Fourth Sunday in Lent

March 18, 2007

Sermon by Pastor John Marboe

The Holy Gospel from St. Luke. (Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32)

Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him [Jesus]. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling and saying, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

So he told them this parable:

“There was a man who had two sons. The younger of them said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.’ So the father divided his property between them. A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and traveled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. When he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to be in need. So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent him to his fields to feed the pigs. He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. But when he came to himself he said, ‘How many of my father’s hired hands have bread enough and to spare, but here I am dying of hunger! I will get up and go to my father, and I will say to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me like one of your hired hands.”’ So he set off and went to his father. But while he was still far off, his father saw him and was filled with compassion; he ran and put his arms around him and kissed him. Then the son said to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.’ But the father said to his slaves, ‘Quickly, bring out a robe—the best one—and put it on him; put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet. And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and celebrate; for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!’ And they began to celebrate.

“Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and approached the house, he heard music and dancing. He called one of the slaves and asked what was going on. The slave replied, ‘Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.’ Then the older brother became angry and refused to go in. His father came out and began to plead with him. But he answered his father, ‘Listen! For all these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a young goat so that I might celebrate with my friends. But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!’ Then the father said to him, ‘Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But we had to celebrate and rejoice, because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.’”

The Gospel of the Lord.

This is one of the great stories in all of the scripture. Jesus was a marvelous storyteller; and, like all great teachers, used stories to bring home his message. This story is already alive in our imagination. This is one of our favorites; this one of those stories that we learn in Sunday school.

Today, I want to focus on the older brother. I don’t know about you, but I was never taught to appreciate the older brother’s position in this story. This morning I want to try to feel what it was to be that older brother.

It was outrageous, it was unheard of, that a son would approach his father and ask him for his inheritance in advance. It was outrageous, it was unheard of; it wasn’t done. What was even perhaps more outrageous and unheard of was that the father acquiesced. And don’t think for a moment that he was able sit down and write a check and give it to his younger son, or that he was able to liquidate some of his stocks or bonds and give that over to his son. No. Such things didn’t exist in those days. For the father to divide the inheritance meant that he had to divide the property; it meant that he had to sell a third or a half, depending on what the younger son’s portion was, of the property. The land had to be sold, the livestock had to be sold, buildings perhaps had to be sold, servants perhaps had to be let go. And this process would have taken not a day or two, but weeks, maybe months. Can you imagine how the older brother feels as he sees the farm that he and his family have worked all of his life being divided up and a portion of it given away to the younger brother, who then turns and leaves? It was outrageous; it was unthinkable, for a son to do this, and for a father to agree. It was outrageous, it was unthinkable, that the younger son would take his portion of their farm and go off and blow it in, as it says, on dissolute living Like that, it’s gone; it’s gone.

No, a famine occurs in the land, and suddenly the younger son is in trouble. He hires himself on to a pig farm—a pig farm. Pigs are not very popular among the Jews. It’s not an elevated position to be in. It’s as low as you can get. It says he comes to himself, and he says to himself, “My father’s servants have more than enough to eat. I know, I will say to my father, ‘Father, I have sinned before God and before you. I am no longer worthy to be treated as your son.’” He comes back. It was outrageous, it was unheard of, that a son, who had demanded his inheritance and had gone off and blown it, would then be able to come back and be received. He was dead to that family; he was gone. He had taken his part, and should be gone forever.

So imagine how the older son feels when the younger son comes back and he recites his little speech to his father. And, by the way, do you believe him? Do you? “Father, I have sinned before you and before God. I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” Do you believe him? Do you think the older brother believes him? Do you think the older brother bought it for a second, given the younger son’s track record? “That louse, that louse! He’s got our dad wrapped around his finger.”

The father, of course, receives him back, not just as a servant, but he puts the ring on his finger, the finest robe on him, he kills the fatted calf. And he receives him back, wholly, as his son; able now, once again, to live off what’s left of the farm. Can you feel the older brother’s anger? He’s bitter. And, what’s more, it’s reasonable that he is bitter.

Well, what is bitterness? Where does it come from? Have you ever been bitter? Have you ever felt bitterness? What was it? Where did it come from? What happened? Bitterness is about disappointment. It’s about wanting or feeling that one deserves something that the world doesn’t give; or that others can’t or won’t give. “I’ve been working for you all these years like a slave, and you never even gave me a goat so that I could celebrate with my friends.” This is a great story because it’s so reasonable. Some of the bitterness in our lives isn’t very reasonable, is it? But some of it is, some of it is.

What does the older brother want? What does he need from his family that he didn’t get? He didn’t want that much. He just wanted his younger brother to be responsible, to have some measure of concern for the rest of the family, and not just his own desires; to be responsible, to be a responsible son, to be a responsible brother, to have the big picture in view: “Hello! We’re talking about the farm here. There are people who live off of this, more than you.” He just wanted his younger brother to be responsible. And he just wanted his father to be fair—not necessarily cruel, but fair—between them.

Does bitterness make our lives better? Bitterness is an awful feeling, and eats us up from the inside. But here’s the strange thing: even though we know that bitterness doesn’t make our lives better, we somehow can’t let go of it—you can’t let it go—because bitterness is a living thing, and once it takes hold, it begins to take over. It begins to spread throughout our lives and becomes a generalized disposition toward life in this world and with others.

Bitterness is disassociative rather than associative. It is the opposite of compassion. Our story says the father ran out to greet the younger son, full of compassion; whereas, the older brother stayed outside in the barn. He was not going to come in; he wasn’t going to associate with that guy and what was going on. It’s disassociative. Listen to his words: “You never, you, never gave me even a goat. But when that son of yours came home, you killed the fatted calf for him.” The older brother, at this point, is standing right next to his father, face to face, but he’s never been farther away. The older brother, at that point standing so close to his father, is farther away, spiritually, from his father than the younger son ever was. He couldn’t let it go; he couldn’t let it go.

In the end, this is a parable that is about accepting others as they are, even if we don’t like it. But even more, it’s a parable about accepting God the way God is, because the older brother hasn’t just disassociated from the younger brother, he has disassociated himself now from the father, as well, because of how the father has related to the younger brother. He can’t abide it.

It is difficult to accept a God who is compassionate, not just fair, who loves our enemies as us; whose heart is infinite compassion. So Jesus doesn’t end this story; the story doesn’t have an ending. We are left—the older son and the father looking at each other—waiting to see what will happen.

Interestingly, the father doesn’t scold the older brother, he doesn’t scold him, he doesn’t chastise him for his attitude. He simply reframes the issue. After the older brother has accused the father of being horribly soft and unfair, the father simply responds, gently, "We had to celebrate, we had to, because this brother of yours was dead, but is now alive; he was lost and now has been found.”

Can we let go of our bitterness? Can you let go? Can you…let…go? It’s a great and powerful question that’s unanswered in this story, but can be answered in ours.

Amen.