We Should Identify With Prodigal Son’s Father

This week’s gospel reading is possibly the greatest of Jesus’ many parables: the Prodigal Son. Over the years I’ve written about the parable of the Prodigal Son many times. When I think back on my young adult years, back when I was an atheist alcoholic, it’s very clear I was living the life of the younger son in the parable. I didn’t demand my inheritance in advance (talk about chutzpah!), but I definitely sponged off my parents’ hard work while living a life of non-stop partying and zero studying at college.

When I became a Christian and repented of my sinful ways, and began to support myself and my children by finally working hard (what a concept!), I was a lot like that younger son who humbly asked his father to let him return to the family estate, not as a son but as a mere hired hand. I was humbled enough to want only a steady job, with which I could pay my bills on time and prove to my wife that I had really changed.

After many years of sobriety and church-going and writing essays about the Christian faith, I slowly began to realize I had taken on many of the traits of the pious older brother. Remember him? He’s the one who was obedient, but who became angry and resentful when the younger son was quickly forgiven for all his transgressions.

It’s not that I didn’t want sinners to call on the name of the Lord and repent and turn their lives around. It’s just that maybe at times I was a little too judgmental. Like the older brother, I often focused on cold justice and fairness: if some punk screwed up his life by making reckless choices, well, then that was his problem. If he came to his senses and repented, great, but he still needed to experience some of the painful consequences of his bad behavior. I think my attitude at times was a little too self-righteous and condescending—just like the older son in the parable.

The younger son was a screw-up, and he knew it. When you’ve squandered a pile of someone else’s money in a short period of time, and when all your so-called friends have disappeared, and when you’re forced to eat scraps from a pig trough to survive—then no one has to point out to you that you are a sinner. You know it.

The older son, however, also was a screw-up, but he DIDN’T know it. His sins were not so obvious. Outwardly, he did as he was told, he was very responsible, and he never caused his father any trouble. His sins were internal rather than external. His sins were sins of the spirit, not sins of the flesh. His sins were the deadly sins of pride and anger and jealousy. And his sins kept him from fully embracing his father’s all-encompassing love. The older son’s bitterness and resentment were like a prison, which kept him locked up emotionally and unable to fully enjoy life. And all-the-while the older son was certain he had done nothing wrong and all his frustration was being caused by the unreasonable and unfair behavior of other people.

In many ways the older son had a more daunting problem than the younger son. How do you repent of sins you don’t even know you are committing?

So, over the years I’ve written about this fascinating parable, first looking back and identifying with the prodigal younger son, then more recently identifying with the judgmental older son. The parable has been a great vehicle for recognizing sinful attitudes that would otherwise go unnoticed.

Our parish has a Men’s Spirituality Group, and a few years ago we studied Henri Nouwen’s fascinating little book, The Return of the Prodigal Son: A Story of Homecoming. (If you’ve never heard of the late Fr. Nouwen or this book, please check it out. It will be well worth it.)

In the book, Fr. Nouwen discussed a whole new dimension to this famous parable. Besides the typical interpretations, where people identify with one or both of the sons, Nouwen suggested that we are called ultimately to identify with the father.

Even the most basic analysis of the parable of the Prodigal Son acknowledges that the father in the story represents God, whose love and forgiveness are unconditional. But the idea of us identifying with this God-like, unconditionally loving character took me by surprise. The way Nouwen explained it, though, made sense. At some point in our lives, we all will be in a position of authority, whether parent, teacher, coach, supervisor, or just an older person with a lot of life experience.

There will be people in our lives who will need our unconditional love. They may not be our offspring, and they may not have screwed up their lives quite as dramatically as the younger son in the parable, but they will need our love. And the one thing they will NOT need from us is “conditional” love, the love that says, “OK, I’ll forgive you and embrace you, IF you agree to do such-and-such. Or IF you promise not to do so-and-so again.” Conditional love is merely a contract, a business arrangement. It is not genuine God-like love.

The unconditional love God offers us—the same unconditional love demonstrated by the father in the parable, and the love that we are called to share with others—is a joyful love. It’s not a calculated business deal; it’s not a self-righteous demand that the sinner grovel for a while first, in order to pay the price for his sinful ways. Instead, it is a genuine delight that the other person has reached out and wants to change his ways and restore a broken relationship. There are no conditions. There is only pure joy. 

That’s the supernatural love and forgiveness God want to share with us. In turn, we must share this same kind of love and forgiveness with our family, friends, colleagues, and acquaintances. It’s the only way we can fully share in the joy of God.