I’m standing outside of our family house. You wouldn’t believe what is going on in there. My father is throwing this big party for his wayward son. I refuse to call him “my brother” after what he did.
He has always had a wild streak. Looking back, I can see how it was there his entire childhood. Father never dealt with him the way that he should have, in my opinion. If he had been stricter and not let him have so much freedom, things would have been different. That child got everything he wanted while I slaved away in the house, never receiving anything. Father never gave me as much as a goat so that I could have a good time with my friends, but he is now throwing a party for this profligate son of his with Wagyu beef! The shame of it all.
This whole childhood of indulgence came to its ugly head one day when, in a great display of chutzpah, this son of his demanded his share of the inheritance. The whole household was aghast. He might as well have walked up to him and said, “I wish you were dead. I reject you and curse you as my father.” Inheritance is parceled out after a father dies, not before.
All of standing there were expecting father to say, “You can go pound sand, you ungrateful and shameful son. If you don’t want to be part of this family anymore, I will grant that. You are disowned, but you will leave with nothing.” He was fully within his rights to do so, and it would have been just. Any other father that I know would have done this. But what did my “gracious” father do? He divided the inheritance between me and his other son. I received my two-thirds. He got his one-third. Then he liquidated all of his assets. He sold his inherited land, animals, house, and everything else he received, turned into cash, and took off to spend it all with prostitutes. Fully one-third of the family estate has been sold off. Because I received the other two-thirds, I’m now in business with my father.
I thought I was finally done with this little schmuck, and father would come around to seeing things my way. But one day, out of the blue, this son of his shows up again. He spent everything. All of his partying friends and prostitutes didn’t help him when a severe famine plagued the land. I hear that he even starting tending pigs and was so hungry that he wanted to eat with them. Disgraceful. I would never be caught doing something so unclean.
He struts back up to the house. Before he even gets there, my aging, dignified father, shamefully girds up his robe and runs … do you hear me? … he runs to meet this piece of dirt before he gets to the house. He embraces him and kisses him as if he is a hero who returned from war. What kind of man does this? Where are our family standards?
This shoeless, filthy son of his begins his little speech about how he has sinned against heaven and his father and is no more worthy to be called his son. That’s the most sense I’ve heard come from that boy’s mouth in my entire life. Of course, he is no longer worthy to be called my father’s son. He has already wasted his inheritance, so there is no more inheritance. Everything that is left is mine, and I will get it when the old man dies. That boy is not getting a bit of it … well, I thought he wasn’t. Any righteous father I know, any father who cared about justice at all, if he accepted him at all (and that would be a stretch in itself) would make him a servant. Not just a servant, the lowest servant. There would never be a chance of him working his way back into the status of “son” because he disowned us and has already consumed his inheritance.
But what does my indulgent father do? He puts the family clothes on him, giving him a son’s robe. He puts shoes on his feet to show that he is not a servant. To top it all off, he gives him a signet ring, granting him father’s authority. He received him back as a full son! He grants this son of his access to everything he and I have; this man who has already wasted one-third of his estate. The audacity of it all!
None of this happened privately either. You’d think there would be some sense of shame. If a man were going to do this, you’d think that he might have a private ceremony. But what does my father do? He kills a fattened calf and invites the whole community. He wants this profligate son of his to be received by the entire community, to know that he has been restored as a full family member, and for all of them to join in with him in celebrating his return.
When I heard all of the music and dancing, I asked one of the servants what was going on. He told me everything. I can’t be a part of this. Where is the justice? Where is the shame? He needs to pay his dues. If anyone deserves a party it is me! I’ve never wandered. I’ve slaved away in this household all my life. I have always been the good child. I never get any recognition. It’s just work, work, work. I don’t even like being here, and I’m only working for my father out of a bald sense of duty. I don’t like the way he does things. What he did for this son of his is characteristic of him. He is reckless, foolish, and prodigal with his gifts. This isn’t good for people like this son of his. What will it teach him? He will learn that he can go off and waste everything but, in the end, it won’t matter because his father will receive him back with extravagant grace. If grace is that extravagant, won’t it just encourage him to sin even more? He needs to learn his lesson. A mere turning from his old life–and it is still a question as to whether or not he has done that–should not be the only thing that is required. He needs to work his way back into good graces. Even then, he should never be more than a second-class member of the household. Only sons like me should have all of the privileges of sonship.
Do you see why I can’t join the party? I can’t countenance such reckless grace. To join the party would be, not only to approve of my father’s actions, but I would also be accepting this man as my brother. I don’t know if I can be part of a family like this. Could you?
