“Being Lost”
March 30, 2025
Rev. Rebecca Migliore
This is one of the most beloved parables of all time. Whose heart doesn’t weep as the younger son acts foolishly and gets himself into “expected” trouble? Whose heart doesn’t have hope as the younger son decides to return home? And whose heart doesn’t beat faster as we see the Father run to welcome him? We notice the older son sulking on the porch while the rest of the household is celebrating, but forget him, let’s party!
As many of you know, this parable is one of a set of three. The parable of the lost sheep, the parable of the lost coin, and the parable of prodigal (“lost”) son. Seen in this context, we can surmise that Jesus is most interested in the seeker, the finder, the welcomer—the one who is God’s stand-in. These parables are told because the Pharisees and the scribes were horrified that Jesus was allowing tax collectors and sinners to listen to him. And so, Jesus reminds them of how they might act in some situations.
What if you had 100 sheep? Wouldn’t you go try to find the 1 that had gotten itself lost? The answer is YES. So does God, says Jesus. What if you had 10 coins, and lost one? Wouldn’t you search everywhere to find it? The answer is YES. So does God, says Jesus. Jesus is trying to get through our thick skulls that God is very interested in finding the lost, in searching for the lost, in welcoming the lost back into the fold. So why wouldn’t Jesus invite the lost (ie, the tax collectors--who were in league with the Empire oppressing them all!—and sinners of all stripes), why wouldn’t Jesus invite THEM to be around? Isn’t that exactly who God is looking for?
With that in mind, let’s turn to the story of a lost son. It’s interesting that when we get to this story, our perception sometimes gets warped. We know this story so well. We love this story. We see ourselves in this story.
Yes, this is a story all about how someone (like us) who might have lost their way, turns their life around (changes their heart?—like we talked about last week), and returns to the Father, to the homestead (read kin[g]dom) and is welcomed and all is well!
But is that really what the parable is all about? I mean, the two other parables focus on the seeker: the shepherd, the woman. Why would we think this one is focused on the lost? And why did we (those who named this story) focus only on one lost son. Yes there is a lost son who features prominently in the story. But what about the other son—the older one, the one who has not gone away, but been faithful to the Father and the estate. The ending of the parable (which we didn’t hear in our Sung Scripture) makes it apparent that this older son, by being absent from the party, by withholding his participation in his Father’s celebration, he, too, is lost in some way. And in the parable, he hasn’t yet come to know it.
Let’s leave that to the side for a minute. Let’s put our focus squarely where Jesus seems to be leading us—on the Father. On this one who acts beyond what most of us would be capable of. This Father allows one of his sons to ask for his inheritance early (almost as if that son is saying—you’re dead to me, give me what I might get later). And the Father gives him his part of the inheritance, probably knowing what is going to happen next.
Staying with the Father, we can only imagine that this son’s absence is a daily, hourly, constant source of pain. The Father must always have one eye out for the possible return of his lost child. Because when our prodigal does appear on the horizon, the Father, while the son is still a long way off—before anyone else has any idea that the younger son might be back—the Father sees him. And his heart swells (he has compassion for him). We can only imagine what this son looked like and probably smelled like. He’s been living with pigs. He’s been eating pig food (there’s a reason they call it slop). But the Father knows his son—from far off.
And runs to meet him, and puts his arms around him (no matter what might transfer itself onto his clean beautiful garments) and kisses him.
And when the younger son tries to recite his rehearsed speech—the Father waves it off, and calls for servants to bring a new robe, a ring for his finger, sandals for his feet. (We assume that maybe he might get a bath before all this!) And also, the Father says to the servants, get the fatted calf and kill it, and cook it. For this is a day of celebration—my son who was dead is now alive, who was lost is now found.
Amazing grace. Mercy past understanding. Especially if one has even the slightest inkling that this son who has behaved pretty poorly might be acting mostly on his own best interests. Matthew Boulton of SALT makes a good argument that this prodigal isn’t really sorry about what he’s done. He’s hungry. And maybe his motivation isn’t to get right with his father, but to worm his way back into the household, because he remembers that even the hired hands are well fed. And so he rehearses this speech that he will pitch to his father (and probably knowing the old man well, realizes that he’s not going to have to be a hired hand!). But he’ll act contrite if that is what it takes.
If we look at the story this way, being the prodigal (which we often imagine we are) doesn’t seem to be so attractive. Maybe he has had a change of heart. Maybe he doesn’t. The point is: It doesn’t make a difference to the Father. It doesn’t make a difference to God. And that is a slap in the face to the Pharisees and scribes who had spent their lives living confined by the law, so sure that God only forgives those who practice every jot and tittle. This is a shocking suggestion of a God who mercy is wide and deep and broad and unimaginable. Where is the justice of that? Where is the justice of giving one who has not borne fruit one more chance and one more chance and one more chance? Where is the repentance? Isn’t that important? I think we can see where the Pharisees and scribes and a lot of us might be scratching our heads at the picture Jesus is creating.
Isn’t this all about being lost? About finding ourselves? About turning towards God, returning to God? Isn’t it about us? Hmmmm. Let’s just spend a moment with the other son.
The older one, the one who has gone to church all through his life, and never disrespected the Father, never went off and broke as many commandments as possible, never even thought about it. He comes in from the fields and hears the celebration. And when he finds out why—he is pretty mad. He won’t come into the house. He won’t greet his brother, or raise a glass to his being home. And what does the Father do? The Father sees his son from far off and has compassion. He goes out to wherever this son is, and invites him in. He listens to his son’s anger at the unfairness of it all. And he tries to tell his side of the story.
You have been here all along. All I have is yours. But we have to celebrate because your brother is back home. And now we get the second repetition in the story. He was dead and has come to life, he was lost and has been found. It’s interesting how the Father puts it in this second telling. The prodigal has “come to life.” The prodigal “has been found.” Notice that that doesn’t sound like something that the prodigal necessarily did himself. Who brought him back to life? Who found him? I think Jesus is suggesting that the finder, the one who brings resurrection, is God.
What grabbed me the most this week as I was musing on this parable, is that there are two lost sons here. One goes away physically. And one pulls away emotionally, mentally, in his heart. But there is a difference between the sons. One of them, for whatever reason, figures out he is lost, and turns towards his home. One of them, for whatever reason, doesn’t think he is lost, and stays outside of the house, away from the celebration. The Father welcomes both of them, wants both of them, has compassion on both of them. Finds both of them. Offers life, and life abundant, to both them. The Father, the stand-in for God—offers mercy and grace, offers a home and a family, offers steadfast, unending love.
I can imagine that the scribes and Pharisees were not too pleased. I know that it is mind-bending to try to understand the love of God, the mercy of God, the grace of God. Especially if we don’t think we’re lost. Especially if we think we’ve done everything that we could to be good children.
But it isn’t just about us. It’s about us trying to mirror the Father. And so we have to get over ourselves if we happen to be standing outside the house, outside where God is. We have to discover that we still have things to change about ourselves. We have to hear God’s invitation once again. We have to stop making it all about us—about us finding ourselves.
We have to allow ourselves to be found. And we have to celebrate whenever God is throwing a party. We have to see the ones that God invites as God sees them—beloved children, found once again, alive once again, back in the Father’s arms once again. When we come to the Lord’s table, it isn’t just because we remember that last supper. It is also because it is a foretaste of the banquet, the celebration, that God has waiting for us—all of us. It is a glimmer of the eating and drinking and reveling that happens as all that is lost is found, all that is dead becomes alive again.
Whichever son we are at the moment, we can be sure, that God will continue to make us marvel at who God is and what love God has for us. And if we have the ears to listen, we will always hear God’s welcoming call. If we have the eyes to see, we will always smile at God running to meet us. And if we know we are lost, God is always ready to find us, and to invite us in, to join with everyone else God has found.
Let the celebration begin. Amen and Amen.