The Lost Parable

Dear Friends in Christ, grace to you and peace, from God our Father, and His Son, our Lord and Savior, Jesus Christ. Amen.

Most of us know the story well, this story that is labeled “The Prodigal Son” but really ought to be called “The Prodigal Father.” It is a story about a father’s love that is so extravagant that he is willing to risk the family fortune to preserve the relationship he has with his sons. When the younger of his two sons demands his inheritance early, the father grants it. When the young man squanders his father’s wealth, the father forgives him. When this thoughtless child abandons the family’s values, rejects the family’s religion, and still has the gall to come back home again looking for a job in the barn, the father not only welcomes him home, but restores his place in the family, and throws a party in his honor. Love so amazing, it is rarely seen in human form.

In his book Rebel with a Cause, Franklin Graham describes the day that he, the son of Billy Graham, was kicked out of college for immoral behavior. These are Franklin’s words:

The drive home from Texas was dreary and I drove well below the speed limit. Maybe I was driving slow to prolong the inevitable; I would have to face my parents. They had invested a lot of money in my education, and now I had messed everything up.

When the road signs began to mention Ashville, my mind started to imagine the lecture my parents would give me. I drove through the gate and up the road to our house. So many times when I had come home I could hardly wait so say hello to everyone, but not this time. I felt bad enough when I reached the house, then I saw Mama standing on the front porch and I wanted to run and hide in the nearest hole. It was one of the few times I can remember not wanting to look her in the eye.

When I walked up to her, my body felt limp. I barely had the nerve to lift up my head or extend my arms for a hug. I didn’t need to. Mama wrapped her arms around me and with a smile, kissed me like always and said “Welcome home, Franklin.” The lecture never came.

Franklin Graham doesn’t tell us about when his father came home, or when he tried to get into a different school, but for this night, for this one moment, he was the Prodigal Son, welcomed home in love.

Several years ago, I began working on a book about some of the stories Jesus told or experienced; not what happened in those stories, but what happened next. I tried to imagine, as Paul Harvey might have said, “the rest of the story.” What happened the day after the woman caught in adultery was forgiven by Jesus? What happened the day after Bartimeus the blind man received his sight? What happened to the fighting sisters, Mary and Martha, after Jesus left their dinner party? It’s pure speculation on my part, but haven’t you, too, wondered about these people after Jesus touched their lives in such astonishing ways?

So I revisited this parable of The Lost Son, and imagined what might have happened in the home of the Prodigal the next morning, after the homecoming party, after the father had dressed down the elder son for not attending the party, and after the two brothers met awkwardly at breakfast for the first time. Such raw emotions; so many unanswered questions that became the elephant in the room for every person in that family. This is how I closed the vignette entitled “Waking Up in My Own Bed.”

Later that evening, the mother and father lay in bed, wondering together what the future would hold for their family. “Will he do it again someday?” she asked. “Will Jonas get restless and leave us again someday?” The father smiled a broad smile. “I am certain he will,” the father said,” though I’m not so certain that I will finance the next trip! But this much I know for sure; now that Jonas knows that he can always come home again, maybe he won’t wander so far away next time. God has made us a family…and wherever we may go, we will always be a family.” And with that, the homecoming was complete.

In the end, I suppose we are still left to wrestle with the question “what does this parable mean to us, 2000 years removed from the day Jesus told it?” Over the years, pastors have taught us to assume that in this parable, God is the father, and we are either – or perhaps both – the younger son, and his older, judgmental brother. But scholars have read in between the lines and suggested that the story is an allegory where the father is God, the elder son is the faithful people of Israel, and the younger son is the Johnny-come lately gentile, whose convictions are a mile wide and an inch deep. But could there be another perspective, another purpose in Jesus’ words?

Pastor Margaret Aymer of Atlanta proposes that we see the father not so much as an image for God, but as "a metaphor for the faith community." That perspective would change everything, wouldn’t it? That perspective would compel us to see the local congregation as a place where love is always on display, and forgiveness is always offered to our sisters and brothers who have messed up their lives. This story would compel the church to forgive, instead of being, as one writer suggests “the only group on the face of the earth that shoots it’s wounded.” And that makes sense to me, and perhaps to you. How will we ever speak of God’s forgiveness to the world out there if we cannot freely forgive the older brother or the younger sister right here in our midst?

Let me tell you the story of a church I know. Several years ago in this particular church, there was an allegation made toward one of the most respected, generous, kindest men in the congregation. The charge was an unsavory one; a charge of having an inappropriate physical relationship with a teenage boy in the church. The alleged victim came from a broken home where his mother never married, and he had two siblings from fathers different than his own. The upstanding man who was accused of this crime vehemently professed his innocence, and everyone in the church was convinced that the charge was without merit. There was simply no way that this gracious Christian man could be guilty of this charge.
Weeks turned into months. The alleged victim and his mother no longer came to church, while the one who was charged was surrounded by love and care and unswerving support. It wasn’t fair. But then some rumors began to circulate, the notion of other victims was whispered, and gossip in the community began to spiral. At trial, the evidence was overwhelming, and at sentencing, this respected, kind, generous Christian man confessed his transgression. And then, some weeks later, among a hurting and hushed Sunday morning congregation, he confessed to his sisters and brothers that he was, indeed, guilty. His apology was contrite and humble, and laced with tears, as he asked for their forgiveness.

What do you do in that situation? The very concept of grace was on trial that Sunday morning. Would they shoot the wounded and send him packing? Or would they try to forgive and forget? Neither response seemed entirely appropriate; sin is messy, and so, too, is forgiveness. But I can report that, over time that man was forgiven by the most of the members of his church. Did he put on the royal robe, and have the family ring put on his finger? I’m not sure. Was he ever allowed to work with children again? Absolutely not! But if attitudes follow actions, the people of that church offered their words of compassion and mercy, and over time, over months and years, forgiveness gradually came.

If you are offended by that story, then you understand that the concept of forgiveness is, by its very nature, offensive. Forgiveness is somehow easier to appreciate when it comes in an age-old story, and the perpetrator is an adventurous teenager, who simply sowed the wild oats of youth. But when the offense is grievous, when the victims are many, and the trust level is shattered among people who are supposed to love each other, then the hurt is so deep it doesn’t seem possible to repair and forgive. There is no happy ending in this scenario. This is no “Hallmark made for TV” movie. It is life in this sinful, selfish, sick world of ours. Maybe the astonishing story of forgiveness that Jesus told has this purpose: So that we might know the depth of our own sin and the breadth of his forgiveness when he died on the cross for us.

For much of the year, Christians are pretty good at pointing out the sins of others. But in this Lenten journey, God calls us to examine our own hearts, our own minds, our own words and actions, to see if there is any sin that needs confessing. And then we come here, to this place, among these people, and we hope to find mercy, though we know we do not deserve it. It’s complicated, this concept of grace; oh, not grace from God, but grace toward one another. Just ask the older brother of that Prodigal Son. Forgiveness always hurts before it heals. And we can’t do it by our own reason or strength. But if our beginning point is one of being forgiven by a gracious God, well…maybe that’s a start. Sisters and brothers of this Body of Christ, welcome home; the Savior has forgiven you.

Thanks be to God. Amen.

©2010 Steven Molin