Lent 4 C: Deliberate Ambiguity

Luke 15: 1-2, 11-32

So I’m curious, dear Partner in Preaching, why doesn’t Luke mention repentance in this story? I mean, he does in the first two “lost” parables preceding it. And it’s not like repentance doesn’t appear other places in the Third Gospel as well (like just last week). Indeed, last week’s reading and this week’s were both likely chosen by the RCL folks to fall in Lent precisely because their theme is so transparently about repentance.

But that word doesn’t appear in this week’s story. Why? Maybe it’s because the theme has already been so well established via the first two parables that it didn’t need to be repeated this week. Or maybe it’s that it’s so obviously a story about repentance that it feels redundant to name it. Or maybe… maybe it’s not really a story about repentance at all.

Here’s the thing: I would like to think the younger son is sincerely repentant. I really would. But I’m not so sure. Everything turns, I think, on the scene where the younger son “comes to himself.” By this point in the story, he’s already made the outrageous demand of his father to dissolve half his holdings to grant him his inheritance early; he’s already taken off for a distant land, apparently eager to put as much distance between himself and his family as possible; he’s already prodigiously wasted all his money; and he’s already been caught up in a famine and unable to find any work beyond feeding pigs. And that’s where things really start to get interesting….

Because as he’s sitting there, all bummed out and ready to feast on the slop he’s giving the pigs, it occurs to him that the poorest of his father’s employees are – right this very moment – eating better than he is. And so he decides to go to his father, admit his mistake, and beg forgiveness. A classic story of repentance, right? Maybe, maybe not.

For most of my life, when I got to this point of the story I assumed the son is being genuine. He realizes what an obnoxious, ungrateful punk he’s been and so apologizes. But a few years ago, I saw a painting that portrayed the moment he “comes to himself,” and the artist didn’t sketch him as remorseful and sad but instead as conniving and scheming. Like maybe he realizes that his old man is a sucker. Like maybe he figures he can con his way back into his father’s good graces.

And the thing is, we have no way of knowing, even from the most careful reading of the passage, which interpretation is right. Sincere or scheming, genuine repentance or a total con. We just can’t know. I want to believe he’s sincere because that seems only fair. I mean, we all make mistakes, and if we admit them and apologize, then maybe we deserve a little grace. That’s the way repentance works, right? But what if he’s just jerking his dad around again? What if, to borrow a line from Hamilton, he’s still an obnoxious, arrogant, loudmouth bother? Then he absolutely doesn’t deserve the forgiveness of his father.

Keep in mind, however, that this whole story starts because the good people of Jesus’ day – the faithful people, the religious people, the law-abiding people – are pretty upset that Jesus is hanging out with all these folks that Luke names “sinners.” (And Luke, I have to admit, isn’t using “sinner” in the Reformation sense that “we’re all sinners” but instead as a designation for those whose behavior has been so egregiously bad that the whole community knows about it.) I think that if Jesus hung out with these folks and they all shaped up and changed their lives and started going to synagogue and all the rest, maybe the Pharisees and scribes would’ve been more accepting. I mean, they, too, love a good repentance story. But, apparently, that hasn’t happened, at least not yet. Apparently, they’re still sinners.

And so maybe Jesus tells a story about a sincerely repentant son in order to reassure everyone that he’s confident these sinners, like the prodigal, will eventually come around. Or maybe he tells a story about a son who remains a complete jerk right up to the very end to emphasize that God will not give up on anyone, even those who never even seem to realize they’re lost.

We just can’t tell. And I don’t think that’s an accident. I think St. Luke – one of the finest writers in the biblical canon or, for that matter, beyond it – is being deliberately ambiguous. Why? Because after a couple of parables clearly about repentance, Luke perhaps wants to shift the attention from the repentant sinner back to the forgiving God. That is, I’m not sure it matters whether the younger son is repentant or not.

Take the reunion scene, for instance. I don’t know if you noticed, but when the son gets back home and starts out with the speech he’s rehearsed, he barely gets into it before his father interrupts him. As Luke narrates, “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 servants, ‘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.”

So whether his confession is sincere or not, he doesn’t even get to finish it, never quite reaching the “treat me like a hired servant” part because the father is smothering him in a bear hug and ordering the servants to bring him clothes and shoes and a ring – the mark of an heir – and ordering a banquet and calling for a party. Why? Because he doesn’t care if his son is sincere or not. He’s just so, so glad he’s back.

Maybe we read this as a repentance story because the repentance formula – screw up, apologize, receive grace – makes sense to us. Whereas the foolish, extravagant, reckless – dare I say prodigal – love of the father doesn’t. Or at least it seems a little risky, a bit unsettling, perhaps even indulgent.

Or maybe I’d like to think the son is sincere because I’d like to think I’m sincere. You know what I mean? I’d like to think that I learn from my mistakes, that when I hurt someone I always apologize, that when I do in fact apologize I really mean it, and that, finally, I’m eager to amend my ways and each and every day get a little better in every way. But I know that’s not true. I mean, sometimes I’m sincere and sometimes I’m not. Sometimes I learn and sometimes I don’t. Sometimes I’m really sorry for the mistakes I make, and sometimes I’m just bummed out I got caught.

And maybe that’s the point, Dear Partner. God doesn’t really care in the end. Oh, of course God hopes we repent and learn and love each other better over time. But whether we do or not isn’t, finally, the issue. The issue is that God loves us so much God doesn’t wait for our confessions to forgive us. God doesn’t wait for us to come to our senses to love us. God doesn’t wait for sincerity to redeem us. God just comes after us, running toward us pell-mell like that desperate, crazy-in-love, just-glad-we’re-home father.

Why? Because in the end this story isn’t nearly as much about a reckless, even wasteful and extravagant son as it is about a reckless, and even wasteful and extravagant God who has so much forgiveness to grant that God dishes it out with abandon, so much grace to offer that God pours it upon us whether we deserve it or not, so much love to share that God simply can’t hold back but lavishes it upon us so recklessly that it’s just plain hard to believe. Until, that is, Jesus goes all the way to Jerusalem and the cross to show us just how serious God is about loving us, accepting, and forgiving us just as we are. Perhaps Luke tells a deliberately ambiguous story so as to be unambiguously clear about God’s determination to go after and win back all of God’s children, whether they’re truly repentant or not, whether they’re deserving or not, whether they even want to be saved or not.

So perhaps the opportunity before us this week, Dear Partner, is to give our folks a little room to admit that perhaps at just this moment they are sincere in their confession of faith and delighted to be here, or maybe they’re not and are at church out of a sense of duty or obligation. Maybe, just now, their faith is transparent and strong, or maybe they don’t know what to believe and are having a hard time faking it. Or maybe they’re somewhere in between. The thing is, whatever they’re feeling right now matters, of course… but not nearly as much as we may think; not nearly as much, at least, as it matters that God just plain loves and accepts us them as they are, right here, right now, wherever they may be.

Narrative ambiguity that leads to homiletical certainty: the affirmation that we worship a prodigal God who loves us so recklessly, extravagantly, even wastefully that God will simply not give up on us, not let go of us, not turn away from us… ever. That, Dear Partner, is a message that just may preach this week, and I’m grateful for your willingness to venture it.

Yours in Christ,

David