Ernest Hemingway wrote a short story entitled “The Capital of the World.” Set in Spain, it tells of a father whose son has left home and run off to Madrid. The father wants to see the lad again, to patch up the relationship, to be reconciled. Unfortunately, he does not know exactly where his son is. So, he takes out an ad in the newspaper: “Paco, meet me at the Hotel Montana at noon on Tuesday. All is forgiven. Love, Papa."
On the appointed day, not knowing what to expect, the father waits in the plaza outside the hotel. His son shows up…and so do 799 other young men—each one named Paco. They have all come hoping to be reconciled to their fathers.
According to Hemingway, the reason for this overwhelming response was the words, “All is forgiven.” Not, “All will be forgiven if you apologize.” Not, “I will take you back if you make restitution for the pain you have caused.” Not, “I will forgive you if you give evidence of sufficiently sincere contrition.” Simply, “All is forgiven.” No requirements, no strings attached, no conditions, just a blanket amnesty. The father has taken the initiative, and the risk, to reconcile his son to himself.
Readers of Luke 15 have often focused their attention on the wayward son, his misdeeds and his eventual repentance. That is why this parable is almost universally known as the “Parable of the Prodigal Son,” prodigal meaning extravagant, wasteful or reckless. But the real focus of the story is on father and how he reacts to the actions of his two sons. Herein lies both the Good News and the Scandal of Jesus’ parable.
The father has every reason to be aggrieved. Recall that his youngest son has made the most improper and offensive of requests. At the beginning of the parable he has essentially said, “Dad, I’m tired of your house and your rules. I’m tired of you. I’m tired of waiting to live my life. Since you don’t seem to be in any hurry to die, give me my portion of the inheritance now.” Incredibly, the father bows to his son’s wishes and then allows him to run off from home, loot in hand. Can you imagine the hushed talk among the servants in the storeroom and the much louder talk around the village well? But more than this, can you imagine how deeply, how profoundly wounded the father must have been by his son’s words and actions?
It seems a long time went by with no word from his youngest son. Surely, the father’s worry grew and his sadness deepened. There was every reason for his anger to do the same.
But then one day, the father looks out and far away he sees someone coming. Had he been looking down the road and across the fields every day since his boy left? Or had he heard that his son was on his way home and so was looking out for him? Either way, though the figure is distant, the father recognizes him at once: it’s his long-lost son. Now, here is where the scandal begins.
The way it should have gone down was this: the father would wait for the son to make it to the house. The son would fall to his knees and confess his sin. If the confession seemed sincere enough, if the right words were said then the father would accept him back, but with conditions. There must be a price for the son’s misbehavior, he must be taught a lesson, he must be made an example for other incorrigible, hard-headed youth, the scales of justice must be balanced. This would all have been in accord with the customs and expectations of Jesus’ day, as well as with our own modern expectations.
But this is not what happens. The father sees the son a long way off, and, Jesus says, he “is moved with compassion.” The father takes the initiative: he runs, he hugs, he kisses. He is not passive. Instead, he is extravagant in his welcome. And scandalous too: it was highly improper for any grown man to run; undignified for a man to expose his calves before the eyes of watching servants and villagers. But his joy and compassion are too great to be contained. So it is with God. This truth was well expressed by the medieval monk Bernard of Clairvaux in one of his sermons on the Song of Songs. Bernard observed, “Those who go out in the field seeking God, will discover that God was already in the field seeking them.” Out of an abounding grace and a boundless love, God takes the initiative. God seeks us out before we even think of seeking God.
Notice that the son has not yet done or said anything. He has expressed no repentance; he has made no sign of contrition. For all his father knows, the boy has come back to demand more money. It is the pure, gracious love of the father that initiates reconciliation with the son. In returning, the son has only turned to receive the loving embrace that was there, waiting all along.
The son isn’t getting what he deserves. He has not yet expressed his repentance, but he has been welcomed. Sharon Ringe expresses this truth vividly: “The father’s compassion outruns the son’s penitence.” Indeed, the father’s compassion overtakes the son’s penitence, passes it by, leaves it in the dust before the lad can utter a word. Even when the son begins his prepared speech, he is cut off mid-sentence. The confession is not even completed. I doubt the father even heard all of what his son did say. All he heard were the words “father” and “son”—and those were the only words that mattered.
Instead of the penitence the son had hoped to arrange for himself, instead of the fitting punishment the audience expects, the father gives the orders to throw a party. It is to be an extravagant affair. He orders the servants: “Bring the finest robe and replace these rags my son is wearing; bring shoes for his feet and a ring for his finger so that all will know that he is my son. And prepare the best calf we have. We are going to feast tonight, a real celebration. For my son has come home. He was lost but now he is found!” As Adam Hamilton observes, this is a prodigal father: he is “being reckless with his” forgiveness, wastefully extravagant in his gracious welcome.
This, Jesus is saying, is how God treats us. God welcomes us in spite of our sin, in spite of our flaws. God, says Jessica LaGrone, “doesn’t stay stuck frozen in anger or resentment. No, [God] runs up the road to meet us, again and again, propelled by grace.” God loves us and takes the initiative: In Christ, God makes the first move. God reconciles the world to Godself. And God rejoices in our repentance. God is prodigal with grace, reckless in welcoming us, extravagant in mercy and love. All we have to do is turn and receive the embrace. We don’t have to satisfy God’s righteous anger. We don’t have to submit to punishment or do penance to balance the scales of justice. We just have to accept that we are accepted—already, undeservedly, without our lifting a finger.
God’s grace is greater than our sin. We cannot outrun God’s compassion or negate God’s love. That is the lesson the prodigal son learns. Grace means God welcomes us even when it seems there is no way back home, when it seems that every bridge has been burnt, and that loving, undeserved, extravagant welcome changes us from within so that we are once more God’s sons and daughters.
The prodigal son learns this, but the elder brother does not. Recall the context of this parable: the Pharisees and scribes are grumbling because of who Jesus associates with: tax collectors and sinners. These religious leaders are upset, scandalized by the way Jesus treats unworthy sinners. Their judgmental moral outrage is why he tells this famous parable illustrating God’s joyous, lavish grace and why the story of the Prodigal Son is incomplete without the story of his elder Brother.
When the elder brother comes home and discovers what is going on—a party for his sinful, prodigal brother—he is offended and scandalized by his father’s gracious, joyous actions. In his anger over his father’s prodigality, he refuses to come in and join the party.
The Elder Brother views his father’s actions as unjust and unfair. His younger brother has run off to live high on the hog leaving him to shoulder all of the responsibility. Now he’s been accepted back, restored to his status as a son and thus an heir. And where will the prodigal’s second inheritance come from? From the older brother’s portion. The Elder Brother is afraid he will not get what he feels he has earned, while his younger sibling is getting what he most certainly hasn’t earned. All those years of hard work, with nary a complaint, wasted. He deserves his inheritance; his good-for-nothing brother deserves nothing. In his mind, he is being cheated out of his reward; his hard, faithful work is unappreciated and now will be under-rewarded.
The problem is, he’s thinking of himself not as a son, but as a servant. A son, a child, doesn’t earn his or her parents’ favor; it is freely given. Good behavior, faithful obedience, diligent attention to chores and responsibilities is the response to the love that already exists, not the reason for the love. How often we get this backwards. We think that our obedience, our faithful attendance and support of the church, our diligence at reading the Bible and praying, our sacrificial giving and assistance to the needy, will earn us admission to heaven, secure our place in God’s heart. But that thinking has it backwards. Love can’t be earned. Grace is never deserved. We do all these good things, all these acts of devotion and deeds of compassion and generosity in response to the love that is already there and the grace we have already received. We love because God first loved us. We serve because in Christ God first served us. We forgive because we have been forgiven. We welcome because we have been welcomed.
And this underscores the problem that the Pharisees, both Biblical and modern-day, suffer from: they are self-righteous. They see themselves as good and others as bad. They see themselves as deserving and others as unworthy. But in truth, all have sinned and fallen short of the glory of God. None of us are perfect. All of us are recipients of a grace we do not deserve and a love we have not earned. To judge others unworthy, is to fail to see our own unworthiness. And when we cannot see ourselves for who we are, we cannot see God for who God is, we cannot see clearly how gracious, generous, merciful and loving God is. This can have devastating effects.
The elder brother’s anger, his bitterness, his self-righteousness and his judgmental attitude combine to build a wall between him and his father; they create a separation, an alienation. Where is the elder brother? He’s outside the house, not inside celebrating as part of the family, but outside, alone, separate.
When we refuse to welcome those whom God welcomes, when we begrudge them God’s grace or deny them God’s love, when we sit in judgement of their worthiness to be in church or be called Christian, when we assume our own moral superiority, then we build a wall, not only between ourselves and the other person, but also between ourselves and God. We separate ourselves. We stand outside of the house and refuse to come in because we are offended by God’s grace. We are as much slaves to sin as the prodigal was in the far country, because we are failing to love both our neighbor and God.
But notice what the Father does: he goes outside to talk to the elder brother. He seeks out his lost oldest son. He invites. He cajoles. He pleads. “Don’t you see? All that I have is yours. You are my son. You have always been, you are now and you always will be. You are always welcome at my table, you are not an outsider who needs an invitation. You always have access to me. My love for you is not less because I love your brother. There is abundant love for you both and to spare. He is your brother. We should celebrate his return together. My beloved son, please come in and join our celebration.” The father responds to the elder son with the same lavish grace, the same extravagant welcome that he had shown to the younger, prodigal son.
The invitation hangs in the air. Will he accept the grace that is offered? Will he turn and receive the embrace of the father’s love? Will he stand outside, nursing his grudges and congratulating himself for his own goodness? Or will he come inside, join the party and embrace his long-lost brother?
What about us? Where do you see yourself in this story? Have you been wandering in a far country, estranged from God, distant from those who love you? Or have you stood at a distance judging others, feeling superior or longing for them to get what they deserve? Whether we recognize ourselves in the person of the lost, foolish son or in the person of the judgmental, self-righteous older brother; whether we can best relate to the tax collectors and sinners or to the scribes and Pharisees, there is good news for all of us in Jesus’ parable. Because God loves us, God wants us to come home. God takes out ads in every newspaper. God goes out into the fields of the world seeking us when we are still enjoying ourselves in a far country, not yet knowing we need God. God runs up the road to meet us. God meets us outside, where we are and invites us to come in and join the celebration. All is forgiven. There’s a seat reserved for us at the table. The party isn’t complete without us. And God has come out to welcome us with the open arms of extravagant grace and lavish, prodigal love.
