We all have an inheritance. We all might not know or appreciate them. In our story today it is a great one given early. While unusual, it wasn’t unheard of for a father to distribute wealth before death, especially in cases where land was divided among heirs. The father allows his son to make his own decisions, even if they lead to failure. This mirrors how God grants us free will.
Ultimately, the early inheritance sets the stage for the son's journey—his failure, repentance, and redemption—emphasizing the depth of the father’s grace and the joy of restoration. The Parable of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32) is the third in a sequence of parables Jesus tells to emphasize God’s joy in restoring the lost. It follows the Parable of the Lost Sheep (Luke 15:3-7) and the Parable of the Lost Coin (Luke 15:8-10), both of which highlight the relentless pursuit of what has gone astray. With this context, the Prodigal Son parable deepens the message, shifting from objects and animals to a human relationship, showing not just recovery but full restoration. Together, these three parables paint a picture of God’s abundant grace and the rejoicing that comes with redemption.
So why does it not work? Turns out, if you hang out here long enough, it might just be the only place that works. We are comfortable seeing the corporation as a person devoid of soul it may be. The Corporation is designed to extract value in what they see as a world of scarcity. What kind of being are we that wants to pump life into our community. For one thing we recognize the abundance of God.
If we only measure life by what can be extracted, we will always see it as lacking—always in need of more, always just short of enough. But if we measure life by what can be given, by the hands that lift, the voices that comfort, the work that restores, then we begin to see the abundance that was there all along. Inheritance is not just what we receive but what we recognize and pass forward. A corporation may exist to claim value, but a community exists to create it. And in that creation, in that act of giving rather than taking, we find something far greater than profit—we find the life God intended, woven together, piece by piece, like a mosaic only visible when we stand together.
Luke 15 Amplified Bible
15 Now all the tax collectors and sinners [including non-observant Jews] were coming near Jesus to listen to Him. 2 Both the Pharisees and the scribes began muttering and complaining, saying, “This man accepts and welcomes sinners and eats with them.”
11 ..., “A certain man had two sons. 12 The younger of them [inappropriately] said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that falls to me.’ So he divided the estate between them. 13 A few days later, the younger son gathered together everything [that he had] and traveled to a distant country, and there he wasted his fortune in reckless and immoral living. 14 Now when he had spent everything, a severe famine occurred in that country, and he began to do without and be in need. 15 So he went and forced himself on one of the citizens of that country, who sent him into his fields to feed pigs. 16 He would have gladly eaten the [carob] pods that the pigs were eating [but they could not satisfy his hunger], and no one was giving anything to him.
The father’s love in the parable is prodigal in its own way—lavish, overflowing, almost reckless. And maybe that’s the contrast: the son returns with nothing but exhaustion, while the father runs to meet him with abundance. The prodigal son's exhaustion is physical, emotional, and spiritual. After wasting his inheritance, he is drained from hunger and toil, reduced to feeding pigs in a foreign land. It had to be pigs by the way didn't it? To define what is foreign to the listener. The weight of regret and shame burdens him, knowing he has squandered everything, including his dignity. Yet, there is also an exhaustion in pride—he is too weary to resist returning home. His journey back is not just one of distance but of surrender, where the deepest fatigue meets the hope of rest in grace.
17 But when he [finally] came to his senses, he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired men have more than enough food, while I am dying here of hunger! 18 I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight. 19 I am no longer worthy to be called your son; [just] treat me like one of your hired men.”’ 20 So he got up and came to his father. But while he was still a long way off, his father saw him and was moved with compassion for him, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.
The word prodigal means wasteful or recklessly extravagant, often referring to someone who spends resources lavishly or foolishly. In the Parable of the Prodigal Son, it describes the younger son who squanders his inheritance in reckless living. However, the story redefines prodigal beyond wastefulness, highlighting the extravagant grace and forgiveness of the parent who welcomes the child back with open arms.
21 And the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ 22 But the father said to his servants, ‘Quickly bring out the best robe [for the guest of honor] and put it on him; and give him a [b]ring for his hand, and sandals for his feet. 23 And bring the fattened calf and slaughter it, and let us [invite everyone and] feast and celebrate; 24 for this son of mine was [as good as] dead and is alive again; he was lost and has been found.’ So they began to celebrate.
The older brother is exhausted by duty, resentment, and a sense of injustice. He has labored faithfully, yet he sees only what he lacks—recognition, reward, fairness. His exhaustion blinds him to the abundance already his: a home, security, a father’s love. Instead of rejoicing in what he has, he fixates on what he feels was undeservedly given to another. In clinging to scarcity, he cannot see that grace was never a transaction but a gift freely available to him all along.
25 “Now his older son was in the field; and when he returned and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. 26 So he summoned one of the servants and began asking what this [celebration] meant. 27 And he said to him, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf because he has received him back safe and sound.’ 28 But the elder brother became angry and deeply resentful and was not willing to go in; and his father came out and began pleading with him. 29 But he said to his father, ‘Look! These many years I have served you, and I have never neglected or disobeyed your command. Yet you have never given me [so much as] a young goat, so that I might celebrate with my friends; 30 but when this [other] son of yours arrived, who has devoured your estate with immoral women, you slaughtered that fattened calf for him!’ 31 The father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. 32 But it was fitting to celebrate and rejoice, for this brother of yours was [as good as] dead and has begun to live. He was lost and has been found.’”
The story of the prodigal reflects a God who seeks and restores. Luke, often called the Gospel of the marginalized, highlights this parable within a trilogy of lost-and-found stories—the lost sheep, the lost coin, and the lost son—underscoring God's joy in welcoming back those who turn home. Luke's Gospel consistently emphasizes God's compassion for outcasts, making this parable a powerful illustration of divine mercy and radical grace.
God is like the extravagant father in the parable, overflowing with grace and generosity beyond what seems reasonable. The father does not just welcome the prodigal home—he runs to embrace them, clothes them in honor, and throws a feast in celebration. This love is not measured by merit or scarcity but by the joy of restoration. God’s abundance is not transactional; it does not hinge on how much we have done or how little we have strayed. It is simply given, freely and fully, to all who will receive it.
Yet we are often, like the older son, standing outside the celebration, resentful and blind to the abundance already ours. He has always been with the father, but he sees his life as duty rather than gift. He works without joy, believing love must be earned rather than shared. What he misses—what we so often miss—is that everything the father has is already his. The feast was never just for the lost but for all who live in the father’s house. When we refuse to join in, we are not deprived by God's withholding but by our own unwillingness to step into grace.
We talked about how we survive the present. The wayward, the lost, the squandered— we should talk about how we welcome them home. From different parts of the Bible, messages intersect again.
This is not just a story of repentance, but of reckless, extravagant, prodigal love. The son demands his inheritance, wastes it in reckless living, and finds himself in famine and despair. He returns, hoping to be a servant, but his father sees him from afar and runs to embrace him. No hesitation. No conditions. Just love.
The elder son is angry— he stayed, he worked, he obeyed. Why should wastefulness be rewarded? But the father replies: "This brother of yours was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found." This is the mercy of God—not fairness, but restoration. This is difficult for people.
Joseph’s love was a love that endured. The father’s love is a love that pursues. Both defy expectation. Both reveal God’s nature. To forgive after suffering is radical. To run toward the unworthy is prodigal. We, too, are called to love this way. Love that is extravagant. Love that does not tally wrongs. Love that does not wait for perfection, but rejoices at return. Just as rejected ideas in art became new movements, just as the lost son was welcomed home, so, too, must our love transform, restore, and make the whole world.
The Roman Empire thrived at its height because it absorbed and integrated diverse cultures, religions, and peoples. Roman citizenship was extended beyond ethnic Romans, allowing for a broader talent pool in governance, military, and innovation. As Rome became more insular and resistant to outside influences, corruption and rigidity set in, weakening its adaptability.
The Ottomans ruled for centuries by allowing religious and ethnic groups to govern themselves under the millet system, fostering stability and longevity. When nationalism and exclusionary policies took hold, internal divisions weakened the empire, contributing to its collapse.
The European Renaissance flourished because of the exchange of ideas, many of which came through Islamic Spain and the Mongol-connected Silk Road. Greek and Roman texts preserved by diverse scholars sparked new innovations. History shows that diversity isn’t a weakness—it’s a survival strategy. Societies that integrate new perspectives adapt and endure. Those that rigidly resist change tend to stagnate or collapse.
One of the most radical interpretations of the Prodigal Son (Luke 15:11-32) challenges traditional views on repentance, justice, and grace.
Traditional readings suggest the younger son is repentant when he returns, but a radical view argues that his return is driven by hunger and desperation, not true remorse. His speech—“I will say to my father, ‘I have sinned…’”—can be read as a rehearsed manipulation, not genuine contrition. Despite this, the father interrupts him before he can even offer to be a servant, suggesting that repentance isn’t the reason for his acceptance—it’s purely the father’s unconditional love.
In the cultural context, giving a son his inheritance early was an outrageous, humiliating act for the father. The father runs to greet the son—a wildly undignified action for a patriarch in ancient Jewish culture. This interpretation sees the father as irrationally loving to the point of absurdity, mirroring a radical idea of God’s grace.
The older brother is often seen as prideful or self-righteous, but a radical reading sees him as totally justified—he did everything “right” and still gets nothing extra. This mirrors how institutions resist grace when it disrupts their sense of earned reward, much like the Pharisees resenting Jesus for welcoming sinners.
Some see the Prodigal as a Christ figure, not a sinner: He leaves the father’s house (heaven), enters a foreign land (the world), experiences suffering and rejection, and then is “resurrected” when he returns. The father’s embrace is like God’s validation of Jesus’ mission, just as the Resurrection is a divine vindication.
A politically radical view sees the story as a critique of economic injustice: The son wastes wealth, which was originally land and resources, making the family poorer. The father’s open generosity disrupts the normal economic expectations of fairness and reward. This could be seen as an argument against rigid meritocracy and for a radical, grace-filled redistribution of wealth.
At its most radical, the parable suggests that: God’s grace defies human logic, fairness, and even justice. Repentance may not be required for forgiveness. God is recklessly, even absurdly loving. The real villain (if any) is the one demanding fairness instead of grace.
These interpretations aren’t necessarily competing but rather layers of the same radical grace. Taken together, they reveal a God who: Gives freely, even when it seems unwise. Welcomes before repentance is proven. Disrupts our expectations of justice and fairness. Embodies both suffering and restoration. Challenges economic and social hierarchies.
This makes the parable not just a lesson about forgiveness but a revolutionary declaration of how God’s love operates beyond human reasoning.
Coins clink in his hand,
grace spent reckless, yet returns—
arms wide, love remains.
4 “What man among you, if he has a hundred sheep and loses one of them, does not leave the ninety-nine in the wilderness and go after the one which is lost, [searching] until he finds it? 8 “Or what woman, if she has ten silver coins [each one equal to a day’s wages] and loses one coin, does not light a lamp and sweep the house and search carefully until she finds it? 10 In the same way, I tell you, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents [that is, changes his inner self—his old way of thinking, regrets past sins, lives his life in a way that proves repentance; and seeks God’s purpose for his life].”
Let Is Pray:
Prayer of Returning and Welcome
Loving God,
You see us when we wander,
when we lose our way,
when we chase after what does not last.
Yet, even in our distance, Your love does not falter.
You wait with open arms, ready to embrace,
not with judgment, but with joy.
When we hesitate, unsure of our welcome,
remind us that home is not a place we earn
but a grace we are given.
Let us be a people who rejoice in return,
who throw open the doors for those who seek refuge,
who celebrate restoration rather than resent it.
May our hearts mirror Yours—
quick to forgive, eager to restore,
overflowing with a love that calls all home.
Amen.
Benediction:
Go now with hearts open wide,
to receive and to welcome,
to forgive and to be restored.
May love lead you home,
and may grace make every return a celebration.
Amen.
Nottingham UMC 3/30/2025
No comments:
Post a Comment