Joshua 5:9-12
II Corinthians 5:16-21
Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

God be in my words and in my speaking; God be in our hearts and in our understanding. AMEN.

The parable known as the Prodigal Son has, I think, a great deal to teach us — even though it is one of the most familiar stories in the New Testament. Generally, we read this parable as a sentimental story about how one can always go home again. We tend to identify with the loving and forgiving father — or possibly with the sinning but repentant son; and we recognize the elder son as the villain of the piece, the one who fails to get the point. The historical and political context and the radically offensive elements of this parable generally elude our sentimental understanding. But they shouldn’t. Possibly, in an attempt to underscore the political setting for this parable, the Revised Common Lectionary uses three verses from the beginning of the chapter to remind us who was actually in Jesus’ audience. “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him…” — that is: the undesirables, the poor, the collaborators with Rome; people who did not feel they had any share in the Temple worship, or place of respect within the social order. “And the Pharisees and the scribes…” — that is: the respectable people, the righteous members of the Temple, the educated people; the establishment — “were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’” This may not sound too terrible to us, but remember that the cultural expectations for a teacher, a rabbi, or a prophet, involved acting in ways that would demonstrate one’s adherence to the Law and the teachings of the Temple. Sharing table fellowship — and thus courting ritual uncleanness — with undesirables and sinners was definitely not behavior people expected of their spiritual leaders. Challenged on this front, Jesus “told them this parable,” which was not a comfortable, sentimental story in that context. First of all, to Jesus’ audience, the thought of asking one’s father for one’s inheritance before he was dead would have been shocking to the point of revulsion. Remember, in the Hebraic law, a son could be put to death for disobedience or disrespect toward his father — and what is respectful about asking a father to fork over half of his possessions when he’s not even on his deathbed? The fact that the father in the parable did what his son asked would have shown — not generosity, nor compassion, nor even fond indulgence, but — weakness, bad judgment, possibly even madness. And then, the younger son takes everything he (now) owns and travels to a distant country — far beyond Jerusalem and the Temple, far away from the place where God was most fittingly worshiped; and in that distant country, he “squandered his property in dissolute living.” It would be hard for Jesus’ audience to think of much worse that this impudent and irreverent young man could do; but Jesus isn’t done making his point. The younger son hires himself out to one of the foreigners, and is sent off to tend his employer’s pigs. In a culture where pigs were animals so unclean they were considered inedible, herding swine was a metaphor for descending to the utter depths of depravity. When the son decides to return, and crafts his careful little speech of contrition, Jesus’ audience would hardly have expected that to succeed; but the actual reaction of the father in the story was even more unexpected. To Jesus’ audience, the father’s behavior in the parable would have seemed undignified, rash, absurd to the point of madness. He runs — runs — to greet the son, embraces and kisses him before the young man has the chance to give his carefully worked-out speech of repentance and humility. The son isn’t being rewarded for repenting; the father doesn’t listen to his change of heart, evaluate and THEN accept it; the father simply welcomes him with joy — without first discerning whether the son truly intends to change and live life in a new and more respectful way.

Neither the respectable scribes and Pharisees, nor the undesirables and sinners in Jesus’ audience could possibly have missed his point: that God loves us beyond and in spite of our sinfulness; whether we are righteous, self-righteous, rebellious, or contrite, God loves us, longs for us, welcomes us, embraces us. In a culture where one’s relationship to God was defined by one’s ability to keep the Law, theology like this was outrageous, even blasphemous. And then, Jesus takes a swipe at the elder son, who (possibly quite reasonably) objects that he’s been following the rules all along, and the father hasn’t done any extravagantly grateful and loving things for him. The father in the parable responds, essentially, “Well, son, you’ve had everything all along. Why are you standing in judgment?”

Here’s another message Jesus’ audience could never have missed. Love transcends Law; studying the Torah and obeying the Law doesn’t make one especially beloved of God. For the children of Israel, who considered themselves pretty exclusively the people of the one true God — and who defined that relationship through the Law expressed in the Torah — that would have seemed an unthinkably broad message of inclusion.

It seems to me that Jesus expected his critics (the scribes and the Pharisees for whom he told this parable) to recognize themselves not in the returning son, nor even in the lavishly welcoming father, but in the elder son. The message of inclusion and love may have been intended to comfort the tax collectors and sinners; but for the respectable people, then — and for us, today — this passage offers a serious challenge about an “inner circle” faith — the theological understanding which says: “I belong; but you don’t.” Jesus is saying, essentially, that it doesn’t matter to God whether one follows the Law or not: God’s love is for the righteous — and the unrighteous — whenever and however they are able to perceive it. When the father in the parable says to the elder son, “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours,” he is pointing out that what is important is the relationship, not some reward; living with the father, sharing work and play, joys and sorrows, is what’s important, and meaningful, and fulfilling — it’s not a case of working hard and following the rules in order to obtain some distant, elusive goal.

This is pretty radical stuff, really. We are so conditioned by our culture to value hard work and self-reliance, that it is all too easy for us to approach our faith as a discipline to work at, in order to achieve salvation. The idea that we’re already saved, whether we succeed at obeying the Law and living righteously or not, is difficult for us. The idea that our neighbors — who, for basic laziness or a host of other reasons, don’t bother to get up and come to church — are every bit as beloved by God as we are, is sometimes hard to take. We want, so much, to be especially deserving; and our culture encourages us to imagine that, through our own hard work and perseverance, we are able to achieve anything. The idea that God’s limitless and unconditional love is simply given to us — without our having to do anything to earn it — is somehow threatening. Like the elder brother in the parable, we imagine that we attain some special status in God’s eyes by behaving in ways we define as ‘good’ or ‘proper.’ But what God really wants from us is that we love — one another and God — with the same prodigal and extravagant love God showers upon us.

Frankly, it is easier — and far less risky — to follow a set of narrowly defined rules than it is to throw open the doors of one’s heart and love the people whom God puts in one’s way. Frankly, it is easier — and far less risky — to treat one’s faith as a discipline, a set of tasks and chores, than it is to enter into an undefined and constantly changing relationship with the living God. Frankly, it is easier — and far less risky — to stand well back from the world, hedging oneself ‘round with the comfortable belief that there’s nothing one person can do, than it is to accept the challenge of discipleship, to take up the cause of justice, and to work — in whatever ways one is called — for the coming of God’s reign. But the easy way, the safe way, is not God’s way; and it is not the way for us Christians, either.

Think, for a moment, about the father in our parable. He forgave and welcomed his wastrel son before he knew whether or not the boy had learned his lesson. The father took no precautions, dictated no terms, extracted no promises, and demanded no apology. He simply reacted with joy and love; he welcomed his son home, and threw a party. God extends that same, loving welcome to each and every one of us. We are loved despite our faults and failings, loved for who we are — not for what we’ve done or not done. No matter how unworthy we may feel, no matter what mistakes we’ve made, no matter how we’ve failed, we are beloved by God; and all we have to do is to open our eyes and see it, open our hearts and accept it. That God loves others as we are loved should not be threatening. We’re not in competition for some finite prize; God has more than enough love to go around. If we read the Scriptures, come to church, pledge, volunteer, and try to love one another, that’s a wonderful thing — but it doesn’t make us worthy of God’s love; it doesn’t make us deserving of Christ’s sacrifice on our behalf. We mustn’t fall into the older brother’s trap: imagining that God is interested in some transaction, or that the way we behave dictates how much can God loves us. It doesn’t. God loves us, regardless.

God’s unconditional and limitless love — and our acceptance of it — can transform our lives. The discipline and rules of a faithful life are not the things we do to earn God’s love; they are, instead, some of the ways we respond to that love, some of the ways we act out our gratitude and love for God and one another. When we truly accept that we are loved by God, and take up the challenge to share that same love with others, our lives — and the lives we touch — are transformed. For, as the Apostle Paul reminds us, we are indeed “ambassadors for Christ, since God is making his appeal through us…” And by virtue of our Baptism and our commitment to God in Christ, each of us has a ministry of reconciliation, a sacred charge, an important challenge to draw others into relationship with God, and to bring to those who most need it the amazing, powerful, transformative, and precious good news that God loves them, and longs for them, and — through each one of us — welcomes them with joy.

In the Name of God,
AMEN

Sermon preached by Beth Hilgartner
at St. Barnabas’, Norwich, Vt.