My sons have always been my dearest treasure. My sons. When they were born, I ran to the hilltop to shout my thanks to God. My sons. They grew, and they were so different...right from the beginning. My older son seemed to be born with the Law in his heart. Always he has done whatever needed to be done. As a small boy, he was always there, asking why I did things this way or didn’t do things that way, begging me to teach him, always wanting to be my helper, to work with me in the fields or among the animals. As he grew, my neighbors told me I should be proud of this son who was so much a man, even before he came of age. They told me I should be proud, and I was. And my younger son. They tell me he was born with his eyes wide open, looking into the world before he was free from the womb. As he grew, he was never there when there was work to be done. I would find him lying on his back while the sheep strayed all over the hillside. Lying on his back watching the clouds while our livelihood wandered away into who knows what danger. And when I scolded, he would say, “But look! See the shepherd chasing the lion across the sky!”...and he would tell me the story he had seen in the clouds. Always he talked, telling stories, making people laugh, making them cry with tears of laughter. People loved to hear his stories—and to hear him sing. My neighbors said I should be proud of this son whose laugh brightened everyone’s face. They said I should be proud, and I was.
I’ll always wonder if I did something wrong, if another parent could have kept him at home. I guess I always knew he would leave. When he said he was going away, I knew I couldn’t keep him with me. And so I did the best I could to send him well-fitted out into the world. And in the long years that followed, I watched for him. Even as I gave thanks for the son who has been the strength and hope of my old age, the ghost of my lost son was always with me. When we gathered to break bread, I wondered if he had enough to eat. When I lay down to sleep, I wondered if he was warm and dry. When I worked with my son and our men, I wondered if he was holding his own son on his knee. And always I watched. Always I watched for him to come back across the horizon to me. And today! Today my heart is filled with joy. I saw him as he came over the hill—who could mistake that walk?—and I ran as fast as I could to hold my son again—to see him and touch him again. My son—the child of my heart—has been restored to me. My son was dead and has come to life. He was lost and he has been found!
*****
Didn’t my brother do enough damage? He shamed my father in front of all the community by taking his inheritance. Who ever heard of such a thing? But he did it: he asked for his share of all my father worked for—asked for his share and took it away with him! My father sold the finest of the flocks and even part of his land—my land! to give to that dreamer. That’s all he’s good for, that brother of mine—to dream of things that never were and never will be—and to break our father’s heart. All these years, I’ve worked like a dog, I’ve done my best to be a good son to him, and never once have I seen him smile at me the way he smiles at my brother. No matter how hard I work, no matter what I do, it’s never enough. And now my father wants me to come in and play host to the whole community, to show them my brother’s disgrace as though it were something to be proud of. Why did he have to come back? Why can’t things be the way they were yesterday?
*****
I never thought it would end like this. All my life I wondered what lay beyond these hills. I couldn’t bear not knowing. I just had to go. I know it was wrong. I guess I knew then, but how could I resist? To travel to the cities that the traders told us about. To see new faces and hear new voices. And it was even better than I had dreamed—for awhile, at least. There were wonderful times, every day was better than the day before, and then the drought came, just about the time I ran out of money—just about the time I ran out of friends. The drought came—and no one needed an extra mouth to feed. I was grateful when they hired me to feed the pigs, but even then I was hungry. Finally the hunger was more than I could bear, and I thought to myself that least on my father’s land there would be bread to eat. So I began the long slow journey home. I was willing to do anything, even face my father again. I knew he would be furious when he found out all the money is gone. I knew he would never treat me as his son again. I didn’t know what I would say to him. But I needed to come home. And then, then—it was beyond belief. As I drew near my father’s house I saw him running to me. For a startled moment, I was afraid he was coming to drive me off his land. And then he grabbed me, hugging me tightly then holding me away from him to see my face. We were weeping together, and when I begged his forgiveness, he didn’t even listen! He was too busy shouting orders to prepare for a feast! A feast! For me! I never thought it would end like this!
*****
The stories of our lives are held in this story. And also the stories of our relationship with God. Our God isn’t held by the constraints and foibles of our humanity. Our God isn’t an angry judge, not a scorekeeper nor a custodian of propriety. Our God is neither a small-minded occupant of a well-guarded throne nor the champion of one school of thought. Our God isn’t even a prickly parent who insists on certain manners when we come to worship. Our God is an exuberant, foolishly forgiving, compassionate God who recognizes us from afar and rushes with delight to hold us close.
This parable tells the story of our journey with God’s forgiveness so clearly that our prayer book reflects it in one of the forms we use for private confession and absolution—the sacrament of reconciliation. At the end of the second form, the priest says these words: Now there is rejoicing in heaven; for you were lost and you are found; you were dead and are now alive in Christ Jesus our Lord. Go in peace. The Lord has put away all your sins.
And we respond: Thanks be to God.