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

The University Sermon – University of Oxford – 23 February 2025

I glanced up from my desk as I sat down to write this sermon and gazed at an icon that has been on my wall for the last 8 years. It is obviously an icon showing the garden of Eden. A green background. Two figures stand on either side of the tree of knowledge.

Although just an icon, painted by someone I know, it is a piece of art which does what all great art does. It inspires some people. It infuriates others. It throws some people into a rage.

And sometimes we must pay attention to rage and make up our minds what we make of it.

The gospel reading that we have set for today seems on the surface to be all about a nature miracle. A storm at sea. A boat tossed about. A saviour who calms the tempest.

In Glasgow, where I come from, we recently went through a big storm that pulled things from the ground and hurled them about.

It was a day where few dared to venture from the safety of their homes for fear of being battered by the stuff flying about as the city was battered by high winds.

But as I think about this gospel reading this morning, it is difficult for me to read it simply as a nature miracle. For the whole world seems to be beset by political storms this week. Even as we find ourselves here worshipping using familiar words and singing comforting hymns, the world feels changed. The ground is shifting beneath our feet. The advent of Strongman politics in the USA and with the apparent triumph of Trumpism has left many across the world breathless. And fearful. Things have changed this week. Old alliances feel as though they no longer hold true. The way the world was is gone. Security guarantees that seemed to be forever are no more.

And who in public life in America and nearer to home will dare to venture from the safety of their political homes to stand in the way of the unfolding events for fear of being battered by the stuff flying about as the world is battered by storm after political storm?

As I got this far in preparing this sermon, I looked up again at the icon above my desk. The garden of Eden. A dark background. Two figures stand on either side of the tree of knowledge. It is a familiar archetype yet there is something unfamiliar to this version of the icon of paradise. Something that draws the eyes. And then you notice the names above the figures.

The icon depicts something that is behind the rage that has led to the new political world order that we are watching unfold before our eyes.

It is a peaceful scene. And religious people tend to believe rather deeply that a world of peace and harmony is a godly world. We believe that a world put right is part of the mission of God in the world, a mission that we can be part of.

A world where the hungry are fed, the violence stops, the tears are wiped from every eye and everyone gets to sit in security in the shade of their own tree. This is emblematic of the paradise that we find in scripture.

Scripture begins and end with images of the peaceable kingdom being represented by all being well, in a garden.

I glance up at the icon again and read the names of the two figures on either side of the tree of knowledge. And I smile at the sight of their names.

Adam stands on one side. His name written above his head. And Steve stands on the other side of the tree. Also clearly named.

It is an icon and Adam and Steve in the garden of Eden at peace in the cool of the day. Two men. Naked and delighting in the world that God has made.

It is the kind of picture that raises cries of wokery from some and draws fascination from others.

It is the kind of picture that infuriates those of a conservative mindset and delights those of a progressive one.

I have little doubt that there would be some these days who would condemn it as degenerate art.

The fury of some in the face of such art is but one of the many things that has led to the political reset that we are seeing unfold before our eyes each day.

My icon says something to me. But what?

And as I read the scriptures to prepare for this sermon that icon speaks to me.

It says, read the chapter from Genesis again. Read it as though it is about more than the gender of the participants.

And I do read the chapter again. And I realise that I delight in seeing that Adam represents all people. And Eve represents all people just as much.

Adam represents the fact that we are all creatures – beloved creatures of a God who was always interested in our company. And Eve, the one created from Adam’s side represents the fact that we all need to be helpers.

And my icon undermines so many theological and societal presumptions about men and women.

As it happens, I was, I think, the first priest outside North America who was licensed to preside at the wedding of same-sex couples – an issue which still seems stormy in the Church of England.

As all kinds of couples have prepared to be married in my office over the last 8 years, the icon of Adam and Steve has been present. It could just as easily have been an icon of Eva and Vera too.

As I begin to draw the writing of this sermon to a close, I gaze up again at the icon before me. Two figures on either side of the tree of knowledge.

They are at peace.

And I believe that peace is our destiny.

Each created. Each beautiful. Each loved by God.

As we all are.

Each dependant on the other. Each created to help another.

As we all are.

And as the storm rages. I hold onto the hope of Godly people through the ages. The hope of a world put right by good people inspired and aided by a loving God who aim to build the kingdom of peace on earth. Where the hungry are fed, the fearful find protection, the sorrowful are comforted. And all is right with the world again.

And our true destiny, the peaceable kingdom of our loving God becomes our everlasting dwelling place.

And I believe that our God will be with us if we can grasp this vision.

For they went to him shouting, “Master, master, we are perishing.”

And he woke up and rebuked the wind and the raging waves.; they ceased and there was calm.

So may it be.

In the name of the Father and of the Son and of the Holy Spirit.

Amen.