"I am not like the rest of humanity" - 30th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 18:9-14
Jesus addressed this parable
to those who were convinced of their own righteousness
and despised everyone else.
"Two people went up to the temple area to pray;
one was a Pharisee and the other was a tax collector.
The Pharisee took up his position and spoke this prayer to himself,
'O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity --
greedy, dishonest, adulterous -- or even like this tax collector.
I fast twice a week, and I pay tithes on my whole income.'
But the tax collector stood off at a distance
and would not even raise his eyes to heaven
but beat his breast and prayed,
'O God, be merciful to me a sinner.'
I tell you, the latter went home justified, not the former;
for whoever exalts himself will be humbled,
and the one who humbles himself will be exalted."

---

In the ancient world, everyone hated tax collectors. The Romans, who levied the taxes, allowed private entrepreneurs to travel around collecting the dues. In order to make extra money, though, these collectors ― sometimes called “publicans” ― usually cheated people out of extra money, which they then kept for themselves. Indeed, tax collectors were often scandalously rich. So when Jesus tells this parable about the imaginary tax collector praying in the Temple, we should not imagine that his audience was predisposed to admire such men. 

How provocative, then, for Jesus to say that this despised tax collector “went home justified” from the Temple while the Pharisee who “fasts twice a week and pays tithes on [his] whole income” did not. Even though the tax collector had been leading a corrupt life, Jesus insists that “the one who humbles himself will be exalted.” In God’s eyes, the publican ― though a scoundrel by trade ― is more righteous than the Pharisee. The tax collector knows he is a sinner and his confession has transformed him. The Pharisee, on the other hand, is righteous only on the surface. He keeps the fasts and pays the tithes, but he “was convinced of his own righteousness and despised everyone else.” 

But there’s a subtle detail to Jesus’ parable that, though often overlooked, deepens the story in a crucial way. It is true that the Pharisee prays all sorts of self-righteous and judgmental things ― “O God, I thank you that I am not like the rest of humanity!” ― and that, in itself, is damaging enough. But we should also notice that, when the Pharisee began to pray, the text says he “spoke [his] prayer to himself.” This does not just mean he spoke his prayer in such a way that only he could hear it. No, as St. Basil the Great (d. 379) once said, the Pharisee actually “prayed ... not to God … but to himself…. For his sin of pride sent him back into himself.” The Pharisee was so preoccupied with his own righteousness that his words were really just directed at himself rather than the God he claimed to worship. 

This is actually a very troubling detail. Recall that Jesus addressed this parable “to those who are convinced of their own righteousness.” That means it’s addressed to you and me. We all admit we’re imperfect. But, if we’re honest, we often think, like the Pharisee, that we are “not like the rest of humanity,” that we stand out from the crowd. Jesus also addressed “those who … despise everyone else.” We would never say we “despise” them, but, if we’re honest, don’t we sometimes look at the people around us ― without ever trying to know their story ― in the same way the Pharisee looked at the publican? “O God, I thank you that I am not … like this tax collector.” Don’t we often harbor a similar unspoken disdain for those we’re sure have fallen short of us? “Thank you, God, that I am not like this atheist.” Don’t we sometimes even think this way in the pew? We’re never as explicit as the Pharisee, but how sure are we that we’re not muttering the same things somewhere in the back of our minds? 

The disturbing thing is that, when we fall into these patterns of thinking, Jesus’ parable tells us that we aren’t even communing with God anymore. When we are so preoccupied with ourselves, our prayers ― what we thought were dialogues with God ― become fruitless monologues with ourselves. We become so concerned with distinguishing ourselves from others that our vision cannot escape the horizon of our own vanity and, yes, we begin to worship ourselves. 

The only correct response when one looks at their soul is that of the tax collector: “O God, be merciful to me a sinner.” When we look at ourselves, there is nothing else to do but to reach out to God for mercy. If you make a case for yourself ― either by presenting a résumé of your righteousness or by comparing yourself to others ― then you’re not even speaking with God anymore; you’ve recentered the conversation entirely around yourself. Indeed, it is “the one who humbles himself who will be exalted.” It is the one who recognizes that there is nothing to do but ask for God’s help who will be exalted. It is this one who “will go home justified.”

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Prayer as a Black Eye - 29th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 18:1-8
Jesus told his disciples a parable
about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary.
He said, "There was a judge in a certain town
who neither feared God nor respected any human being.
And a widow in that town used to come to him and say,
'Render a just decision for me against my adversary.'
For a long time the judge was unwilling, but eventually he thought,
'While it is true that I neither fear God nor respect any human being,
because this widow keeps bothering me
I shall deliver a just decision for her
lest she finally come and strike me.'"
The Lord said, "Pay attention to what the dishonest judge says.
Will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones
who call out to him day and night?
Will he be slow to answer them?
I tell you, he will see to it that justice is done for them speedily.
But when the Son of Man comes, will he find faith on earth?"

---

Jesus was funnier than you think. Because the Gospels do not depict any of the times Jesus laughed, the humorous side of Jesus’ personality is often forgotten. But his parables are often quite comical, and this parable about the widow and the judge “who neither feared God nor respected any human being” is one such parable. 

The central meaning of the story isn’t all that difficult to discover. Just before this passage, Jesus made clear to his apostles that the end of the world has not yet come. Thus, while they are waiting, Jesus offers this week’s parable “about the necessity for them to pray always without becoming weary.” His analogy is quite simple. The old widow obtained her request by constantly petitioning the unjust judge. How much more will you obtain your requests by constantly petitioning the God who cares for his chosen ones? It’s a point that Christianity takes very seriously ― the effectiveness of constant prayer. But there’s a hilariousness to this story that needs to be parsed out, and not just because it’s funny. Indeed, its funniness also tells us something significant about Jesus and about the way God relates to us. 

Notice that, in the parable, the unjust judge was originally unwilling to rule in favor of the widow against her adversary. Notice, too, the reason he changes his mind: “I shall deliver a just decision for her lest she finally come and strike me.” That is the translation the lectionary uses, and it’s totally fine. But, as one bible scholar puts it, the original Greek is comically “delicious.” Indeed, the text can be translated a number of ways. Here’s how the Sacra Pagina Catholic commentary translates it: “This widow gives me so much trouble that I will give her justice! Otherwise she will keep coming and end up giving me a black eye!” What a bizarre analogy Jesus uses for prayer! To God, the prayers of the faithful can be just as effective as sending an old widow to physically assault him. Indeed, “will not God then secure the rights of his chosen ones who call out to him day and night?” 

Jesus’ analogy also tells us something essential about himself. The apostles one day stumbled upon Jesus praying alone. “Lord, teach us to pray,” one of them asked, moved by what he’d seen (Lk 11:1). We might expect Jesus, when he teaches us about prayer, to offer some impenetrable insight about contemplation. I mean, he’s God ― why shouldn’t pure white light come from his mouth? Perhaps we expect him to offer some koan ― “what is the sound of one hand clapping?” ― that will reveal to us the true nature of prayer only after years of brutally disciplined meditation. No. The Son of God instead compares your prayers to a cranky old widow physically wailing upon a judge until she gets her way. You can practically see the black handbag flying through the air, one scholar has commented. What a bizarre and, quite frankly, humorous image. And, for Jesus, this is the nature of prayer. 

Jesus uses human images because he is ordinary, even while he’s extraordinary. He is human, real, and funny, all while being God. When he speaks to us, he doesn’t blast our minds with something incomprehensible, but teaches us about the nature of prayer with a gritty and goofy analogy. And if, in fact, this brutal widow exemplifies prayer, then you should really let God have it; give him a black eye with your prayers. As Jesus said, “I tell you, [God] will see to it that justice is done for [you] speedily.”


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"None but this foreigner" - 28th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 17:11-19
As Jesus continued his journey to Jerusalem,
he traveled through Samaria and Galilee.
As he was entering a village, ten lepers met him.
They stood at a distance from him and raised their voices, saying,
"Jesus, Master!  Have pity on us!"
And when he saw them, he said,
"Go show yourselves to the priests."
As they were going they were cleansed.
And one of them, realizing he had been healed,
returned, glorifying God in a loud voice;
and he fell at the feet of Jesus and thanked him.
He was a Samaritan.
Jesus said in reply,
"Ten were cleansed, were they not?
Where are the other nine?
Has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?"
Then he said to him, "Stand up and go;
your faith has saved you."

---

Let’s start with leprosy. In the ancient world ― and for the Jews especially ― leprosy was not something to mess around with. In fact, according to Jewish law, lepers were not allowed to participate in worship ceremonies. Neither were they allowed to live integrated within the Jewish community: “put out of the camp every leper,” the Book of Numbers says, “that they may not defile the camp in the midst of which [God] dwells” (Nm 5:2-3). More than that, in ancient Israel, lepers were required to publicly announce their condition: “The leper who has the disease shall wear torn clothes and let the hair of his head hang loose, and he shall … cry, “unclean! unclean!” (Lv 13:45). 

Ten of these miserable men met Jesus while he was travelling through Samaria and Galilee. Notice they are following the norms, not daring to approach the crowd: “they stood at a distance from him and raised their voices.” But we should also notice that, where they usually shout to announce their uncleanness, here they shout for help: “Jesus! Master! Have pity on us!” 

There is a second crucial but somewhat hidden detail to this story. We need to notice how the gospel is at pains to point out that the only leper who returns to thank Jesus is a Samaritan. It makes sense that there would be Samaritans around. Jesus is travelling through Samaria, and Samaritans are from Samaria. But there is more to it than that. The Samaritans were a splinter group within Judaism. They had a different set of priests from the mainstream Jews, they disagreed on which books belonged in the Bible, and they refused to worship in the Jerusalem Temple. In fact, when Jesus told the lepers to “show [themselves] to the priests,” the nine Jewish lepers would have gone to the high priests in Jerusalem while the Samaritan would have gone to the priest on Mount Gerizim in Samaria. 

The point is that mainstream Jews hated Samaritans. They were “foreigners” who worshipped in the wrong Temple. In Jewish literature, the word “Samaritan” was always used derogatorily. In John’s Gospel, a group of Jews even insult Jesus by calling him “a Samaritan” (Jn 8:48). It is no small thing that Jesus heals a Samaritan. Neither is it a small thing when Jesus addresses the Jewish crowd with some sharpness or even sarcasm: “Ten were cleansed, were they not? Where are the other nine?” Jesus is putting his finger on this religious tension. Indeed, he is being extraordinarily provocative with his Jewish audience: “has none but this foreigner returned to give thanks to God?” 

It is important that we see this Samaritan as a real man who suffered through a real life. He was not a character in a parable. We can understand his gratitude. But we can also see in his story something of our own lives. We are lepers, all of us, in our weakness. In truth, we belong outside the camp. We are, all of us, Samaritans. We are, if we’re honest, not quite doing this whole Christianity thing right ― and so we are doubly estranged. But have you noticed that Jesus usually does business with those who are most estranged and broken? That means Jesus has business with us. Even if we are weak, estranged, and broken, let us have the courage ― like the Samaritan did ― to stop shouting “unclean! unclean!” when we look at ourselves and start shouting “Jesus! Master! Have pity on us!” Surely, should we see it through, we will hear Jesus reply: “Stand up! Go! Your faith has saved you!”


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"What we were obliged to do" - 27th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 17:5-10
The apostles said to the Lord, "Increase our faith."
The Lord replied,
"If you have faith the size of a mustard seed,
you would say to this mulberry tree,
'Be uprooted and planted in the sea,' and it would obey you.
"Who among you would say to your servant
who has just come in from plowing or tending sheep in the field,
'Come here immediately and take your place at table'?
Would he not rather say to him,
'Prepare something for me to eat.
Put on your apron and wait on me while I eat and drink.
You may eat and drink when I am finished'?
Is he grateful to that servant because he did what was commanded?
So should it be with you.
When you have done all you have been commanded,
say, 'We are unprofitable servants; 
we have done what we were obliged to do.'"

---

Jesus’ words to the apostles sound strange to modern ears: “Who among you would say to your servant … ‘come here immediately and take your place at table’? Would he not instead say … you may eat and drink when I am finished’?” Not having hired servants, most of us are not entirely sure how we’d manage their dining schedule. Confused with this passage, we usually just move along to the next parable. 

By zooming out, we might get a clearer picture of what Jesus is up to. Since chapter 9 of Luke’s Gospel, Jesus has been journeying to Jerusalem in order to die. All along the way, he’s been offering teachings and parables to the people who are following him along the road. He preached about how the “last will be first” and about the woman who upended her house in search of a single lost coin. He dined with Pharisees and insisted we invite “the poor, the crippled, the lame, and the blind” to our banquets. He preached about a father whose mercy runs reckless abandon to embrace his prodigal son. 

This should clarify the opening words of this week’s reading. After spending this time with Jesus ― after being moved by his teaching ― the apostles beg him: “Increase our faith!” Jesus’ reply is a tad painful. He says that “if you have faith the size of a mustard seed, you would say to this mulberry tree, ‘be uprooted and planted in the sea,’ and it would obey you.” Though it isn’t obvious in English, in the original Greek it is only possible grammatically to read Jesus’ words in one way. He is insisting that the apostles do not in fact have a mustard seed’s worth of faith. They are right to beg for an increase! 

But then Jesus immediately moves into this bit about the time one’s servants should eat dinner. This might seem disconnected, but it is not. Jesus is recalling the basic rules that govern social relations in the households of the ancient world. When a servant comes in from the day’s work, he would proceed to make dinner. It would be absurd if the master of the house immediately invited him to sit down to eat ― the servant himself had not yet made the meal! More than that, Jesus points out to the apostles how strange it would be for the master to shower the servant with praise as he began making the meal: “Is [the master] grateful to that servant because he did what was commanded?” Indeed, it was not extraordinary for him to begin making this meal. Based on the agreements proper to his position, the servant was simply doing what he was obliged to do. The servant himself would have found such praise strange.

So how is this relevant to the apostles and their desire for more faith? Again, after hearing him preach, the apostles were struck by the way of life Jesus was offering. His story about the servant is meant to remind the apostles that the way of life Jesus is offering constitutes the basic obligation for a Christian. Household workers in the ancient world had basic obligations. So do Christians. You are to put those who come last in this world first (Lk 13:30), you are to forgive your brother when he wrongs you seven times a day (Lk 17:4). And even when Christians have done all this, they are right to beg for an increase in their faith ― as the apostles did ― for this would only make them“unprofitable servants” who merely “have done what [they] were obliged to do.” 

Jesus’ words reveal something important about the nature of Christian humility. Christians ought not to look on their acts of love as extraordinary, as they are often tempted to do. In Jesus’ mind, acting like a Christian makes you equal to the student who didn’t cheat on her math test. This isn’t something to write home about ― it’s a basic obligation. For Christians, putting those who are last first does not make one extraordinary, it makes one a regular citizen of the Kingdom of God.


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Send Lazarus! - 26th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 16:19-31
Jesus said to the Pharisees:
"There was a rich man who dressed in purple garments and fine linen
and dined sumptuously each day.
And lying at his door was a poor man named Lazarus, covered with sores,
who would gladly have eaten his fill of the scraps
that fell from the rich man's table.
Dogs even used to come and lick his sores.
When the poor man died,
he was carried away by angels to the bosom of Abraham.
The rich man also died and was buried,
and from the netherworld, where he was in torment,
he raised his eyes and saw Abraham far off
and Lazarus at his side.
And he cried out, 'Father Abraham, have pity on me.
Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue,
for I am suffering torment in these flames.'
Abraham replied,
'My child, remember that you received
what was good during your lifetime
while Lazarus likewise received what was bad;
but now he is comforted here, whereas you are tormented.
Moreover, between us and you a great chasm is established
to prevent anyone from crossing who might wish to go
from our side to yours or from your side to ours.'
He said, 'Then I beg you, father,
send him to my father's house, for I have five brothers,
so that he may warn them,
lest they too come to this place of torment.'
But Abraham replied, 'They have Moses and the prophets.
Let them listen to them.'
He said, 'Oh no, father Abraham,
but if someone from the dead goes to them, they will repent.'
Then Abraham said, 'If they will not listen to Moses and the prophets,
neither will they be persuaded if someone should rise from the dead.'"

---

Jesus’ parable about the rich man tormented in the netherworld is one of his most vivid and unsettling. I think a lot of Christians receive this parable with mixed feelings. We are in part satisfied by the reversal of fortune. We’re pleased to learn that Lazarus who, in life, was so wretched that “dogs even used to come and lick his sores” has found a peaceful rest. But modern Christians are often discomforted by the heaviness of the justice exacted upon the rich man. Is it not noble of him to beg a messenger be sent to his remaining brothers? Let’s look at some of the story’s details more closely and see if they can shed some light.

An initial thing to notice: Lazarus is the only character in any of Jesus’ parables that actually has a name. It is always “a rich man” or “a dishonest steward” or “a woman having ten coins.” They never ever have names. But then there is Lazarus. It makes sense that Jesus would only give a name to the poorest character in all his parables. For Jesus, it is always the last who come first. It is those who are overlooked who get seen and named. They are the first to have a concrete identity. Indeed, Jesus specifies Lazarus by name in order to highlight his dignity, a dignity which is often taken from the poor. 

Juxtapose Jesus’ specific attention upon Lazarus with how the rich man treats him, and not just during his earthly life. We often overlook that, even amidst his torment, the rich man asks Abraham if Lazarus specifically can be sent to slake his thirst: “Have pity on me,” he says. “Send Lazarus to dip the tip of his finger in water and cool my tongue.” The request is breathtaking. Why must it be Lazarus specifically? And again, when Abraham rejects this, the rich man wants Lazarus specifically to be sent to his brothers: “I beg you, [Abraham], send [Lazarus] to my father’s house … so that he may warn [my brothers], lest they too come to this place of torment.” He continues to view Lazarus as a slave, as one meant to serve him and his rich family. Where Jesus specifies Lazarus by name in order to highlight his dignity, the rich man specifies Lazarus by name in order to torment him, even while he himself is being tormented.

It’s possible to become locked in to certain ways of thinking and acting. This is so much the case that, even when the rich man ― agonizing in the netherworld ― seeks to aid his still-living brothers, he cannot help treating Lazarus like a servant. It is second nature to him; this is how he had lived his whole life. Even profound torment cannot occasion the real transformation of his life. Perhaps this is what Abraham meant by that “great chasm established to prevent anyone from crossing who might wish to go from … your side to ours.” Perhaps he was referring to the inability to escape one’s habits once they’re locked for eternity. 

A concluding point: Jesus naming Lazarus serves to disrupt the way we typically think of poor people. Even if we offer alms to a beggar, we rarely stop to interact. They are immediately lost in the vague sea of faces that constitutes “the poor.” By giving him a name, Lazarus becomes more intimate in our imagination. He becomes more human, more alive. He is someone with a story, with particular fears, dreams, and agonies. He is not an abstraction; he is concrete. He is not some vague poor man. He is Lazarus. The rich man’s sin was not that he neglected “the poor,” but that he neglected Lazarus, the man “lying at his door.” His sin was that, when he encountered the man named Lazarus, he did not place him first — he did not hear his name, so to speak — but used his name to order him, even from the torment of the netherworld, to do his bidding.


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Welcomed into Eternal Dwellings - 25th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 16:1-13
Jesus said to his disciples,
"A rich man had a steward
who was reported to him for squandering his property.
He summoned him and said,
'What is this I hear about you?
Prepare a full account of your stewardship,
because you can no longer be my steward.'
The steward said to himself, 'What shall I do,
now that my master is taking the position of steward away from me?
I am not strong enough to dig and I am ashamed to beg.
I know what I shall do so that,
when I am removed from the stewardship,
they may welcome me into their homes.'
He called in his master's debtors one by one.
To the first he said,
'How much do you owe my master?'
He replied, 'One hundred measures of olive oil.'
He said to him, 'Here is your promissory note.
Sit down and quickly write one for fifty.'
Then to another the steward said, 'And you, how much do you owe?'
He replied, 'One hundred kors of wheat.'
The steward said to him, 'Here is your promissory note;
write one for eighty.'
And the master commended that dishonest steward for acting prudently.
"For the children of this world
are more prudent in dealing with their own generation
than are the children of light.
I tell you, make friends for yourselves with dishonest wealth,
so that when it fails, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.
The person who is trustworthy in very small matters
is also trustworthy in great ones;
and the person who is dishonest in very small matters
is also dishonest in great ones.
If, therefore, you are not trustworthy with dishonest wealth,
who will trust you with true wealth?
If you are not trustworthy with what belongs to another,
who will give you what is yours?
No servant can serve two masters.
He will either hate one and love the other,
or be devoted to one and despise the other.
You cannot serve both God and mammon."

---

Not exactly one of Jesus’ greatest hits is the so-called “Parable of the Dishonest Steward.” Everyone knows last week’s prodigal son; nobody remembers the cunning steward. The story lacks the dramatic flair of the prodigal; the language is often difficult. But it’s an important story, and there is something potent in Jesus’ words if we can give him our attention. Perhaps it's enough, for our purposes, simply to get a handle on what he's actually saying here. Let’s first walk through the parable itself. 

The steward, upon squandering his rich master’s property, learns that he’s to be fired. Knowing that he’ll soon have nothing, the steward devises a plan so that, “when he is removed from the stewardship, [people] may welcome him into their homes.” While he is still steward, he contacts his master’s debtors and drastically reduces the amounts owed. This one owes twenty percent less wheat! This one owes half as much olive oil! The steward risks doubling the wrath of his master ― but he’ll be fired anyway! There’s nothing to lose. At least he can expect the future generosity of these debtors on account of the discounts. But the rich master’s wrath is not doubled. When he learns of the steward’s shrewdness, he is impressed. The steward’s cleverness has saved his job. 

So far so clear. But then things get trickier. Finished with the parable, Jesus turns to the crowd: “the children of this world are more prudent in dealing with their own generation than are the children of light.” What’s he getting at here? Let’s notice, first, that Jesus has distinguished the “children of this world” from “the children of light.” These are common phrases used throughout the New Testament. They describe two different ways of living one’s life, two different logics according to which one can order their existence. The “children of light” are those who live according to the logic of Jesus ― the logic of turning the other cheek, of peacemaking, of placing oneself last. The “children of this world,” on the other hand, are those who live by the logic of worldliness ― the logic of things like self-indulgence, of misguided ambition, or the obsessive pursuit of money. They live by the ambitious logic of this human world, rather than the self-sacrificial logic of God’s world. 

So what is Jesus doing with this distinction right now? Remember he claimed that “the children of this world are more prudent.” In short, what Jesus’ parable demonstrates is that those who are preoccupied with the difficulties of even dishonest living ― the “children of this world” ― are often more clever than his own followers! If only the “children of light” were as clever as the dishonest steward! 

We need not be troubled by this. In Matthew’s gospel, Jesus similarly counselled his followers to “be wise as serpents [but] innocent as doves” (Mt 10:16). Jesus even concludes today’s reading with an example ― though the language is difficult ― of how the “children of light” might become clever: “I tell you, make friends for yourselves with [i.e. by way of] dishonest wealth, so that when it fails, you will be welcomed into eternal dwellings.” Now what does this mean? Jesus is suggesting that, in the same way the dishonest steward cleverly made friends by way of the master’s accounts, so the “children of light” should make friends by way of their own money. 

But with whom should we make friends? Without question: the poor. The phrasing Jesus uses here ― namely that once one’s money fails one will be “welcomed into eternal dwellings” ― is a common way rabbis used to talk about giving alms. It was often said that, when you give alms ― when you give everything to the poor ― you will be received into the realms of eternity. The Church, moreover, very deliberately pairs Jesus’ parable this week with an Old Testament reading from the prophet Amos who begs us to stop “trampling upon the needy and destroying the poor” (Am 8:4). Jesus is making this assertion his own. This is how the Christian can behave prudently and cleverly. This is how the Christian can ensure he or she will be “welcomed into eternal dwellings,” just like the steward sought to ensure his welcome into the homes of the master’s debtors. By giving alms, the Christian is as wise as a serpent and as innocent as a dove.


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"While he was still a long way off" - 24th Sunday in Ordinary Time

Luke 15:1-3, 11-32
Tax collectors and sinners were all drawing near to listen to Jesus,
but the Pharisees and scribes began to complain, saying,
“This man welcomes sinners and eats with them.”
So to them he addressed this parable.
...
“A man had two sons, and the younger son said to his father,
‘Father give me the share of your estate that should come to me.’
So the father divided the property between them.
After a few days, the younger son collected all his belongings
and set off to a distant country
where he squandered his inheritance on a life of dissipation.
When he had freely spent everything,
a severe famine struck that country,
and he found himself in dire need.
So he hired himself out to one of the local citizens
who sent him to his farm to tend the swine.
And he longed to eat his fill of the pods on which the swine fed,
but nobody gave him any.
Coming to his senses he thought,
‘How many of my father’s hired workers
have more than enough food to eat,
but here am I, dying from hunger.
I shall get up and go to my father and I shall say to him,
“Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you.
I no longer deserve to be called your son;
treat me as you would treat one of your hired workers.”’
So he got up and went back to his father.
While he was still a long way off,
his father caught sight of him,
and was filled with compassion.
He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him.
His son said to him,
‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you;
I no longer deserve to be called your son.’
But his father ordered his servants,
‘Quickly bring the finest robe and put it on him;
put a ring on his finger and sandals on his feet.
Take the fattened calf and slaughter it.
Then let us celebrate with a feast,
because this son of mine was dead, and has come to life again;
he was lost, and has been found.’
Then the celebration began.
Now the older son had been out in the field
and, on his way back, as he neared the house,
he heard the sound of music and dancing.
He called one of the servants and asked what this might mean.
The servant said to him,
‘Your brother has returned
and your father has slaughtered the fattened calf
because he has him back safe and sound.’
He became angry,
and when he refused to enter the house,
his father came out and pleaded with him.
He said to his father in reply,
‘Look, all these years I served you
and not once did I disobey your orders;
yet you never gave me even a young goat to feast on with my friends. But when your son returns,
who swallowed up your property with prostitutes,
for him you slaughter the fattened calf.’
He said to him,
‘My son, you are here with me always;
everything I have is yours.
But now we must celebrate and rejoice,
because your brother was dead and has come to life again;
he was lost and has been found.’”

---

Jesus’ “parable of the prodigal son” is one of his most famous. There are a few ways to read the story, but I’d like to offer one that is less common. We know the first part well: the son, after taking his father’s money, sets off for a “distant country where he squandered his inheritance on a life of dissipation.” He finds himself out of money, out of food, and working in the filthiest conditions. The common reading is that, under these circumstances, the son recognizes his pitiful state, repents, and returns home into his father’s forgiving arms. But if we look closely at the text we’ll see something altogether different. 

Let’s look at the story in sequence. While living that “life of dissipation,” we see that he was not even able to eat. At this moment, he thinks to himself, “how many of my father’s hired workers have more than enough food to eat, but here am I, dying from hunger. I shall get up and go to my father and I shall say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and against you. I no longer deserve to be called your son; treat me as you would treat one of your hired workers.’” Do you see what he is doing? It has dawned on him that, if he can just get his father to let him live among his hired workers, he’ll have enough food to eat. This isn’t exactly profound remorse for the sins of his past. Look closely: it never actually says he repented. He simply wants to eat. And confessing to having “sinned against heaven and against you”? That is merely the ruse by which he intends to trick his father. 

This should totally reframe how we read what happens next: “while [the son] was still a long way off, his father caught sight of him, and was filled with compassion. He ran to his son, embraced him and kissed him.” The father’s unrepentant son has come home in order to trick him. He owes him nothing. Yet, overwhelmed with compassion, he leaps off the porch to embrace him. Notice now that, upon being embraced, the son is moved to true repentance. He does say “I have sinned against heaven and against you; I no longer deserve to be called your son,” which was his rehearsed line. But he does not ask to be treated as a hired servant. He has abandoned the ruse. He now means his confession. But he has only been brought to true contrition upon this encounter with the extravagant compassion of his father.

It’s significant, I think, that we typically assume the son has repented before he returns to the father’s house. It is true to our basic conception of how forgiveness should work.  We might be ready to offer mercy when people seek our forgiveness. We even think ourselves heroic and Christ-like for offering our pardon in these situations. If my son was the unrepentant prodigal son, I would not have leapt off the porch. I would probably have waited for an explanation and a sincere apology. But the mercy Jesus describes is nothing short of excessive. Real mercy makes the first move. It forgives those who have not sought our forgiveness. It forgives even those who are “still a long way off” from seeking our forgiveness.

The behavior of the father might strike us as disordered, as “too much.” But this is the character of the God we worship. Let’s be clear: you have not yet adequately estimated God’s mercy. It is reckless, immoderate, and unreasonable. But it’s the encounter with this radical mercy that bursts open the human heart. Indeed, it was only when the son encountered the extravagance of the father’s compassion that he found a reason to live differently. It was only when he encountered the sheer excessiveness of the father’s mercy that he was able to repent. It is this mercy ― and only this mercy ― that can, to use father’s words, bring the dead back to life.

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