students of jesus

“I’m no longer worthy to be called your son . . . ” You know the story, right? Jesus tells us of a returning son who tries to bargain his way back on to the family farm, mostly because he is starving. The prodigal is willing to sell his birthright for a regular job and a steady income. He was even willing to live with the shame of being that guy who “used to be” part of the family—simply to escape poverty and hunger. Thank goodness the father in the story wouldn’t even listen to the proposition.

The son may have been willing to give up his place in the family, but the father would have no such thing. “I’m no longer worthy to be called your son:” Since when did worth have anything to do with family?

Jesus told this story because the religious Grumbletonians disliked his custom of welcoming sinners and eating with them. They never imagined Jesus welcomed them as well—the Pharisees—and ate with them. They never realized that everyone Jesus welcomed was a “sinner.” Jesus never sat a table with anyone other than sinners. Jesus told the story to them, but also about them. He tells the story to us as well. It’s a story about becoming family.

The journey is always to the Father’s table. The transformation is always about becoming sons and daughters. The challenge is to see ourselves as the Father has always seen us. Whether you are coming from a far country or simply a hard day in the fields, why return to the Father’s house if you don’t plan on being a son or a daughter?

Jesus told this story to the Pharisees, those who had worked hard to keep the bargain of Moses. When we try to bargain with God we sell ourselves short: we offer our service for hire: he wants family. We want payment for services offered; he wants feasting at the long table. They were the older brothers who said, “All these years I’ve slaved for you . . .” But if the father had wanted slaves he would have bought more. Sons and daughters are born to the house.

The Father will only have us as sons or daughters. Any other plan is unacceptable to him. The patient father was willing to wait for the son to return, but the father had no patience for the idea that he would return as anything other than a son. Once a son or daughter in the Kingdom, always a son or daughter in the Kingdom. The prodigal son had an intolerable plan: the Father had no time to listen because celebration was in order.

The Storyteller is the true older brother, a model of how family rejoices in the father’s actions. He’s not ashamed to call us brothers and sisters. His ministry was a family ministry: Jesus came not only to demonstrate the possibilities of being human; he came to reveal the beauties of being a son or daughter.

 

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I used to think this was so clever: as a Protestant pastor I would refer to Roman Catholics as our “cousins.” I thought it highlighted our close association with Catholics while subtly reminding the listener of the differences between the great Reformation divide. Those Catholics are family, but only cousins. Pretty witty, eh? Not really. I’m ashamed to say that I did so for years.

Eventually the still small voice of the Spirit began to get through. “Really, Ray? Do you really mean to say these people do not have the same Father?” I tried to argue with the voice for a while. “These people have such different practices.” I answered. “Their church is full of cultural influences that have nothing to do with the Scripture.” Case made, right?

The Spirit’s voice is gentle but strong: a velvet granite breath. “And your church? Don’t your practices seem strange to Baptists or Presbyterians? And what about the cultural influences in your church? Perhaps the Apostle Paul would have a thing or two to say about them?” Eventually I acknowledged these billion-plus people as part of God’s family. They are brothers and sisters, who call Jesus Lord and King. My opinions of their practices did not matter. God’s opinion does.

Then a marvelous thing happened. I discovered the Banqueting Table was longer than I had imagined. It stretched beyond my fleshly vision. I discovered I had been invited to come and feast, not criticize. I beheld sisters and brothers I had never known before. If I revered the Father why not revere the family?

And one more thing happened. A spirit of criticism began to lift from my mind. The real issue had never been about Protestants and Catholics. The issue was my critical, demanding heart. The issue was my self-appointed position as judge and jury over all God’s Kingdom (such a big Kingdom, and such a tiny judge!) I no longer felt the need to walk the police beat of orthodoxy. If a few impostors came to the feast, I knew the Father could choose who should eat and who would be shown the door. I was free to find the best in people and ignore their flaws. The same Spirit who corrected me could correct them.

So I suggest this week’s meditation: Is it possible we criticize other Christians publicly because inwardly we don't see them as family?

I don’t particularly like the name, “The Prodigal Son.” It leaves out the family dynamic, because Jesus actually told a story about a father and two sons. Families are funny. The two sons--they had so much in common. (You can find their story here).

The younger son is infamous. He wished his father dead, and said so! The fool was soon parted from his money (was it ever really his money?). Finally, with his back to the pigpen, he devised a humble return to the family farm, even if it was only as a hired hand. Of course, the father would have none of it. He was watching for his boy all along. He wouldn’t even listen to the elaborate deal the younger son proposed. The father celebrated his return and invited everyone to do the same. This much we know.

The older brother is not as famous, but he’s gotten his share of recognition over the centuries as well. He wasn’t happy about the return of his brother. He used the father’s extravagance as fuel for criticism of his Dad.

Like many families today, both boys would be surprised to hear what others saw they had in common. They provide four meditations this Monday:

Both sons failed to grasp their identity: the younger son rejected his role as a son. He tried to “hire on” when he returned, which means he still didn’t see himself as the father’s son. But neither did the older brother. He said to his father “all these years I slaved for you.” (verse 29) Apparently he saw his role as a slave, not a son. Whether this slavery resulted from the expectations of his culture or a poor relationship with the father, we can only guess. Both sons had the unspeakable privilege a blood-bond, but neither could grasp their identity.

Both sons separated themselves from the father: the younger son famously flew the coop, but the older brother was left in the outer darkness beyond the house, hearing only the faint music of celebration in the father’s house. Both did so by their own choice, and for a time both missed out on abundance, feasting, and joy.

Both sons experienced the father’s loving pursuit: while the younger brother was still a long way off the father dropped everything and ran to him. Never was a boy so willingly captured. The older brother saw the silhouette of someone coming out from the house. It was the father, looking for a missing son. He was the kind of father who never forgot either of his boys, even when the party was in full swing. The father would go to nearly any length to welcome them both.

Both sons got to hear the father’s view of their relationship: the younger son was not allowed to demote himself to hired hand. He was a son, and he would always remain so. The older brother got to hear these exquisite words, “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.” Apparently the father never thought in terms of “inheritance.” He had always viewed everything as belonging to his boys.

If I had the chance to change popular perception of the parable, I would rename it "The Father’s Love," because there’s is no identity apart from the Father. Separation from the Father means darkness for all who choose to distance themselves. The Father’s love breaks every barrier. Best of all, the Father’s heart determines who we are even if we don’t have it quite right.