Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32 "A Tale of Tragedy and Comedy"

        A Sunday School teacher was reading the parable of the Prodigal Son to his class.  The children listened as intently as children ever do in Sunday School.  They heard about the younger son running away, the older son being the good doo-be and sticking around to work the farm, and the father joyfully welcoming the young wayfarer home, slaughtering the fatted calf in preparation for a celebratory banquet.

         When the teacher had finished telling the story, he asked the class, “Now who was really sad that the prodigal son had come home?”

         After a few minutes of silence, one little boy raised his hand and confidently stated, “The fatted calf.”

         Well, he is probably right in that the fatted calf was surely sad at the homecoming – knowing what its own fate would be.  Needless to say, that is certainly one perspective on this parable – this little story with a big point – this tiny tale – this Gospel in miniature - that is at once, as Presbyterian theologian Frederick Buechner noted, (like the Gospel message itself) tragedy and comedy – tragedy because of the loneliness and brokenness all three major characters experienced, and comedy because of the outlandish, preposterous, and bigger than life ending to it all.

         There is indeed a thread of tragedy that runs through this story, weaving its way through the lives of the younger son, the older son, and the father alike. 

         First there was the younger son who one day asked for his share of the family inheritance.  Now it is important to understand that he was not simply requesting an advance on his allowance.  Quite the contrary: What the younger son was saying to the father was this: “I wish you were dead.  In fact, you are dead to me. I don’t need you. I just want your money.”

         Their relationship is over, kaput, done for.  In one fell swoop, the younger son has burned all his bridges.  And, what’s more, he has also cut himself off from the entire village community.  He has rejected and in fact dishonored the whole lot of them.  He has a one-way ticket to whatever distant place he ends up in.  There is no safety net.  How tragic!       

         Then there was the older son.  He never wavered from his responsibilities to both his father and the community.  He kept his nose to the grindstone, worked his twelve-hour days in the fields, and came home night after night exhausted and spent – because that was what a son was expected to do. 

         On the surface, he seems the dutiful kid, the perfect child.  But underneath, he too is in a distant place – marked by seething resentment and bitter dislike for his younger brother – with a touch of downright jealousy thrown in for good measure.  How tragic!

         And finally there was the father.  He asked no questions and did not even get angry when the younger son took the money and ran.  The only emotion the father showed were the tears that trickled silently down his cheeks as he watched the young lad waltzing off down the road, not even turning back once to wave good-bye.  The old man sighed and walked back toward the house, feeling the resentful eyes of the older son boring into his back.  His family was dysfunctional.  His family name was a source of shame throughout the village.  How tragic!        

         The younger son, of course, anticipated adventure and high living.  He quickly puts as many miles as he can between himself and the farm, and the money from his share of the inheritance flows through his fingers like water through a sieve.  Wine, women, and song are just the start of it.  He buys new clothes and drives around in a slick Lamborghini.  He leaves big tips in the finest restaurants and always has at least one blonde bombshell babe on his arm.  He flips out that wad of benjamins every time he gets a chance.  He lives about the shallowest life one could possibly imagine.  How tragic!

         The older son anticipates only more of the same – goats to milk, fields to plow, produce to harvest, a father to obey.  It is like John Vannorsdall, Lutheran pastor and former chaplain at Yale University, imagines the Elder Son saying.  “Do you think that I had no moments when I wanted to leave? That I have no hunger for wine, women, and song? Do you think I was born a drudge? No, I
 was born an elder brother, son of aging parents who looked to me to share the responsibility of being an owner. From the day I was born I was reared to be accountable. “  He is mired in a life of such bitterness.  How tragic!        

         The father also goes about his work.  The tears flow less often now, but when they do, they flow for both of his sons.  He knows that each one resides in a distant place, and he cannot seem to build a bridge to reach either one of them.  Neither son is capable of comprehending the depth of his love.  How tragic!

         The younger son, of course, eventually runs out of money.  His credit is lousy.  His clothes are no longer new.  His Lamborghini is trashed.  The wine is cheap.  The women have all drifted away. He has no more benjamins to flash. 

         He needs a job – and has to stoop unbearably low to find one.  The owner of a pig farm hires him, and he slops the hogs twice a day and mucks out their pens.  Imagine – a kosher Jewish boy working with swine.  The younger son has hit rock bottom.  How tragic!

         The older son – well, not much changes for him - except the resentment that he carries now poisons everything.  He never smiles and is barely civil to his father.  “He still lives at home, probably still eats a meal or two with the old man, but there's hardly any conversation, the son eats quickly and asks to be dismissed. He never inquirers as to how his father is doing or asks for his opinion or advice. Anytime his father tries to start a conversation with him, he gives short, one or two word answers making it clear he has no intention of letting his father into his life.”  (website – http://lcrwtvl.org).

         All the older son can dwell on is that life has cut him a raw deal, and he is so resentful – of his brother, of his father, of his village, of the farm.  He has a chip on his shoulder and carries an enormous grudge against everyone and everything.  How tragic!

         And the father?  He just goes about his work too.  He watches out the window for both his sons.  The tears still flow for each of them.  He knows that each one resides in a distant place where he cannot seem to build a bridge to reach either of them.  Neither one is capable of comprehending the depth of his love.  How tragic!

         Then one day the younger son comes to his senses and knows he has reached the end of his rope.  One more day with the pigs will do him in.  And so he does the only thing left for him to do.  Having had enough of distant places, he heads for home – and this is where the comedy starts.

         .  What a preposterous and outlandish thing for him to even contemplate doing!  

He knows he can expect, as Methodist elder Alyce MacKenzie points out, “that the townspeople would conduct a gesasah ceremony on his return. This is not a reception in the fellowship hall with a "Welcome Home" banner and a sheet cake. This is a ceremony for a son of the village who had lost his money to Gentiles or married an immoral woman. They would gather around him, breaking jars with corn and nuts and declare that he was to be cut off from the village. His entry into the village would be humiliating as his townspeople expressed their anger and resentment toward his actions.”

         But still he heads for home.  He even has a plaintive and regretful “I’m so sorry” speech prepared for his father.  But lo and behold, as Alyce MacKenzie continues, “The father won't even let his son get through his carefully rehearsed speech before he begins issuing orders to the servants (“Put on the fatted calf on a spit!). 

         (The father) offers him a kiss (a sign of forgiveness), a robe (a mark of distinction), a ring (a sign of authority), and shoes (worn only by freemen). The father throws him a banquet, rejoicing in his son's return.” How preposterous and outlandish!  But that is emblematic of the comedy of the Gospel message itself.

         However, the older son does not understand it that way at all.  Frankly, he is shocked – and not only to see his younger brother back again.  He is also appalled at all the attention and hoopla the kid is getting.  The older brother is so angry and so bitter and so resentful that he cannot even refer to the young punk as his brother, but only as his father’s son. 

         “What am I?” he shouts at his father. “Chopped liver?  All these years when I worked and slaved for you, all these years when I did what I was told, and you never once gave me so much as an old goat to slaughter and feast on with my friends. This wanderer who spent all that money on whisky and beer and whores – and you say that he was dead and is now alive, lost and now found?  That makes absolutely no rational sense to me.”  And with tears stinging his eyes, he turned tail and headed to the barn to pitch some hay.

         The others, of course, went inside and had a no holes barred welcome home party.  And music filled the air, and there was dancing, and the parable is over.  Loose ends everywhere.  Nothing at all is neatly tied up.  Jesus – where are you when we need you to explain these things?

         Now - this is one powerful story – a tale of dysfunctional families, of seething resentment, of swallowing pride, of unbounded love, of forgiveness, and of the real meaning of grace.  It packs a lot to be sure. 

         However, I think that Jesus told the story for a simple reason. The point Jesus was making to the Pharisees who were on his case yet again about eating with tax collectors and other assorted sinners was this - that “God welcomes all, strangers and friends, God’s love is strong, and it never ends” (John Bell).

         That is what God is like, Jesus is saying.  Such forgiveness, such love, such compassion define the Kingdom of God.  Such preposterous, outlandish comedy as rebel children being welcomed home is the essence of the alternative social vision that Jesus proclaimed throughout his ministry –and echoes off the walls of his church even today.  God welcomes all……

         We are each in a distant place – you and I and everyone who did not venture into worship this morning.  As one blogger wrote, we humans are “lost to ourselves, empty of meaning, and starving for life, love, and hope”  (http://interruptingthesilence.com).  

And yet, no matter who we are, no matter what distant place has claimed us, God waits for us all to come home. 

         God forgives the best and the worst, the most and the least among us - and offers us grace upon grace.  Is it fair?  No.  Is it preposterous and outlandish?  Yes.  Is it the Gospel as comedy?  Absolutely.

         As Lutheran scholar Matt Skinner writes, “Both sons, each in his own way, misunderstand the workings of grace. The younger seeks to bargain or manipulate, while the elder cannot let go of sacred canons and grudges. The elder son crystallizes questions about who has the rights to enjoy benefits as a member of God's family.”  Yet, in the end, both are welcomed home - regardless.

         We do not know what happened to the characters after the parable ended.  We do not know whether the younger son strayed again. 

         We do not whether the older son ventured into the banquet hall a bit later.   I like to think he did.  I like to think that the father left the back door open to him – and then gave him a huge bear hug even as the tears ran freely down his cheeks. 

         And I like to think that the older son shook hands at least with his brother, because, in the end, he realized that he valued the young wanderer and decided it would be better to be in a relationship with him than it would to be right. But we do not know these things.

         However, we do know that, if we are really honest with ourselves, we too hesitate to enter the banquet hall. If we liken ourselves to the younger son, we have to ask ourselves if we would even venture back from our distant place – or would pride keep us away from home and banquet? 

         And if we seem more like the older son, we have to ask ourselves whether our sense of fairness coupled with our own personal brands of bitterness and resentment would allow us to pass through the doors for a hug and a handshake?

         And so, this fourth week in Lent, Jesus suggests that we ponder this overarching question raised by the parable:  Will we love ourselves enough – will we put aside the tragedy of our pride, our bitterness, our grudges, and our resentments long enough to accept the forgiveness God offers?  And will we invite others to do the same – here in this place - because that is what the church is all about? And will we delight enough in the amazing grace that we will surely find to, come Easter, enter the banquet hall and experience the comedy of the Gospel, freeing ourselves to be transformed, restored, resurrected, and birthed into new life?

by Rev. Nancy Foran, Raymond Village Community Church