"Which brother are you?"
Sermon preached in St Salvator's Chapel, St Andrews on 14th April 2010 by Rev Dr Stephen Holmes
Readings: 2 Corinthians 5: 16 - 21 & Luke 15: 11-32
The parable of the prodigal son—one of the two or three best known stories in Scripture—and perhaps one of the two or three least understood.
So often tell the story without the last eight verses—from vv.25 on—and yet this is the whole point of the parable for Jesus. And we like to identify with the prodigal son in the story, but Jesus never meant for anyone to do that.
And of course, if we go that way, we can come up with some moving and powerful stories of salvation. The image of the Father waiting with longing, and of his joy at welcoming the wanderer home, is moving and wonderful. And the image of heaven as a party, celebrating with joy the salvation of each sinner, is one we should dwell more on, perhaps. And we can certainly learn some wonderful truths about the love of God and the welcome He has for all His erring children who will come home from this parable, but if we don’t read it right, then we pull the sting of the story, make God’s love safer and less astonishing than Jesus would.
The key to the parable, you see, is the context. It’s a story about who you eat with. Eating with someone, in Jesus’ culture, was a big deal. It was a sign of acceptance and approval, a very powerful mark of friendship. And Jesus is eating with the wrong people. And folk are scandalised. At the beginning of the chapter, we read, ‘the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes tax collectors and sinners, and eats with them”.’
We see stories in the press occasionally. A representative from some oppressive regime overseas is in London. There is a state banquet—should the Queen really be doing this? Or a cabinet minister shakes someone’s hand at an international meeting, and journalists are worried it might be seen as a sign of approval of human rights abuses or whatever in the country the foreign diplomat comes from. But in Jesus’ day it was a thousand times stronger.
Need to understand what’s going on here: ‘Pharisees’ has become a boo-word for us, we know they’re the bad guys, but it wasn’t like that in Jesus’ day. The Pharisees were the serious, religious people – a bit strait-laced, perhaps, a bit puritanical, but they were the ones who set and upheld high social and moral standards. The tax collectors, by contrast, were scum. They were the ones who the Romans used to extort a tribute from the land, collaborators and traitors to their own people, who got rich by adding their own little cut to every bit of tax that was owed. The sort who got tarred and feathered and run out of town in France after the last world war. So when the Pharisees criticise the tax collectors, you have to think of a Daily Mail leader fulminating about child abusers – the tone of it might make you uncomfortable, but there’s only one side you can be on, really.
So, what do we have? Not just the dregs of society, the ‘sinners’, but these rich traitorous scum coming to Jesus, and rather than keep his distance, as any decent person would have done, he welcomes them – and eats with them. And the honest, upright people, are scandalised – ‘how could he?’ And, Jesus, as he so often did, started telling stories. About things that were lost, but have been found again, and the rejoicing that accompanies the discovery. A sheep. A coin. A son.
A son – a son who has had enough of life on the farm. You can understand it really, the worst of small-town insularity. ‘Their lives ran in circles so small, they thought they’d seen it all,’ if any of you know that song. So he demands his inheritance early, and sets off for the bright lights and big city. No-one knew who he was, but he was paying, and if you’re rich, anyone will eat with you, you know?
B ut he wasn’t rich, or not for long. Soon he had nothing. And there was a food shortage, and so he had nothing to eat, no-one to eat with. He became a farm labourer, and was reduced to eating with the pigs. Back on a farm again, but the other way had been better. He set off home.
And you’ve heard the story – the trip back, the rehearsed confession, the Father’s anxious waiting and joyful welcome. The feast.
And that’s where we stop it sometimes. When we’re telling the story at evangelistic meetings, perhaps. Talking about the way God welcomes us back, when we return to him, the rejoicing in heaven over a sinner who repents, as v. 7 of the chapter put it. And it’s a good message: God is like that, God’s holiness is such that he welcomes the wanderers, wherever they have been, whatever they have done – there is a place for them in his heart. It’s a story we should never stop telling. God’s costly love wills to win back all who are lost. In this story, He sacrifices His dignity and standards, standing waiting, longing, bearing the deep insult His son’s actions have caused Him, refusing to demand justice, but longing for restoration instead. In Hosea God tears up His own law, His own standards, and mercy triumphs over judgement. God sends his Son, the Lord Jesus Christ, to bring us back, to relive human life as it always should have been lived. To die to pay the price for the guilt and shame of all. To rise again to promise life to all people. God welcomes us back, it is true, whoever we are, whatever we’ve done.
But the sting of this story, in Luke 15, isn’t there. It’s not just that God welcomes us. God welcomes them. The ones we want to keep at arm’s length. The scum. We know we’re not perfect, but we’re respectable – we’re as moral as the next person; we’ve got our lives together; we’re making something of a success of things, one way or another. They, by contrast, are a mess. They’re the ones who leave Buckfast Tonic wine bottles behind the bus shelters. On drugs, perhaps. In and out of prison. Never made their own way. Abusers, or wasters, or addicts. Problem cases for social workers. The flotsam and jetsam of society. Scum. You wouldn’t want them in church – you’d be worried about the offering, never mind the new projector. You certainly would never invite them home, eat with them.
The lost son in the story isn’t somebody respectable; his life is a huge mess. He’s rejected and ruined and disgraced his family, wasted his fortune, and been reduced to homelessness, hunger and begging. He’s blown it, big time. You’ve walked past him on the street, down in Edinburgh, with his ripped jeans and his matted dreadlocks, asking for money in a monotonous voice. You looked the other way, mouthed ‘sorry’ and hurried on, away from the smell, or at least you did if you’re anything like me. No, if we’re to find ourselves in this story, it’s not there. We’ve never plumbed those depths, I guess.
Where then? There’s another son. The elder brother. Honest, and respectable and hard-working. Making his way in the world. Doing things right, most of the time. Just like us. That’s where we are in this story, most of us. And what’s the reaction of the elder brother? He’s appalled and astonished when he discovers his brother is welcomed back. He’s got standards, after all; yes, his brother should be accepted home – he’s part of the family, still, I suppose – but in disgrace, and quietly. All this celebrating is just inappropriate and undignified. After all, I’ve worked hard for years – if we’re going to have a party, I’ll have a testimonial, or long service award, thank you very much.
You can imagine him, writing a column in the Daily Mail. Attacking holiday programmes for young offenders. Announcing prison is far too soft these days. Declaring that Al Quaeda prisoners are getting more than they deserve when they are hooded and manacled and caged in Cuba. And asylum seekers? Don’t get him started on asylum seekers! The voice of respectable Britain. Or perhaps he’s on the left. Writing for the Guardian this time. Denouncing fat cat bosses and their salary rises. Making snide remarks about President Bush’s supposed lack of intelligence. Waving the phrase ‘institutional racism’ around as a big stick to beat the police with. Once again, the voice of respectable Britain.
And where’s God in all this? Throwing wide his arms to invite the dregs of society into his heart. Giving parties for traitorous scum. Making no distinctions. Saying all are welcome if they come. Throwing wide his arms and saying, to a thief and a murderer, ‘this day, you will be with me in paradise’ as they – we – drove nails through his hands.
We like to tell the story of the prodigal son. We like to tell it in ways that gloss over the mortal insult and shame the boy heaps on his father, and hurries past the degradation he lands up in, because the love of God and His welcome are messages we can be comfortable with. And those truths are there, there in the story, and I’ll be going through them with the children when they come back in. But that’s not all that’s in the story—it’s not even the main point. The parable doesn’t just teach us that God welcomes us; it teaches us that God welcomes them. The Pharisees, upright, respectable, moral religiously serious people need to be told of the scandalous love of God, that cuts through every pretension of social respectability, that will not draw any line and say God’s love will go this far and no further.
God’s attitude is clear. Ours is the question. Walking past on the other side. Protecting our respectability. Trying to pretend that our ministry lies elsewhere. While God is throwing a party to welcome the people we wouldn’t be seen dead with. While God is throwing a party, spreading a table, offering himself in bread and wine – to traitorous scum, like Judas, as Jesus broke bread for twelve, not eleven, the first time. All are invited to the party, and that means you, too, but you get no control over the rest of the guest list.