The Real Lost Son

Luke 15:11-32

July 14, 2019 • Mount Pleasant UMC

It's a familiar story, probably one of the best-known stories of all time, and it’s a masterpiece of storytelling, right here in the middle of the Gospel of Luke. We’ve been saying that the Gospel of Luke is focused on Jesus’ concern for the least, the last and the lost, and that last word—lost—comes to the fore here in chapter 15. If you have one of those red-letter Bibles, you can’t miss the fact that in this section of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus is talking. A lot. There’s a whole lot of red ink in these chapters. Jesus is teaching, telling parables, and attracting a crowd. In fact, at the beginning of this chapter, Luke tells us that he has a lot of tax collectors and sinners around him. They were interested in what he had to say. At the same time, he’s got these Pharisees and teachers of the law who are also hanging out around him. They are the religious officials, or you might accurately say “the religious police.” They are there to make sure Jesus doesn’t lead the people astray, that he doesn’t say something contrary to their interpretation of God’s law. So you’ve got this mixed crowd standing around, Jesus is teaching, and some of the religious police notice “those people” who have come to listen. You know the ones—the people from the wrong side of the tracks. The people a good rabbi/religious leader wouldn’t hang out with. Tax collectors were collaborators with the Romans; they weren’t loyal to Israel. They got their money by ripping off their fellow Jews. And sinners—well, that could refer to about anyone who broke a law of God. Who knows what kinds of things “those people” had done? These were the undesirables, the unwelcome, the ones who had been left behind. And yet, here is Jesus, “welcoming and eating” with such people!

It’s sort of amazing that they haven’t learned by now that Jesus knows what’s going on behind the scenes. In response to their muttering, Jesus tells three parables—three stories about lostness. First he tells one about a lost sheep, then a lost coin, and finally a lost son. It’s that last one we want to focus on this morning, partly because it’s so well known and partly because we usually focus on the wrong son in this story. But before we get to that, I want to say a word about “lostness.” The word Jesus uses in all three parables that is translated as “lost” can also mean “destroyed, dead or perished.” In other words, it’s a very strong word. When you lose something in this way, you don’t expect to ever get it back. That doesn’t mean you don’t look for it. You tend to look for it more desperately. Several years ago, through a series of circumstances that I won’t go into, both of my contact lenses ended up going down the drain together. I wear rigid gas permeable lenses, so I don’t have an extra set, and this quiet desperation set in. We took the drain apart—that was nasty—and looked through everything, but we couldn’t find the lenses. They were lost, without hope of return. That’s the kind of lostness Jesus is describing in each of these stories, which makes the finding in each story even more miraculous.

So let’s focus on what we usually know as the parable of the prodigal son. I’m not sure when this parable picked up that title, because the son who wanders away only takes up part of the story. The main character, through all of it, is the father. One scholar says this story should be called “the parable of the forgiving father” (Bock, Luke [IVP], pg. 258), while another suggests “the parable of the foolish father” (Card, Luke: The Gospel of Amazement, pg. 186). I think you’ll see the truth of that last title as we look at each of the characters in Jesus’ story.

A man, we’re told, had two sons, and the first half of the parable is focused on the younger son. He’s probably in his late teen years (Bock 259), unmarried, ready to take on the world. He is “so done” with the farm, so he asks his father for his share of the inheritance. That’s a pretty bold request, because you normally don’t get an inheritance until the owner has died. In essence, the younger son is saying to his father, “I wish you were dead. I don’t want you. I just want what should belong to me” (Wright, Luke for Everyone, pg. 187). It was a shameful and hurtful thing for the boy to do, but watch how Jesus describes it. He says, literally, that the father gave the son his part of the father’s “life” (NIV translates it as “property”). When a child treats a parent that way, something within the parent dies; when the father watches his son walk away, having taken his inheritance and sold it all for whatever cash he could get, something within the father dies.

You probably know how his story goes. He goes off to a “distant country” and, the NIV says, he “squandered” his wealth in “wild living” (15:13). Literally, the text says he “scattered” his money. He threw it away, and when it was all gone, he had nothing left to show for it. He spent literally every last shekel, and so he had to go take the most shameful job he could get as a Jewish young man. He took a job feeding pigs—unclean, filthy pigs. And the worst part of it all is that the pigs were eating better than he was. Let me tell you, when pig’s food starts looking good, you’re in a bad place! Eventually, the text says, “he came to his senses” (15:17). He woke up and realized he would be better off as a slave back on his father’s farm. At least there he'd get three square meals a day and a place to sleep! So he sets out toward home, and the whole way he rehearses his speech: “Father I have sinned against heaven and against you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son; make me like one of your hired servants” (15:19). Jesus doesn’t say how far away the “distant country” was, but it’s likely he rehearsed that speech for a long time until he had it just right. In a crazy reversal of attitude, he no longer cares what happens to him. He just wants to be home.

That’s when the second character in this story takes center stage, the one I believe really is the main character here, and that’s the Father. He is a wealthy landowner, with servants and flocks and herds. He’s probably an important individual in the neighboring towns, someone whose advice is often sought and whose support is solicited. You know, someone like Pastor Rick. But watch what this man does. First of all, he’s been spending his days watching for the younger son to come home. Even though he considers the son so far lost as to be “dead” (cf. 15:32), he never gives up hope that he might return one day. We know this because he spots the boy “while he was still a long way off” (15:20). He’s watching for him, the same way you watch for your loved one to come down the escalator at the airport after they’ve been gone for a long time. Only this father did that every day. Every single day. He watched, and he waited, and he ran. He’s a “foolish father" because in that culture, a dignified senior man would not run (cf. Wright 187). A pillar of the community did not run. People came to him, he did not run to them. And he certainly shouldn’t run to a son who had dishonored him so badly. He breaks every cultural protocol when he runs to the son. And then it gets even worse, culturally. Luke says he drapes himself on his son’s neck (cf. Bock 260); he won’t even let the son finish his rehearsed speech. This is not dignified behavior. This is foolish. This is embarrassing. He should let the son come to him. He should make the son beg for a place in the family. He should have stood with a stern look on his face while his son knelt before him. That would have been what was expected. But that’s not the heart of this father.

No, the heart of this father is to give the son a robe and a ring and sandals. You gave a robe to a guest of honor, not a shameful son. And you gave a ring to someone who had authority, not to someone who had renounced their place in the family. And you gave sandals to a free man, not to someone who had planned to become a slave in the household. And you killed the fattened calf only for a special occasion because most people in the first century did not have meat as a regular part of their diet. They would have been saving this calf for a dignitary or an important guest (cf. Liefeld, “Luke,” Expositor’s Bible Commentary, Vol. 8, pg. 984), not a runaway who comes slinking back home. Everything the father does when the son comes home makes no sense. It is extravagant, which by the way is another way to define “prodigal.” It’s crazy. It’s lavish. It’s foolish.

And the foolishness continues when the older son enters the picture. Now, remember: this son is the sole heir of whatever property belongs to their family farm. For all practical purposes, he is the proprietor and owner of everything he sees. But apparently he was out in the field working when the younger son came home, so when he gets in, he finds a celebration going on. A huge celebration. Maybe he notices the fattened calf is not in the stall anymore. There is music and dancing, which means it’s more than just the immediate family. Do you know what this means? Dad is spending some of the money that should be his! And then he learns that it’s being spent on his no-good, worthless, prostitute-loving brother. In fact, if you notice, he can’t even bring himself to call the boy “brother.” He consistently refers to him as “that son of yours” when he’s talking to his father. He is angry, bitter, and envious. “He hates his brother’s sin but he also hates his father’s loving forgiveness” (Card 185). After all, he had stayed home. He had worked hard, like a slave (15:29). And, by his own report, he had never ever disobeyed one of his father’s orders—though he did just refuse to come into the party when his father asked him to, but perhaps he didn’t see that as an order. He’s the good boy. He’s the one who did everything that was expected of him, but he’s not done it willingly. He’s not done it joyfully. In some part of his heart, he must have envied his brother. His brother went off to the big city and had a big time while he was stuck here on the dirty, hard, stupid old farm. All this envy and hatred has built up over who knows how long and it just comes gushing out. And still, this foolish father, who by social custom should not have even had to come out to talk to the older brother, now begs his son again to do what he asked him to do earlier. “Everything I have is yours,” he says, “but we had to celebrate and be glad, because this brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found” (15:30).

And that's where the story ends. Or where it doesn’t end. If this were a movie, the music would swell as the camera pulls back and you would see the father and the son facing each other, silently standing outside the house. You’d hear the party going on in the house and spilling out into the side yard. And the screen would go black and the credits would roll and everyone in their seats would say, “What kind of an ending was that? What happens with the older son?” But we don’t know. Jesus left the story open, I think, so that we could find our place in it. He left the story open so that we would ask which one of these sons was truly lost.

It seems pretty obvious (at least to me) that Jesus intended for the Pharisees and the teachers of the law to see themselves in this parable. After all, as I mentioned, it was their muttering that inspired it. He doesn’t deny the lostness of the tax collectors and the sinners; they are the younger son in the parable—in a far country, needing to come home. But they are also making the effort, probably not perfectly (at least according to the religious officials), but they are coming to find Jesus and perhaps do what they need to do to draw near to him. They have a spiritual hunger and are on the road home after living in a far country. They know they are lost and have turned toward home. But I think the ones Jesus really wants to reach with this parable are the ones who think they are found but are more lost than the sinners and tax collectors. I’ve said before that, as far as theology and Scriptural interpretation, Jesus was probably closer to the Pharisees than anyone else. Some scholars may want to argue that with me, but I think that’s right. And yet, he squabbled more with them than anyone else. The Pharisees had a passion for the word of God. They believed the inspired Scriptures. They believed in life after death and they believed in living a holy life before God. But they didn’t always live what they said they believed. And, more than that, they didn’t live the way they told other people to live. In a passage earlier in Luke, which I hope you read this week, Jesus described the Pharisees as clean on the outside but full of greed and wickedness on the inside. He had some pretty scathing words for them: “You neglect justice and the love of God…You love the most important seats in the synagogues and respectful greetings in the marketplaces…” (11:39-44). In another place, Jesus advised his followers to obey what the Pharisees taught but not to follow their example (cf. Matthew 23:2-3)—because, we might say, their walk didn’t match their talk.

The Pharisees are the older son in this story. They have stayed home. They have done everything the father required (as far as they knew). They’ve followed all of God’s laws to the finest detail. Outwardly, everything looks good. The older brother seems to be an obedient child. The Pharisees are those you would look to for spiritual advice. They were the holy people. But something wasn’t right. The inside didn’t match the outside. The older brother is full of jealousy, anger and bitterness. He’s forgotten why he continues to work alongside his father. He’s forgotten his purpose on the farm. The Pharisees, too, forgot why they did what they did. Following the rules had become a matter of habit instead of a response of love to the God who had called them. The Pharisees are the older brother. 

But do you know what? A lot of times, we’re also the older brother in this parable. Every once in a while, I see this phrase on a bumper sticker or a t-shirt; it says, “Not all who wander are lost.” I want to add to that: “And not all who are lost wander.” Some of those who stay at “home” are just as lost as those who go off to the far country. Sometimes we get lost while sitting in our pew. Maybe we’ve forgotten why we come here. Maybe we’ve forgotten why this place, this time, these people around us—why all of that is important. It’s easy to become bitter, even angry, about small things that happen or maybe even things we perceive as big things that matter a lot to us. God doesn’t seem to be working the way we think he ought to be working. We’re still showing up, still singing the songs (sometimes), still putting our offering in the plate (occasionally), but we’re lost. Because not all who are lost wander. The older brother, safe at home, was more lost than his wandering brother.

In the book of Revelation, there are letters written by Jesus to seven churches in Asia Minor, modern-day Turkey. While a lot of people try to make those letters into metaphors, they are actually real letters to real first-century churches in real situations. The first of these letters is written to Ephesus (2:1-7), which was an important harbor city. Rachel and I were there in 2014, and even in the small portion of the ruins that have been uncovered, you can tell it was a wealthy and beautiful city. The church there was well-known, according to Jesus’ letter, and they had a strong witness. They wouldn’t put up with wicked people, took a stand for what was right, and had gone through hardships because of their faith. They would have been considered, in many ways, a model church. Today we would put their pastor on the speaking circuit and have him teach other churches how to thrive. He’d write a book and he’d be on TV because based on all the metrics, all the things we measure, Ephesus was a successful church. But Jesus has different metrics, and his criticism for Ephesus is a stinging one: “You have forsaken the love you had at first” (Revelation 2:4). N. T. Wright translates it even more strongly: “You have abandoned the love you showed at the beginning” (Kingdom New Testament, pg. 498). You’ve walked away. You gave up. You look good, but there’s nothing inside. Everything you’re doing is a facade because without your first love, it’s worthless. The church at Ephesus was the older brother—lost.

Some of you know that the summer between my junior and senior year at Ball State, Cathy and I joined a group of other InterVarsity students from across the midwest to serve in inner-city Chicago. We were part of the first Chicago Urban Project on the west side of the city, and my assignment that summer was to teach a woodworking class for the kids who would come to day camp. I am not that talented at woodworking; the truth is I would go in the afternoon to learn how to do it and then the next morning I would teach the kids. We had been doing this for several weeks when I came into the workshop one afternoon to find all the tools and supplies I had been using were gone. I was frustrated and angry and I went looking for whomever had taken them. I found him—and the supplies he had borrowed. But, to tell you the truth, in that moment, I was among the lost. Somewhere along the way, I had forgotten why we were there doing what we were doing. I forgot that it wasn’t about woodworking; it was supposed to be about helping kids experience the love of Jesus and help the church reach out into the community. We were there on mission from God and somewhere along the way I thought I was there to teach woodworking. I forgot it was about Jesus and thought it was about me. After I gave the teenager who had “borrowed” my equipment a piece (or two) of my mind (not that I had that much to spare), I got in my car and started driving west. I had no idea where I was going; at that point in my life, I didn’t know much about Chicago, but I had to get out of there. And somewhere along the way, on that drive, God found me. He reminded me why I was there, why I had come on this mission. When I got back to our apartment, I was found again. And the next morning, I found the young man and apologized to him. The rest of the summer was different because, honestly, the pressure was off. I was reminded that it wasn’t about me; it was about Jesus.

When we forget what we’re here for, when we forget the mission, we’re the older brother, we’re the church at Ephesus. The “lost” might be in the pew beside you this morning. The “lost” might be you or someone close to you. Not all who get lost wander. Sometimes they stay at home. But here’s the good news: Jesus came to seek and save the lost, wherever they are, whether in a far country or in the father’s house. In a passage you’ll read this week, Jesus has to remind people (again) that even tax collectors are welcome in his kingdom. Jesus meets a “wee little man,” a tax collector named Zacchaeus and he goes to have lunch at Zacchaeus’ home in Jericho. When Zacchaeus publicly says he will change his ways and give part of what he has to the poor, Jesus tells all who will listen, “The Son of Man came to seek and to save the lost” (Luke 19:1-10). (Just to be clear: his action does not save him, but it is evidence of his changed heart.) Finding lost people—that’s why he came. Helping lost people find him—that’s why we’re here. Our mission—do you remember it?—is to make disciples of Jesus Christ for the transformation of the world. Our mission is to help lost people get found and we’ll do almost anything to make that happen.

There’s one other piece of this parable I want to make sure we don’t miss, and that’s the character of the father. It’s pretty obvious that the father is meant to stand in for God in this story, and when the father picks up his robe and runs to his son, we’re supposed to see that God will do anything to welcome us home. Once we turn toward him, once we take the first step, he will run the rest of the way to make sure we get home safely. There is nothing he would not do to find us. Thank God we have a foolish, prodigal, extravagant father! None of us would get found if that weren’t true. Ultimately, this is a parable about God’s character: the foolish father, the extravagant God. It’s a parable about that Hebrew word I’ve taught you before: hesed. “Hesed” is that difficult-to-translate word that means, basically, when the one who owes you nothing gives you everything (cf. Card 186). In the parable, the father literally owes the son nothing. The younger son has been given everything he is due; there is nothing left at home that belongs to him. And still, when the father sees the son on the horizon, headed toward home, he runs toward him and welcomes him home. That’s hesed. The God who owes us nothing sent his son to teach us how to live, to die in our place and to be raised again so that we could live forever. Thank God that we have a foolish, prodigal, extravagant father who gives us what we don’t deserve, who seeks us when we need to be found, and who will always run to welcome us home. Because of him, we don’t have to stay lost. Isn’t that good news? Let’s pray.