Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
1Now
all the tax-collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to Jesus. 2And the Pharisees
and the scribes were grumbling and saying, ‘This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.’
3So he told them this parable … 11‘There was a man who had two sons. 12The younger of them
said to his father, “Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me.” So he
divided his property between them. 13A few days later the younger son gathered all he had and
travelled to a distant country, and there he squandered his property in dissolute living. 14When
he had spent everything, a severe famine took place throughout that country, and he began to
be in need. 15So he went and hired himself out to one of the citizens of that country, who sent
him to his fields to feed the pigs. 16He would gladly have filled himself with the pods that the
pigs were eating; and no one gave him anything. 17But 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! 18I will get up and go to my father,
and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and
before you; 19I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me
like one of your hired hands.’ ” 20So 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.
21Then the son said to him, “Father, I have sinned against heaven and
before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” 22But 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. 23And get the fatted calf and kill it, and let us eat and
celebrate; 24for this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found!” And
they began to celebrate. 25‘Now his elder son was in the field; and when he came and
approached the house, he heard music and dancing. 26He called one of the slaves and asked
what was going on. 27He replied, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fatted
calf, because he has got him back safe and sound.” 28Then he became angry and refused to go
in. His father came out and began to plead with him. 29But 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. 30But when this son of yours came back, who has devoured your property with
prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf for him!” 31Then the father said to him, “Son, you are
always with me, and all that is mine is yours. 32But 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.”
COMMENTARY:
According to the liturgical tradition of Latin-rite Catholicism, this Sunday in the middle of Lent is
called “Lætare (Rejoice) Sunday,” since the entrance antiphon assigned for this Mass begins with
the words: “Rejoice [Lætare] Jerusalem! Be glad for her, you who love her…” (from Isaiah 66:1011). In the midst of Lent (as in the midst of Advent, on Gaudete Sunday), there is a slight
attenuation or lightening of the season’s penitential tone, and the darker violet (purple) vestments
of Lent can yield to rose vestments (closer to a dusty pink than to the gaudy pinks we are more used
to today!). It is a sign of what liturgical authors call “anticipatory joy”—of a reminder that we are
moving swiftly toward the end of our Lenten fast, and the joy of Easter is already on the horizon.
There is probably no parable or teaching of Jesus that is better-known and more loved than the beautiful
story of the Prodigal Son. Found only in Luke, it demonstrates once again Luke’s gifts as a storyteller—his
ability to “paint” a scene with such vividness and sensitivity to human relationships that it can echo with
each person’s lived experience. And yet it is also so intensely personal that each person can see themselves
in one—or all—of the three main characters. At different times in our lives, most of us have played each of
these roles: that of the doting, loving, apparently overindulgent parent; that of the younger son whose
sinfulness and pride have brought them low, and desperately in need of mercy; the older son, who is
responsible and above reproach, and who is upset at the generosity and leniency with which the
weaknesses and sins of others are dealt with. Certainly, there is some of each of these characters in each
one of us. It is a scene that has inspired any number of retreats, parish missions and penance services,
been the inspiration for innumerable sinners to “return home” to God through repentance, and has been
captured in dozens of poems, hymns and works of art—perhaps most notably Rembrandt’s “Return of the
Prodigal Son”. It is extremely daunting to preach—or to comment!—on this most famous and most
beloved text, which has a particular meaning for each person, so I will not attempt to provide a detailed
analysis of all of it, but simply some “orientations” and background that I hope will prove helpful to
preaching, teaching or reflection about it. And of course, so much more could be said … and has been …
The gospel parable, unique to Luke’s account of Jesus, was originally aimed at those respectable
contemporaries of Jesus who resented his fraternizing with tax collectors and other disreputable
types1. In our own day, the parable addresses all those who profess themselves shocked by the easy
absolution available in Catholic confessional practice for the truly repentant. More significantly,
within the borders of Catholicism, the parable of the sons and their prodigal father contains a
lesson for those who query the greater facility with which invalid marriages are dissolved by some
American diocesan tribunals. The older brother lurking inside each one of us bridles at the
liberality of God and of the Church in dealing with human fallibility.
Hollywood has always liked the parable of the prodigal son. The “prostitutes” (Luke 15:30)
mentioned in passing by the protesting elder son suggested endless possibilities for alluring
spectacles of debauchery, great Babylonian feasts of revelry vaguely reminiscent of something from
A Thousand and One Nights. The point of the story, however, gets lost in the Hollywood process.
The parable, as opposed to the movie, stars the father and the elder son, the former prodigal in his
loving forgiveness, and the latter niggardly in his refusal to accept the reconciliation of his brother.
“With hyperbole Luke speaks of those present with Jesus as ‘all the tax collectors and sinners’. Such persons are
stock-in-trade for the despised. Yet that Jesus had table fellowship with persons so designated is deeply rooted in the
tradition … The ‘sinners’ consisted of all who, in the eyes of their critics, had abandoned the law and for all practical
purposes had denied God's covenant with Israel. The identity of the tax collectors has been debated. According to one
view, they were primarily toll collectors at transport and commercial centers. According to another view, however, the
term τελώνης (telōnēs, ‘tax collector’) probably referred to more than that. The tax collectors were well-to-do persons,
including Jews, who paid for the privilege to collect tolls, market duties, and all kinds of local taxes (sales, income,
property, and inheritance). They made their own income by overcharging people, as Zacchaeus admits (Luke 19:8),
thereby preying upon them. Scorn for them is attested not only in the NT but also in rabbinic writings and secular
literature of antiquity.” (Arland J. Hultgren, The Parables of Jesus: A Commentary, p. 469).
1
The younger son has too long preoccupied the human imagination, perhaps because the lives of
sinners are more interesting than the lives of prigs. Hollywood could never make a costume epic
out of the life of the older brother, who admitted that the life of virtue had proven very dull: “For all
these years I have been working like a slave for you, and I have never disobeyed your command”
(Luke 15:29). But it is the older brother who makes the point of the parable Jesus addressed to his
pious critics. Luke’s fellow Christians in the first century may also have understood the parable as
significant in assessing the relationship between Jewish Christians who still observed the Mosaic
Law and the “younger” Gentile Christians who felt no compunction about the dietary regulations of
the Old Covenant.
The generous father of both sons welcomes back the youth who squandered his inheritance but
does not repudiate the older son who protests the father’s prodigality yet remains faithful to the
father. “Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours” (Luke 15:31). The restoration of
the son who “was dead and has come to life,” who “was lost and has been found” (Luke 15:32), does
not invalidate the fidelity of the older son. Everything the father has, the full riches of both the Old
Covenant and the New, is available for the Jewish Christian, even if life may seem to be easier for
the Gentile Christian.
The younger son, restored to the father’s household, must make a new beginning in the life of
fidelity. Reconciled to God, younger son and older son must work out together their reconciliation
with each other. (Patrick J. Ryan, SJ, When I Survey the Wondrous Cross: Scriptural Reflections
for Lent, pp. 87-88)
Because of the way that Luke has carefully told this story, almost every line contains details that can be
unpacked, and that can help us to understand the power, the scandal and the spiritual richness of this
story. It is not by coincidence that this is the longest single parable found in the four Gospels!
“A man had two sons…”: to a Jewish person familiar with the stories of the Hebrew Scriptures, this would
already have been an important clue that there was going to be trouble in this relationship: the stories of
Biblical brothers are almost always stories of conflict, alienation, competition and tension. Think of Jacob
and Esau, or Isaac and Ishmael, or Joseph and his brothers—for all of these, the brother-brother
relationship was fraught with difficulties, inner-family dramas or violence. Jesus—as a gifted storyteller
familiar with the Scriptural stories of His own people—uses a literary device that draws his listeners in;
many of them would have nodded at these first words, sensing where the story was probably leading.
In the ancient Jewish world, the right of “primogeniture” (being the first-born male in a family) meant
that the eldest son received a double share of his father’s inheritance. Thus, the younger son would have
received roughly one-third of the value of his father’s property and possessions. But the very fact of asking
for his inheritance while his father was still alive was practically unheard-of2, and would have been a grave
insult to his father, suggesting that his father was “taking too long to die,” and that he had become
impatient with waiting for the old man’s death. In his time and culture, it was tantamount to wishing his
father dead. Similarly, the abruptness of the Greek phrasing of the son’s demand suggests rudeness in the
request—it is not done with gentleness or subtlety, but simply with the selfishness that can sometimes
come from youth and inexperience.
In fact, there are some texts that specifically counsel against doing this: Sirach 33:20-23 (“To son or wife, to brother
or friend, do not give power over yourself, as long as you live; and do not give your property to another, in case you
change your mind and must ask for it. While you are still alive and have breath in you, do not let anyone take your
place. For it is better that your children should ask from you than that you should look to the hand of your children …
At the time when you end the days of your life, in the hour of death, distribute your inheritance”) and the Babylonian
Talmud, tractate Baba Metzia 75b (“Our Rabbis taught: Three cry out and are not answered: he who has money and
lends it without witnesses; he who acquires a master for himself; and a henpecked husband. ‘He who acquires a master
for himself;’ what does this mean? — Some say: He who attributes his wealth to a Gentile; others say: He who transfers
his property to his children in his lifetime”).
2
In response to the son’s request, the NRSV translation says that the father divided “his property,” which is
certainly a possible interpretation. However, the actual Greek word used here is βίος (bios) which, in its
simplest meaning, is simply “life”. Could it mean “his livelihood; the wealth and possessions he had
accumulated during his life”? Certainly. But Luke could have used other words for that, and I think he
wants to suggest that the son’s request has taken something essential away from the father, has “sapped
his life-force” in some way, so that he is lessened (both because he has less to live on, but also because he
has evidently seen the insensitivity and greed of his son firsthand, and is probably crushed that he has
apparently done such a poor job of raising him). Although the father accedes to the son’s request without
comment, the father’s vitality—his very life—has undoubtedly been diminished, as he watches his beloved
son disappear away from him, perhaps never to return. He is crushed and broken-hearted at this turn of
events, especially in a culture where one’s family was one’s pride and ultimate identity. Their neighbours
would no doubt mock him for having been such a poor father, judging by his son’s ungrateful behaviour3.
The son is also shirking his responsibilities for taking care of his father in his old age, in a society where
this duty fell to one’s children, since there was no provision for social security of any type.
In verse 13, the departing son is said to “gather all he had”. The Greek phrase here, συναγαγὼν πάντα
(synagagōn panta), also means, in other literary contexts, “to convert everything he had into cash”
(Hultgren, p. 71)—the equivalent of taking Grandma’s heirloom silver to a pawnshop, to see how much
money you could get for it. If this is the case, it would seem to imply a blatant disregard for the inherent
worth (or sentimental value) of whatever goods his father has given him; he is simply interested in what
price he can get for it, to finance his travel plans. The Greek (literally, “after not many days”) seems to
suggest that he was apparently in quite a hurry to leave; he departs as quickly as possible, his evident
eagerness to “escape” being almost a slap in the face to his family. “Going away to a distant country
implies not only a geographical, but also a psychological, distancing of the son from his father, as well as
from his brother and the community as a whole” (Hultgren, p. 75).
The NRSV of v. 13 says that the younger boy “squandered his property”. Once again, this is certainly a
possible meaning of the Greek noun (ousia), but it also has the sense of “his very being, himself,” and it is
likely that Luke intends this double-entendre; not only did the young man recklessly surrender his money
and property but, in the bargain, surrendered himself as well, “lost” who and what he was. He was both
financially and personally diminished, and ended up as a shadow of his former self, having “sold his soul”
for the sake of a good time. He was impoverished on every possible level: physically, emotionally, morally,
and in terms of friends and family. The father has been reduced considerably—and so has the son.
Verse 13 in the NRSV translates the boy’s way of life somewhat euphemistically, as “dissolute living” (but
does “dissolute living” really mean anything to most people today? I don’t think this is a helpful
translation). The Greek verb, διασκορπίζω (diaskorpizô), suggests almost “throwing money to the wind
with both hands”. It is a term often used of sowing grain, and that imagery is suggestive here. It is an
image of wanton wastefulness, of spending money profligately, without any concern for the future. The
older son, however, is much more concrete in condemning his brother’s behaviour, speaking of how he
has “devoured your money with prostitutes”. We must wonder: how does he know this? Did rumours
about the younger boy’s actions eventually filter back to his hometown and family? Or is the elder son
simply imagining the worst about his brother, and describing him in the harshest possible terms? How
easy it is, when we are angry at someone, to imagine the worst about them, to speculate about their faults
and failings in extremely uncharitable (even if not necessarily accurate) ways!
It is perhaps worth remembering that the Torah (Deut. 21:18-21) makes provision for a “rebellious son” to be stoned
to death if he acts in a way that deliberately shames his parents and family!
3
The son’s “fall” is captured poignantly by Luke. So long as he had enough money to pay for their drinking
and good times, the young man had a circle of “friends”. But, when the money eventually fails, suddenly
he finds himself abandoned, and none of his former associates lifts a finger to help him—an image, not
only of self-imposed poverty, but of the fickleness and shallowness of some types of friendship based only
on shared pleasures and exploitation. Those who have experienced such “fair-weather friends” know the
brutal hurt that comes from the realization that those who called themselves our friends are really not
interested in our welfare at all, but wanted us only for what we could offer them—a parasitic kind of
relationship. The resulting loneliness and sense of abandonment is even more bitter and hurtful.
The fact that the younger son is sent out to herd pigs is a subtle but deliberate detail included by Luke.
The son has obviously gone to a pagan (Gentile) nation, since no self-respecting Jewish farmer would
raise pigs, an animal that was considered treif (Yiddish for “unclean; non-kosher”)4. The son apparently
travelled a long way, imagining that he would find in some other country the happiness and excitement he
had apparently not found in his own land—and the result was just the opposite: he is reduced to
indentured slavery to foreigners, forced to tend to unclean animals, and ill-fed, so that he is slowly
starving to death.
Although we often point to the Prodigal Son as the example of appropriate Christian repentance, the fact
is that—at least as portrayed in the story—his motivations for returning home are less than noble. He is
desperately hungry, and finally realizes the extreme degradation in which he is living—a degradation that
places him even below the household servants in the home of his father5. And yet he knows his father’s
personality, and cynically seems to believe that he can probably ingratiate himself with his father again,
can find his way back into his father’s good graces, even if only in a limited way. The fact that he prepares
and rehearses his speech in advance suggests a certain lack of sincerity; he continues to be only interested
in himself and his own needs. Others disagree, however, believing that his repentance is, in fact, sincere,
and that he has genuinely seen the error of his ways and really wants to change his life and begin again. Of
course, the text is somewhat ambiguous on this point, and it is probably quite inappropriate to try
guessing at the psychology of a fictional character, who exists only in Jesus’ parable!
The younger son “came to himself (εἰς ἑαυτὸν δὲ ἐλθών).” According to some interpreters, that
means that the son repented. But is that so? If so, why did not Luke use the conventional terms for
“repentance,” which he uses in noun or verb form (μετάνοια, μετανοέω) some twenty-five times in
Luke-Acts, and which would have fit the narrative well? The young man is in misery not because of
a sense of sin that might lead to repentance, but from his destitution. Perhaps the expression
means only that he “came to his senses” (NEB, NIV) and sought how best to get himself out of his
horrible situation; and that would be to go home and regain his father’s favor — which could be by
honest remorse or by manipulation. Similar expressions are found elsewhere, but none of them is a
circumlocution for repentance. Augustine — no stranger to the concept of repentance — wrote that
the young man had “gone away from himself” and now “he [returned] to himself” (his prior state).
Perhaps it is sufficient to say that the young man came to realize how foolish he had been and so
“came to his senses.” That is a prelude to repentance, even if not repentance itself. (Hultgren, p. 76)
In many ancient societies, and certainly in the ancient Middle East, elders were held up as examples of
wisdom, prudence and decorum. The young were to show deference and respect to the elderly, and the
elderly were to act as models of proper behaviour. In that context, the father’s actions would have been
considered highly inappropriate and a source of shame: it was the son’s responsibility to come back to the
father, and yet it is the father who runs out to the son, robes flying in the breeze and highly emotional, in
Although their present form is from later centuries, rabbinic traditions recorded in both the Mishnah and Babylonian
Talmud specifically forbid Jews to raise pigs.
5 Although it is not made explicit in the text, the fact that the family had servants (plural), and that they were provided
generously with food, probably suggests that this family was quite well-to-do.
4
a scene that would have struck many of Jesus’ contemporaries as unworthy of an elder. What is clear,
however, is that the father has evidently never given up hope on his son, and has continued to scan the
horizon for signs that he might return, and that they might once again be a family. It is the father who sees
the son, even while the son is a long way off, and probably walking home slowly, awkwardly and ashamed
of his state. In a very real sense, it is the father who takes the first step, who chooses to go out and meet
his wayward son en route, instead of waiting for him to come crawling home6.
The father’s reaction is an overflowing of love, compassion and tenderness: he “falls on his son’s neck7,”
hugging and kissing him, and demands that the symbols of his freedom and of his status within the
family—the best robe, sandals, ring—be restored to him, as if nothing had happened. He cuts off the
carefully-rehearsed apology before his son can even finish it, as if he is oblivious to the words. In fact, in a
wild excess of joy, he orders a great feast to be held, including the slaughtering of a calf that had been
fattened for a special occasion in the future. It is, on the level of human logic, entirely out of proportion to
what the son deserves; on the contrary, many people would argue that the son has forfeited his right to
expect anything from his father, and that the father would have been well within his rights to turn the son
away, on the basis of his deeply insulting actions, and the shame he had caused his family. The father
would be extraordinary to show any consideration to the son—but what he ends up doing is truly beyond
belief8. “Village hostility would have been substantial upon the younger son’s return … Village families
would be afraid their own younger sons would get similar ideas” (Bruce J. Malina and Richard L.
Rohrbaugh, Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels, p. 290).
The reaction of the elder son is one of righteous indignation: he has been the obedient, responsible one,
staying at home to manage the farm and take care of their father after his younger brother’s precipitous
departure in search of adventure. And yet his words quickly make it clear that, although he has done so, it
has apparently not been out of any sense of love or generosity; instead, he feels that he has been imposed
upon, has “slaved away” for years for his father without appropriate gestures of gratitude. He focuses, not
on what he has been given, but on what he feels he has been deprived of9. Suddenly, the apparent roles
are reversed: the one who was believed to be free reveals himself to have felt like a slave, and he who
remained in the father’s house reveals himself to have felt like an alien and an outsider, not to have felt
like a son at all. The bitterness, coldness and spite with which the elder son addresses his father reveals a
level of rudeness that is every bit as insulting as the earlier actions of his younger brother.
Note the subtle but deliberate contrasts in the attitudes of the father and the elder son. The older brother
has evidently “written off” his sibling in his heart, and now refers to him only as “this son of yours”
(understood: he may be your son, but he is no longer my brother). But the father, with gentleness and
concern, refers to the returnee as “your brother”—implying that, unless the elder son is willing to welcome
the younger son back, he will have placed himself—by his own choice—outside the circle of his father’s
Malina and Rohrbaugh suggest a very different motivation for the father’s actions: “The father [runs] because the son
is in immediate danger from hostile villagers. He is not running to welcome his son, as Western readings would have it.
By hastening to the edge of the village, the father preempts hostile village reaction, signalling by his kiss and embrace
that the errant son is under his protection” (Social-Science Commentary on the Synoptic Gospels, pp. 290-91).
7 The same expression is used for various scenes of reconciliation within families in the Old Testament, including the
reunion of Jacob and Esau after their years of estrangement.
8 Many authors, commenting on this parable, caution that Jesus is speaking here of the infinite love, mercy and
forgiveness of God, and that this parable is not meant to offer a paradigm for child-rearing practices—that is not Jesus’
point here. Although it obviously has many implications for how parents deal with their children, Jesus is not primarily
intending to instruct parents on their obligations toward troublesome children.
9 If Malina and Rohrbaugh are correct, part of the older brother’s resentment may stem from the fact that the father
has already divided all of his money and possessions between the two brothers; since the younger brother no longer
has any property or money, it would now become the responsibility of the older brother’s household to provide for his
needs (p. 291)—a request that would seem to add insult to injury.
6
love, and demonstrated that he neither understands nor respects his father, that he is perhaps not really
“a son of his father” in the deepest sense. It is, Jesus says, possible to seem to be a son without really being
a son in one’s heart, and that is what the elder brother reveals by his reaction. The only way to share in the
father’s love is by loving and accepting those he loves and accepts.
Perhaps surprisingly, however, this parable (unlike the two shorter “lost-and-found” parables before it) is
left open-ended, and we are not told how the story concludes. Does the elder son finally make peace with
his brother and welcome him back? Does he find it in his heart to forgive, and to share in the father’s
rejoicing? Or does he, in the final accounting, find himself even more alienated than his younger brother
had been? We are left hanging, hoping for a conclusion that Jesus never provides. And yet perhaps that is
the key: that each person must write the conclusion for him/herself, must decide whether they will
respond with the type of love, mercy and compassion that Jesus’ story evidently demands. Although we
may wish that Jesus had given a more decisive ending, those who are familiar with Jesus’ teachings—
especially in Luke—probably already know what the expected and hoped-for conclusion is meant to be.
We know what Jesus asks of us; the challenge, of course, is whether we are willing to accept that challenge
and put it into practice in our own lives and relationships.
The bite of the [parable of the prodigal son] is felt primarily by people of privilege, especially those
who see themselves as relentlessly good and faithful, and so as deserving the blessings they enjoy.
In fact, we probably side with the younger brother only because we know the outcome of the
parable ahead of time. In our heart of hearts, we know that the older brother has a point, and we
grumble, too, at love that makes a home for both sons. (Sharon H. Ringe, Westminster Bible
Companion: Luke, pp. 209-10)
This passage also highlights two of Luke’s characteristic emphases: God’s welcome of sinners and those
considered socially and religiously unacceptable, and the rejoicing and celebration that are meant to
accompany that welcome, that are meant to respond to the repentance that God invites. Once again, Jesus
turns our expectations and categories on their heads, and challenges us to see our relationships from a
radically new and different perspective—“to see as God sees”. We must abandon the image—all too
common among people of religious faith—of God as “the heavenly accountant, poised to pounce on the
slightest mistake” (Fr. Donald Senior et al., Invitation to the Gospels, p. 281).
*****
It is interesting to note that, in the vast chorus that have endorsed, commented on and developed the
teaching of the Prodigal Son, there is one voice which is discordant, and which is striking precisely
because it disagrees so vehemently with the traditional interpretation of the parable. It comes from the
early Church Father Tertullian (ca. 160-ca. 235) who, later in life, became allied with a heretical group
called the Montanists, who were extremely rigorous in the limitations they placed on the availability of
forgiveness (especially for those who had denied the Christian faith under persecution or torture).
Tertullian stands out precisely because he denies the applicability of such rich and overflowing mercy to
Christians, since such thinking could, in fact, encourage sinners with the thought of easy forgiveness:
We must now proceed, in the case of the prodigal son, to consider that which is useful—for we
cannot allow examples to be used which … are harmful to people’s salvation … The whole economy
of salvation depends on upholding a firm discipline, which is overturned by our adversaries’
interpretation … For if this parable speaks about Christians—who, having received their inheritance
from their Father (that is, the treasure of baptism, of the gift of the Holy Spirit and the hope of
eternal happiness)—Christians who journey far from their Father and waste their inheritance in a
pagan lifestyle—who, surrendering all good sense, make themselves slaves of the Master of this age
(that is, the devil) … who then, returning to their senses, return to their Father’s house: if this is the
case, then it would not only be adulterers and fornicators, but also idol-worshippers, blasphemers,
those who have denied Christ and all kinds of apostates who would be able to satisfy the justice of
God, if that interpretation of the parable is correct. In that case, the whole foundation of religion
would be demolished. For who, after all, would be afraid of throwing away that which could later
be regained? Who would be concerned about clinging forever to that which could not be lost
forever? Such a sense of security in sinning only encourages the desire to commit such sins! … It is
for these reasons that the parable of the Prodigal Son cannot be legitimately applied to Christians.
(Tertullian, On Modesty; my translation from the French)
Gerald Darring, “Perspective of Justice”; online at the Web site of the Center for Liturgy,
St. Louis University:
We are prodigal children. We have in many ways squandered our Father’s inheritance. Provided with a
wonderful garden to live in, we poison its air, we pollute its water, we erode its topsoil. Provided with a
wonderful family with whom to share our lives, we condemn many of our family members to survivallevel existence, we refuse to associate with many of them, and we contribute to the death of many of them.
Lent is a time to ‘pass over,’ to pass from the world of injustice we have created over to a world of
reconciliation. It is a time to turn hatred to love, conflict to peace, death to eternal life.
All that God looks for from us is the slightest opening and he forgives a multitude of sins. (St. John
Chrysostom)
No mother could snatch her child from a burning building more swiftly than God will forgive a repentant
soul, even though it should have committed every sin in the world a thousand times over. (Blessed Henry
Suso, medieval Italian preacher)
Steve Goodier, “The Power of Forgiveness”; online:
During the American Civil War, a young man named Roswell McIntyre was drafted into the New York
Cavalry. The war was not going well. Soldiers were needed so desperately that he was sent into battle with
very little training. Roswell became frightened he panicked and ran. He was later court-martialed and
condemned to be shot for desertion.
McIntyre’s mother appealed to President Lincoln. She pleaded that he was young and inexperienced and
he needed a second chance. The generals, however, urged the president to enforce discipline. Exceptions,
they asserted, would undermine the discipline of an already beleaguered army.
Lincoln thought and prayed. Then he wrote a famous statement. “I have observed,” he said, “that it never
does a boy much good to shoot him.” He wrote this letter in his own handwriting: “This letter will certify
that Roswell McIntyre is to be readmitted into the New York Cavalry. When he serves out his required
enlistment, he will be freed of any charges of desertion.”
That faded letter, signed by the president, is on display in the Library of Congress. Beside it there is a
note, which reads, “This letter was taken from the body of Roswell McIntyre, who died at the battle of
Little Five Forks, Virginia.”
It never does a boy (or anybody else for that matter) much good to shoot him. But you might be surprised
at the power of forgiveness.
“As the Prodigal Son I come to you, merciful God. I have wasted my whole life in a foreign land; I have
scattered the wealth which You gave me, O Father. Receive me in repentance, O God, and have mercy
upon me.” (Hymn from the Greek Orthodox service for Vespers)
Without being forgiven, released from the consequences of what we have done, our capacity to act would,
as it were, be confined to a single deed from which we could never recover; we would remain the victims
of its consequences forever, not unlike the sorcerer’s apprentice, who lacked the magic formula to break
the spell. (Hannah Arendt)
Giovanni Francesco Barbieri (1591-1666), also known as “Il Guercino” (The Squinty-Eyed) is widely
regarded as one of the greatest Italian painters of the 17th century. He is also distinguished by the fact that
he is known to have painted the return of the Prodigal Son on at least six different occasions, in various
different settings. Although today his versions have been largely eclipsed by the more famous painting of
this scene by Rembrandt, nevertheless, Il Guercino’s paintings have an evocative power that beautifully
captures various moments in the tender reunion of the father and his wayward son. Here are four of Il
Guercino’s known paintings of this scene, today found in some of the world’s great art galleries (note
particularly the use of blue and red in the father’s robes—colours traditionally used in Orthodox
iconography for the robes of Christ, expressing both His humanity [red, for the earth, for blood] and His
divinity [blue, for the sky]):
The weak can never forgive. Forgiveness is the attribute of the strong. (Mahatma Gandhi)
For a wide-ranging collection of quotes about forgiveness, see:
http://www.forgivenessweb.com/RdgRm/Quotationpage.html
Pope John Paul II, Apostolic Exhortation Reconciliatio et Pænitentia (1984):
This prodigal son is … every human being: bewitched by the temptation to separate himself from his
Father in order to lead his own independent existence; disappointed by the emptiness of the mirage which
had fascinated him; alone, dishonored, exploited when he tries to build a world all for himself sorely tried,
even in the depths of his own misery, by the desire to return to communion with his Father. Like the
father in the parable, God looks out for the return of his child, embraces him when he arrives and orders
the banquet of the new meeting with which the reconciliation is celebrated.
But the parable also brings into the picture the elder brother, who refuses to take his place at the banquet.
He rebukes his younger brother for his dissolute wanderings, and he rebukes his father for the welcome
given to the prodigal son while he himself, a temperate and hard-working person, faithful to father and
home, has never been allowed—he says—to have a celebration with his friends. This is a sign that he does
not understand the father’s goodness. To the extent that this brother, too sure of himself and his own
good qualities, jealous and haughty, full of bitterness and anger, is not converted and is not reconciled
with his father and brother, the banquet is not yet fully the celebration of a reunion and rediscovery.
Every human being is also this elder brother. Selfishness makes him jealous, hardens his heart, blinds
him and shuts him off from other people and from God. The loving kindness and mercy of the father
irritate and enrage him; for him, the happiness of the brother who has been found again has a bitter taste.
From this point of view, he too needs to be converted in order to be reconciled.
The parable of the prodigal son is above all the story of the inexpressible love of a Father—God—who
offers to his son when he comes back to him the gift of full reconciliation. But when the parable evokes, in
the figure of the elder son, the selfishness which divides the brothers, it also becomes the story of the
human family: it describes our situation and shows the path to be followed. The prodigal son, in his
anxiety for conversion, to return to the arms of his father and to be forgiven, represents those who are
aware of the existence in their inmost hearts of a longing for reconciliation at all levels and without
reserve, and who realize with an inner certainty that this reconciliation is possible only if it derives from a
first and fundamental reconciliation—the one which brings a person back from distant separation to filial
friendship with God, whose infinite mercy is clearly known. But if the parable is read from the point of
view of the other son, it portrays the situation of the human family, divided by forms of selfishness. It
throws light on the difficulty involved in satisfying the desire and longing for one reconciled and united
family. It therefore reminds us of the need for a profound transformation of hearts through the
rediscovery of the Father’s mercy and through victory over misunderstanding and over hostility among
brothers and sisters.
Softly and Tenderly
(Lyrics by Will L. Thompson)
Softly and tenderly Jesus is calling, calling for you and for me;
See, on the portals he's waiting and watching, watching for you and for me.
Refrain:
Come home! Come home! Ye who are weary come home!
Earnestly, tenderly, Jesus is calling, calling, O sinner, come home!
Why should we tarry when Jesus is pleading, pleading for you and for me?
Why should we linger and heed not his mercies, mercies for you and for me?
(Refrain)
O for the wonderful love he has promised, promised for you and for me!
Though we have sinned, he has mercy and pardon, pardon for you and for me.
(Refrain)