When
she was 38 years old, my sister-in-law was completely gray. She said, “Kate gave me every one of
these gray hairs. And I’m still standing. This is a badge of honor.” Kate’s adolescence had been a
particularly trying time for the family.
She rebelled against her parents’ rules, moved out of their house, quit
school, and at age 18 moved 300 miles away. On the other hand, Sally, their younger daughter, followed their
rules, earned straight A’s, participated in extracurricular activities, and was
a leader of her church youth group.
At the time, in her conversations with us, Kate referred to Sally as “the
good child.” Fast forward several years. Kate had returned to hometown, was
finishing up nursing school and raising her 1st child. Sally had moved away to go to college
and married a young man from another denomination. She chose not to return to home after college, but was
pursuing her career and living her life elsewhere. With a smile on her face, Kate said, “Whoever would have
thought it—I’m the good child now.”
A
father has 2 sons. The younger
son, chafing at the restraints of life on the farm, asks his father to give him
now what would be his later—his inheritance. The older son is shocked by the
request, for it is tantamount to wishing their father dead. He is also insulted. Is his younger brother intimating that
he—the elder son—cannot be trusted to divide the family estate fairly when
their father dies? The father
divides his property between the 2 sons.
The impetuous, younger son, head full of dreams, sells his share of the
family land and moves far away . . . to city and sophistication, to temptations
and temptresses, to fun and adventure.
At
this, the elder brother is angry for to keep the land “in the family” he and
his father have to buy back their own property from his younger brother. Now, with the absence of his younger
brother and with his father’s preoccupation of gazing past the fields, watching
the horizon, the elder brother finds his share of the work greatly
increased. Burying his anger deep
within, the older brother falls into an exhausting pattern of too little sleep
and too much work.
Then,
one evening as he heads back to the farmhouse from another long day in the
fields, he sees lights and lots of people gathered in a party tent. He hears
music and laughter. As he pauses
to wash up at the cistern, he asks a servant what’s going on. “Haven’t you heard? Your father is
celebrating the return of your brother.
Boy, was he a mess. But
your father had us clean him up and now we’re feeding him.” What? Celebrating the return of an impatient, impetuous, insulting
son? The older brother’s anger begins to rise to the surface.
It’s one thing to receive a penitent and
contrite brother home but to welcome him back into the family as if his
actions, his words, his very existence have not caused pain and sorrow these
long months is unthinkable.
The
older brother fumes. Who has kept
this farm running? Me—the good
son. Who has taken care of my
father in the daze he has been in?
Me—the good son. I have
respected our tradition—following in my father’s footsteps, tending the family
farm. I am the good son. I have never disrespected any of my elders, let alone insulted
my father. I am the good son. The older brother fumes and casts
himself in the roll of “good son” as opposed to his brother—who must be the
“bad son.” Does it have to be
either or?
His
father walks out of the party tent.
His face is beaming. He
opens his arms to draw the elder son into an embrace saying, “I’ve got wonderful news for you. Your brother has returned. A little
worse for wear, but he is safe. He
is alive. He is home. Come, join the celebration.” But the older son’s bitterness pours
out. “Listen!
For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never
disobeyed your command.”[1] Yes, he has been the responsible son, but listen to what
responsibility has become to him—serving, working like a slave, obeying
commands—instead of lovingly tending to family relations and needs. He compares
himself with his brother and decides he has been the “good” son. But do you
hear the expectation of a reward in exchange for his goodness? Is his sense of relationship quid pro
quo? He compares himself with his
brother and decides he has been the “good” son. “You kill the fatted calf for
him but won’t even give me a goat to celebrate with my friends.” And he compares his father’s actions
towards his 2 sons—intimating unfairness.
Seething with resentment, the older son spits out, “This son of yours,
after wasting your estate on prostitutes, has returned and you just act like he
hasn’t done anything wrong!” The
elder brother considers himself the “good” son, yet he will not forgive his
brother.
A
tear runs down the father’s cheek.
His voice cracks as he stifles the cry. “Son, you are always
with me.”[2] Isn’t our time together an ongoing
celebration? “Everything I have is yours.”[3] Haven’t I been generous with you? Please come inside with me; join the
celebration. For the one we
thought dead is alive. The one we
thought lost is found.
The
older son has cast himself in the role of the “good son.” Yet in this exchange
we observe a distorted reaction to responsibility, we hear resentment, and we
watch as he compares his loving father’s response to both him and his
brother. We listen as he cries
“Unfair! Unjust!” And we wait to
see how the older son will respond to his father’s invitation.
I
love this parable—well, at least up to verse 24. From a distance, I observe God’s abundant love, unfathomable
forgiveness, and amazing grace—evident in the father running to welcome his son
home. Isn’t God good to those who
need his mercy? But when we get to
verse 25, this parable gets personal . . . and therefore uncomfortable. For I, like the older son, value
responsibility pouring all of myself into whatever I do. Throughout my life I have been the
older son—in family, in school, in work.
I find myself siding with older son—a party for that reprobate and
nothing for me? With the older
son, I find myself comparing and crying, “unfair.”
For
many years my perspective on relationship with God hinged responsibility. In response to God’s love, it was my
responsibility to support the work of our church. So I tithed. I worshiped weekly, studied the Bible,
taught Sunday School, and helped to lead Children’s Worship. I prepared dishes for fellowship,
funeral receptions, and folks who were sick. I cleaned up after church functions. Like the older son, I
fell into a pattern of too much work and not enough reflection. It was almost like I was trying to work
out—to earn—my salvation. And like
the older son, seeds of resentment began to grow in me. Where is J? It’s her turn in our monthly rotation to lead children’s
worship. Why can’t S or N teach
Sunday School this year? I’ve
taught it the last 3 years.
Kevin’s taking the trash out, and I’m washing the dishes, why is
everyone else standing around visiting?
They could be sweeping the floors.
I began to resent doing the responsible thing.
And
then one weekend, I attended a spiritual renewal retreat where the scales fell
off my eyes and I saw God’s intention—relationship not responsibility. I attended a spiritual renewal retreat,
and I shed the crusty exoskeleton of resentment that I had accrued. My heart was open to receive the gift
of God’s grace. Now I could
respond out of gratitude instead of a sense of duty. I attended a spiritual renewal retreat, and I understood and
felt the significance of these words.
“Daughter, you are with me always, and everything I have is yours.”[4] Relationship with God, ongoing,
day-to-day relationship with God is a party in itself. It is an extravagant gift the likes of
which cannot be surpassed.
Lost
and found: “There is a condition
worse than death, to be lost; there is a condition better than life, to be
found.”[5]
The younger brother separated himself physically from his father and family,
and he was lost. Like his younger
sibling, the older son is in danger of being lost, too. By refusing to go into
the party, he places himself outside of the ring of reconciliation. He
separates himself emotionally and spiritually from his father and family. When we lose sight of our relationship
with God, we too run the risk of being lost. Turning away from God, we lose
sight and are lost. That’s what happened with the younger son. Wrapping ourselves up in duty and
responsibility, getting bogged down with do’s and don’ts, resenting the
fortunes or successes of others, we lose sight of our relationship with God and are lost. That’s what happened with the
older son.
Lost
and found: We humans are all lost—either mired in sins of sensuality and greed
or in sins of self-referential resentment.[6] Will we allow ourselves to be found? Will we let our eyes be opened to the
bounty of God’s love before us?
Will we allow our hearts to be opened to the gift of God’s grace? Will we allow our lives to be opened to
the joy of living and walking and working in God’s presence? Will we allow God’s active, stretching,
searching, healing love to find us, to call us back home, and to bring us into
the party where there is always more—more feasting, more wine, more music, more
dancing?[7] Will we remain lost or will we be
found?
[1]
Luke 15: 29a New Revised Standard Version
[2]
Luke 15: 31a Common English Bible
[3]
Luke 15: 31b Common English Bible
[4] Luke 15: 31 Common English
Bible
[5] Fred B. Craddock.
Luke in Interpretation: A Bible
Commentary for Teaching and Preaching series. Louisville: John Knox Press, 1990. p. 187.
[6] Rodey
Clapp, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting
on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara
Brown Taylor. Louisville:
Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. p. 120.
[7] Rodey
Clapp, “Luke 15: 1 – 3, 11b – 32—Pastoral Perspective.” Feasting
on the Word, Year C. vol. 1. Edited by David L. Bartlett & Barbara
Brown Taylor. Louisville:
Westminster John Knox Press, 2009. p. 120.
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