This week I’m hung up on a word: “Prodigal.” I went looking for the word these past weeks, and I had difficulties finding it. The word “prodigal” doesn’t appear in the text in English, not even in the King James. The only place I saw “Prodigal” in any translation was in little section titles, additions in by editors, not part of the formal Scripture. But that’s the name of the story isn’t it? The “prodigal son?” Jesus might have been surprised to hear the title we’ve given perhaps his most famous story. The central character for Jesus is the Father. More about that in a moment.
There is one word in the original text that might translate as prodigal. When we are told the son squandered all he had. That’s the place. Still I would say, “Prodigal” which comes from Latin and medieval French is a word of interpretation, it means both “the one who goes away” and the “one who wastes wealth” so it would seem to fit the younger sibling in the story. If we are content to make the story all about him.
This interpretation is so powerful that the word “prodigal” in English today only basically exists as a reference to this story. If we talk about prodigal sons, prodigal daughters, prodigal priests, we mean someone who has wandered far away and wasted their time, talent, and treasure. We mean someone who has strayed far from the path.
Prodigal Country
I found myself thinking this week about prodigals in part because the word lodged in my head next to another word. I found myself wondering whether we live in a “prodigal country.” Our present administration has marched away from so many norms and laws. We have wandered into a territory so far away from what I thought were our shared values. I don’t recognize the politics anymore. There isn’t a discourse between progressives and conservatives about the best policy, about how best to help those who need help. Instead there are buzzwords and loyalty tests, not mindful and meaningful debate.
There are so many anxious rabbit holes I can go down, worrying about the climate. Worrying about my trans siblings. It is easy to get anxious about the jingoistic rhetoric and reckless decisions made on insecure chats about war. It is easy to get anxious for my immigrant neighbors. Perhaps you saw our Bishop on the front page of Thursday’s Albuquerque Journal. The Borderland Ministries of the Rio Grande has been accused of human trafficking, because we created a shelter, and we welcomed the people dropped off by Immigration and Customs Enforcement Officers on our doorstop. We are accused of trafficking because we gave a bed and a warm meal to the people our government asked us to care for. When our Christian mission is criminalized, we have strayed into a country that I don’t recognize, and I wonder what it will take to convince the majority of voters that this is a prodigal road.
It’s easy to focus on the wandering and wasting in the story, particularly because we’ve given it the title prodigal.
But by that same token, why not call it the story of the jealous older obedient sibling? It’s easy for me to end up in the older brother’s place. It is easy for me to get angry, so angry, at the direction our world is turning. It’s easy for me to tie myself in knots around the cruelty, the incompetence, the wastefulness I see every day in the news. It’s easy for me to turn to God to say, “what are you doing here?”
This isn’t a story about the brothers: it’s a story about God
And there, there is the rub. Because this story for Jesus doesn’t center on either sibling. This parable is about God, not us. This isn’t a story of our disobedience. In complicated and cruel times like ours, we need this story. Jesus wanted us to remember this story. Because this is a story about God’s reckless love. God’s forgiveness.
This is a story about a parent who defies the expectations of both sons. Both of the boys expect that their father will follow a certain pattern. Both boys think that the younger son, the so-called prodigal, should come home groveling, should expect little mercy, should know that he is a sinner in the hands of an angry father.
This is a story about unmerited grace, reckless mercy, love that overcomes even the worst behavior. Jesus’ story is a story about a God whose property it is always to have mercy, mercy and grace and forgiveness so lavish that they are embarrassing. I wonder whether we have the grace to believe in a God who is so merciful that God’s followers are embarrassed.
A few years ago, preaching on this parable, I misspoke in the pulpit. I stumbled over a word. It’s easy to do when you use so many of them. As I went to quote a hymn…I meant to say, “there’s a wideness in God’s mercy.” I love that hymn. But what I said instead was, “there’s a wildness in God’s mercy.”
I’m not sure if the slip was Freudian, but it broke the story wide open for me. Because the story we hear from Jesus today about Fathers and Sons, is a story about wild mercy.
As we pass the midway point of Lent, I think this story helps us to refocus. Lent isn’t about our ability to repent. Lent isn’t about our capacity to fix anything. Lent is about God’s wild mercy. Lent isn’t meant to teach us about our ability to apologize. Lent isn’t even meant to teach us about self-discipline. Rather this season is meant to teach us about the wildness and the wideness of God’s forgiveness. We believe in a God whose mercy defies all odds, defies all expectations. The love of God is wild. No matter how far you think you are from God’s love, you are welcome to come home. You are embraced with open arms. Love is the beginning and the end of the story.
I want to stay with that grace for a moment. God’s grace doesn’t follow the pattern we expect. Notice, the younger son has a whole speech prepared. He thinks he knows how the interaction will go. The father doesn’t even let him get half his planned words out. The embrace interrupts the apology. We expect that we need to ask forgiveness.
Expectations are tough when it comes to religion. They’re hard to root out, and deep down I think there is an expectation about the pattern we take with God, about our need to ask for forgiveness and wait, and see if God will be merciful. But that’s not the story Jesus tells.
Deep down, I think there is another expectation here in this parable. I think there’s a reason we call it the story of the prodigal. I wonder if we don’t quietly anticipate that our enemies, our wayward siblings, those who have done us wrong, will receive some sort of retribution. This can be especially tempting for those of us who are churchy. We religious folks tend to imagine God’s retribution too much. Much of the book of Jonah is about divine retribution that doesn’t come, and Jonah’s anger about God’s mercy. Jonah wants a show of power.
We seem to need reminding: God is not a God of retribution, despite religious people’s best efforts to turn God into something God is not. Jesus tells us a story about the God who welcomes the lost ones home, with feasting, and joy, and love, despite the protests of the dutiful.
Jesus’ story today is powerful not because tells about what happens when we wander and waste. That’s not where the story concludes. That’s not where our story finishes either. This isn’t really a story about a prodigal. This is the story of homecoming. This is a story about the wildness of God’s forgiveness, the depth of God’s love.
Wage Reconciliation
Every once in awhile, though, we manage to get something right. 23 and a half years ago, our nation was also wandering. Presidential power was in question. In the weeks after the attacks of September 11, 2001, the House of Bishops of the Episcopal Church had a meeting in Burlington Vermont. They prayed for the country, and they made a statement to the church. It would have been easy to decry terrorism. It would have been easy to talk about militant religion, and to call for the defense of our national ideals. Retribution was in the air in those days. But the Bishop’s chose a different word. One St Paul uses today. In a time when many were calling for war, the bishops asked Episcopalians to “wage reconciliation.”
Scripture teaches us, if we look to our wider tradition, that we are a people made to be reconciled. We are meant to welcome one another home. We are not made for retribution. We are not made for judgement. We are oriented toward welcome, toward forgiveness, toward renewal. At moments like these, don’t get caught in the tides. Don’t forget your central stories. Don’t let go of your values. Wage reconciliation.
As we turn the bend of Lent, remember, even on our worst day, God’s judgement looks like a ring, and a robe, and a celebration. God’s judgement feels like an embrace. God’s judgement is like a parent who starts running to greet us even we are still far off. We face not divine retribution but divine reconciliation.
Christians need this story, the story of a God who does not follow our scripts about sin. When you find yourself angry. When it feels like the world has wandered far away from what you recognize, remember. Jesus tells a story of a universe that is not ordered for retribution, but for love. Jesus taught about a God who is anxious only about letting us know we are loved. When you feel lost, don’t let go of that wild mercy.
Mike Angell 