honor.
The restoration of relationship means more to him than being thought great, right or even a good father.
His son's salvation costs him almost as much as his son's abandonment of him in the first place, yet he never says a word about the price.

If there were ever a man who deserved a happy ending, this is the man.
But you know as well as I do what happens.
His other son, the elder and responsible son, shows up, hears the music and the dancing, and refuses to go into the house.
We are not told specifically why he is upset, though most of us can probably imagine why.
He maybe upset because he has not been asked to take his place at the door—since in the Middle East, to this day, elder sons stand barefoot at the doors of their father's houses to welcome their father's guests.
But I don't think that is this son's primary beef.

I suspect the elder son's problem is that no one asked him whether he wanted to be reconciled with his good for nothing younger brother.
No one asked him how he felt about spending what was left of his inheritance taking care of three people instead of two, or being known as the prodigal's brother, or wearing the second best robe, since the best one was already taken.
The elder son has been the good son.
He has done everything right, and he isn't interested in sitting down at the same table with the self-centered, pig-loving, sin-sick brother who has cost his family so much grief.

So the elder son refuses to come in the house—a terrible insult to his father, right there in front of everyone.
Normally the only way for the father to save the evening is to stay right where he is at the head of the table, ignoring his elder's son conspicuous absence until his guests leave and he can go outside to slap the boy silly, but you already know this father, right?
His honor means nothing to him where relationships are concerned.
He will do anything to keep his family together.

So he goes out to his elder son the same way he went to his younger one—to make his case to his son, who is as pig-headed as his brother, and rather than listen, we get the impression that the elder son would rather stand out side the party and pout, feeling self-righteous and indignant, even if it means bringing even more dishonor to the family and continues to divide the village.

It is hard not to hear a parable without unconsciously identifying with one or more of the characters of the story, this parable is no exception.

While there might be a person or two here this morning who might feel somewhat like the wayward younger son, most of us I would guess look at this story as if we were the older son or daughter.
Like the elder son, we sometimes resent the fact that the old man seems to forget all about the humiliation, the separation, and the wasteful behavior of the forgiven one.

And while it might be noble and honorable to be responsible and hard working, sometimes our sense of respectability causes us to nurse grudges and feel justified in our pouting.

If we look again at this story, we might find it odd and scandalous to realize that when Jesus tells this story, he is offering himself as the wayward son as he makes his way to Jerusalem.
Jesus will face what the wayward son deserves. Jesus will be met on the edge of town by a mob.
Jesus will be mocked and beaten.
Herod will put an elegant robe on him and send him back to Pilate.
Jesus will be ultimately humiliated by death on a cross, but he will die say, "Father forgiven them for hey know not what they do…"

The truth is, you and I are the younger child.
Each and every day we waste and squander our inheritance and we forget to give thanks to the Father.
But in love, God the Father comes running to meet us, robes us in forgiveness, puts the shoes of righteousness on our feet and places a ring on our finger.
You and I are the younger sons and daughters whose inheritance has been restored.
Each of us is God's own beloved child.
And God our Father will do whatever it takes to restore the relationship even at the risk of being scandalous and outrageous.
So let the neighbors talk, let the world scoff, because our Father in heaven will do what ever it takes to restore the family.
Amen

Pastor Stephen Blenkush
Zion Lutheran
Milaca, MN
www.ZionMilaca.org

 

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