A man had two sons…

This sermon was preached on the fourth Sunday in Lent – 30 March 2025. I’ve not preached very often on the parable of the Prodigal Son as we usually baptise on this Sunday. As I post it, I tip my biretta towards the wonderful Amy-Jill Levine whom I have encountered teaching on this parable. She always gets me thinking…

Once upon a time, many years ago…

It was a dark and stormy night…

A long time ago, in a galaxy far away…

You wouldn’t believe what happened that day, which seemed like a day just like any other…

They are clichés. Tropes. Repetitive pattens. And they tell us to listen up. There’s a story about to begin.

These are some of the ways in which stories begin in the English language. I suspect that there will be people here who will know how stories begin in other languages too.

And to Jesus’s listeners, he would have immediately grabbed their attention with his opening line. It was obvious that a story was about to be told.

“There was a man who had two sons…”

It is a classic start to a middle eastern story. My guess is that most of those listening to him when he first told the story would have immediately tuned in to the story with a connection to the many times in the Hebrew scriptures that there are stories about older and younger siblings. Cain and Abel. Isaac and Ishmael, Esau and Jacob, Leah and Rachel. Joseph and his coterie of many brothers, and Aaron and Miriam and their younger brother Moses. Those are the more famous ones but there are others. Manasseh and Epraim, Serah and Perez, Adonijah and Solomon.

And the more you know about those stories, there’s something that you would automatically presume if you heard a story that begins begins – “A man had two sons…”

If you heard a story that began like that then you knew, pretty much from the beginning that the good guy in the story, the one who is going to come out on top is going to be the younger brother.

Scripture is riddled with stories in which the unexpected sibling is the good guy.

Those first hearers might have been brought up a little short.

For the younger son doesn’t seem to me to ever turn out to be the good guy in the story at all.

There is an interpretation of this story which sees him sinking deep into a sinful life and then repenting and going back and being forgiven. And we are served up this story in Lent, when repentance and forgiveness are what we focus on. But the longer I’ve read this story the less I’m convinced that the boy actually does much repenting at all.

If ever I’ve got something difficult to say, I’ll rehearse a little speech in my head first and that’s what the dissolute boy does here. His problem is that he’s hungry and his little speech seems to me to be a rather conniving way to get his father to feed him.

Some people see the prodigal as a model of repentance. But I’m not convinced.

Even the words that he does get out of his mouth. “I have sinned against heaven and before you…” are more of a formula than an apology. (And they echo the words of a decidedly unrepentant Pharoah to Moses in the Exodus story that all Jesus’s hearers would have known well).

So I see the prodigal as being dissolute and a rather too clever for his own good.

If you betted on him turning out to be the good guy, your bet might not be feeling terribly safe at this point in the story.

And you know what?

The father loves him anyway.

The father just loves him and shows that love in ways that were obviously offensive to the boy’s rather prim older brother. And the father loved him despite even that.

His father adored him. And loved him. And welcomed him home.

And for me, I think that is what is at the heart of this story. The prodigal isn’t welcomed back as a redeemed sinner. He’s welcomed back home.

Stories of finding a welcome where one doesn’t deserve it or expect it are stories with the gospel hard wired into them.

This is a congregation made up quite significantly of people who might not have expected to find a place here. Lots of us come from different religious traditions. Some of us come from no religious tradition. Some of us have lived our lives bowing to ideologies that rub up uneasily against the teachings of Christianity. Some of us have bowed to the false gods of wealth and materialism. Some of us have bent the knee to the gods of power and control. Incel culture, much talked about at the moment, is a part of that. (And I know that some of us have been bound up in that world at times in our lives).

Do these things need repentance? Yes of course they do. We can only be whole when we put things right.

But you know, God loves us anyway. Whatever the state of our souls, whatever the extent of our sincerity, whatever is going on inside, God already loves us anyway.

That is the glorious scandal that those who explore spirituality eventually come to discover. There are many who teach that God’s love is a matter of justice and that that God needs to be appeased for our wrongdoing if we are ever to find our way to heaven.

I don’t see it that way. I think God loves us anyway. The sun goes on shining. God goes on loving.

Scooping us up with a warm embrace when we least deserve it. Welcoming us home.

But of course the story doesn’t end there.

I’m not sure that we know the end of the story.

The story of the prodigal begins with an obvious storyteller’s trope. But it doesn’t end like that.

If Jesus said, “And they all lived happily ever after” we’d know he was done.

And we would know how things turned out between the older and the younger brothers.

Did the father’s profligate generosity teach the elder brother how to live and forgive? And did the prodigal himself turn his life around for good?

Jesus doesn’t give us easy answers and leaves the story unfinished.

And I think he’s asking, “How would you end the tale?”

How would you end the story?

In the name of the ever-loving Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit. Amen