For the past five posts, I’ve been digging into what many people regard as the greatest story Jesus ever told—the story of the Prodigal Son. It’s a story that has a number of dimensions to it that many of us never realized were there. We’ve seen in it insights we never expected to see. And it’s misnamed, for it’s the story, not of one son, but of two sons—both of whom are lost and alienated from their father, but who express it in very different ways. It’s also misnamed because the real prodigal in the story is the father, for the word prodigal is of Old English origin and means wastefully or senselessly extravagant. When you consider the grace and forgiveness shown by the father and the magnitude of the celebration he threw upon his son’s return, you realize he’s the real prodigal. It’s a story set in the context of Luke 15 which conveys three back-to-back-to-back stories meant to be considered together—stories of a lost sheep, a lost coin, and the lost sons. The stories all have the same point—the joy that’s exhibited when that which was lost is recovered and returned. And it’s a story that addresses two groups of people who were present when Jesus originally told it—“sinners and tax collectors”—i.e., younger brothers types—and “Pharisees and teachers of the law”—i.e., older brother types. By the time we get to the end of the story, both groups can find themselves in the flow of the narrative.
In this post, I want to look at this story again, but from an entirely different vantage point—that of the entirety of Scripture. One of the more interesting developments in biblical studies is the approach where scholars are considering the Bible not as a collection of ancient manuscripts with a variety of genres and literary styles, but as an assortment of documents that come together to form a single, cohesive, comprehensive narrative—a story that helps us make sense of our lives and gives us a sense of purpose. Each of us, whether we’re fully aware of it or not, has some great, grand story as to how the world works that serves as the foundation for our life—that bolsters our decisions and provides us a rationale for our actions. In many ways conversion—becoming a Christian—boils down to exchanging stories … letting go of the story we’ve previously held on to and embracing God’s story … finding our place in it and letting it become the guiding paradigm and narrative for our lives. Being a follower of Jesus means allowing His story to become the framework through which we understand our experience and circumstances and the foundation upon which we base our decisions and actions.
In that light, I want us to look at this story one final time. For in it I believe Jesus lays out the primary plotline of Scripture. He encapsulates the biblical story—highlighting the problem, the solution to the problem, and a picture of how things look when the problem is resolved. If you’ve ever looked out an airplane window, you know that being 35,000 feet up in the air enables you to see the world in ways you never saw it before. You gain a frame of reference and viewpoint you never had previously. There’s a sense in which the story of the Prodigal Son is, is many ways, the 35,000 ft. view of the overarching, unifying story spelled out in the Bible. In it we get a birds’ eye view of the Bible’s central message … the great, grand story of what God has been doing and is up to in the course of human history. Confused? Let me see if I can help you understand.
The story begins by focusing on the younger son—a self-centered, disgruntled young man whose rebellion has turned him into an exile from his home with the father. Now, he has chosen Himself into this place, but he’s an exile nonetheless. In a culture where honor was incredibly important, his request to receive his inheritance early—and it was a fairly sizable inheritance … the family had vast land and livestock holdings as well as a number of servants … the father is able to hire musicians and dancers for the party—i.e., this is a father with considerable wealth—was seen as utterly disrespectful. There’s not an ounce of appreciation in his heart for the sacrifices that have been made … the legacy that’s been put in place so he could one day be in a position to enjoy this bounty and abundance. Any sense of obligation or reciprocal gratitude is absent. He’s entitled. He’s bratty. It's if he said, “Dad, you’re standing in the way of my plans—you’re a barrier and an impediment—and I want out of this family now. I’ve got other plans that don’t involve you, this family, this estate, or this village. I want nothing to do with any of you. I just want your stuff.”
In this younger son, we see an example of how each of us has, at some time, related to God—wanting His stuff more than we want Him. His actions parallel the approach we’ve all taken towards our Heavenly Father—being more interested in the provision than the provider. If you read the creation story in the book of Genesis, you realize we were made for life with God in the Garden of Eden—a realm filled with a multitude of wonderful things … the sphere where He dwells and we can connect with Him without fear or apprehension. It’s the place we were meant to live, as our true home is in God’s presence. We were made to know and serve Him … to enjoy His love and beauty. But, like the younger son, we’ve stepped away and left home because of our longing to serve as our own God. Because of our eagerness to live life independent of Him—because of our desire to do what we wanted without any interference or resistance from Him—we dishonored his name, shamed his reputation, and became exiles from home. We were expelled from that place of meaningful connection. We were banished and become alienated and estranged to where we were on the outs with Him.
When the younger son made this outlandish request, the people of his day would’ve expected the father to slap him across the face, or to respond by rebuking, shaming, and punishing him. But that wasn’t at all how the father responded. In fact, quite the opposite—at great pain and cost to himself, the father granted him his freedom. He didn’t do it because he didn’t care, or because he thought it was the best course of action. He did it because he recognized the relationship was fractured and he didn’t want his son to feel trapped and stuck against his will. And here, of course, we see an illustration of how God relates to us in our rebellion. He doesn’t force us or demand that we love him. He endows us with the freedom to choose. He gives us over to whatever choice we make. But at the same time, he doesn’t insulate us from the attached consequences of those choices.
The younger son chose to rebel and walk away. And some time later he reaped the consequences of that choice—negative consequences … devastating consequences—consequences so adverse he eventually bottomed out, came to his senses, and reached a place where he believed he’d be better off to retrace his steps and return home to his father rather than continue down the path he was on. But as an outcast, how would he be received? What kind of reception could he expect? Even though he thought it’d be bad, he chose to take that chance.
If you jump ahead to the end of the story, you see how things end up. The father welcomes him home and throws a feast filled with music and dancing to mark the occasion. In fact, when the older son stumbles on to the scene and asks what’s going on, the father’s words to him in v. 32 are, “We had to celebrate”. To have refused to celebrate—to have suppressed his feelings and kept his joy bottled up … to have stifled his emotions and returned to normal without stopping to celebrate would have been improper in his mind. You look at this situation and can’t help but ask, “Why? Why did they have to celebrate? Why is the feast so important?”
I believe it’s important because it pictures for us the joy that’s been a theme throughout Luke 15. When that which had been lost—the sheep, the coin, the son—was recovered and found, the response in every instance was joy. The feast, in many ways, is an illustration—a snapshot of heaven’s joy at the return of a lost person. Whenever a person that is lost returns and is reconciled to God, divine joy is released. Whether we’re overtly sinful like the younger brother, or whether our sinfulness is more masked and subdued like the older brother, God is overjoyed and elated at the opportunity to reconcile and re-establish the relationship. If you’re blatantly defiant, He’ll run to you and embrace you when you show up on the horizon. And if your rebellion is hiding behind a mask of compliance and conformity, He’ll step out into the courtyard and invite you to come to the table. For He wants to restore each of us to full sonship. This feast is really a picture of salvation. It’s representative of the invitation God extends to each of us to come to the party, enjoy connectedness with Him, and take possession of the wealth and provision He has for us—a resource that comes our way when we simply recognize the reality of our spiritual condition and acknowledge our need of Him.
What we have in the story of the Prodigal Son is a feast ordered by the father when the younger brother retraced his steps and returned to the family … something that caught him totally off guard … something he certain didn’t expect … and something his older brother objected to vehemently. Why did the older brother get so bent out of shape? Well, for one thing, a meal signified acceptance. It insinuated a relationship. To eat with someone was to receive them, welcome them, and embrace them as they were. That’s why the Pharisees so struggled with the fact Jesus ate with people they deemed to be undesirable and far from God. His doing so connoted that He accepted them and didn’t have issue with the fact their lives were out of sorts. In addition, because Jewish dietary laws were extremely elaborate, meals became boundary marker events. They were used as a way to label and classify people … to distinguish and delineate between insiders and outsiders … to separate the righteous from the sinful.
But what we have here is a feast to which both the younger son and the older son were invited—a celebration that didn’t differentiate between the have’s and have not’s … that didn’t single out the good guys from the bad guys. What we see in the story of the Prodigal Son is a party to which all the disqualified, excluded people could come if they acknowledged the manner in which they’d shamed the father and rejected His love. To the younger brother, the need was to repent—to own the fact he’d messed up greatly and to feel such sorrow for what he’d done that he was open and willing to change. And to the older brother, the need was the same—to repent of his relentless attempts to manipulate God by his manufactured goodness … to show remorse for his wanting the father’s stuff more than he wanted the father … to express contrition for his uncompromising efforts to control Him by maintaining a façade of prideful morality while harboring animosity, resentment, and bitterness in a heart that was not at all like His.
The image here, at the end of the story, is an illustration of how God’s story ultimately ends. It’s a snapshot of how the biblical storyline culminates. It’s a foretaste of that great feast we call the marriage supper of the Lamb—that eternal banquet where, to sit at the table, you don’t have to be perfect, only repentant … that celebration open to anyone and to which everyone is invited … that gala which each of us is encouraged to join without respect or regard for who we are or what we’ve done. For through the death and resurrection of Jesus, a new community has been formed—a community of forgiven sinners … a community where your background and track record is irrelevant … a community where your race and social standing is of no consequence … a community where, in a very real sense, we are brothers and sisters to each other because our true elder brother—Jesus—embraced the agony of our rejected love and took the exile, ostracism, and punishment that should have been ours and placed it upon Himself.
Because Jesus experienced what he experienced, did what he did, and went through what he went through, he forged a community of men and women who are being conformed to His image—a collection of folks who come together in the belief that, when we encourage, support, and strengthen each other, we can do a much better job of living out this transformed way of life than if we’re each trying to do our own thing independent of, and in isolation from, each other. Jesus stepped away from the richness and splendor of his heavenly home with the father and entered into our world … he lived a flawless life but was greatly misunderstood to where he was falsely accused, rejected, and ultimately made the unsurpassable sacrifice. He experienced in full force the exile and exclusion we deserved. He was alienated so we could be brought home. He lost fellowship with the Father so we could have a seat at the table—that future time at the culmination of history when all God’s children from every tribe and tongue … from every nation and social strata … from every ethnic identity and political system … when sit down and celebrate forever the love, grace, mercy, and compassion of our Heavenly Father.