Sermon: The Prodigal Son

Text: But 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. Luke 15.32

Years ago, 'Divvers' were 'Divinity Moderations', a qualifying examination in Divinity at Oxford, which at one time all undergraduates, whatever their degree, had to pass - not a bad idea, really! Oscar Wilde, in his viva voce examination, was required to translate from the Greek version of the New Testament, which was one of the set books. The passage chosen was from the story of the Passion. Wilde began to translate, easily and accurately. The examiners were satisfied, and told him that this was enough. Wilde ignored them and continued to translate. After another attempt the examiners at last succeeded in stopping him, and told him that they were satisfied with his translation. 'Oh, do let me go on,' said Wilde, 'I want to see how it ends.'

If he had tried it on the parable of the Prodigal Son he would have been in for a shock - because the ending is lacking, and that quite deliberately.

The beginning is clear enough (in one sense): it begins with the rebellion of the younger son. His behaviour is totally shameful. He presupposes the death of his father and demands that the estate be divided between him and his older brother, as it will be when the father is dead. Then he takes steps to make a quick realization of his wickedly acquired assets - and that is another unthinkably shameful act. He must be aware that he is burning his boats: if he ever returns to the village, he will be subject to the kezazah ceremony, which the village community refuses him entry to it and abandons him to his fate, cut off from human society.

The son seems oblivious to all this. Off he sets, to a far country, where he squanders his inheritance. Shamefully living a life of luxury, within the sight of Gentiles, he brings even further disgrace upon his family and upon his whole people. The world is his oyster, he has friends aplenty, and he lives the life of Riley - until he runs out of cash.

And then his poverty deepens, daily, weekly, until he is reduced to working with pigs. Reduced to eating the scraps which are left for the pigs, he dreams up a cunning plan.

This is no conversion, no repentance. He doesn't return to God, he doesn't return to his people. He returns to himself; he 'takes an interest in himself', he 'gets smart', and works out a cunning, self-serving plan. He needs employment, and it occurs to him that he can throw himself on his father's mercy, get work from him, and so earn his place in society again. That way he might, with his father's sponsorship, even avoid the shameful kezazah ceremony; after all, the old man let him have the money in the first place, so there's no reason to think he won't come to the rescue now.

Meanwhile his father, from his opulent house in the middle of the village, has been looking out daily for the son's return. Straining to look out every so often from high in the house - or from the roof - down the very road along which the son had left - how long ago was it, now? - he longs, he just longs, to see him again. Had he made the right decision? O, if only he could just see him again! His mother has not got over the shame, nor the experience of his departure, nor, of course, her love for her wayward little boy. OK, a father has to remain dignified, but he does miss him.

Then he sees him. Even if you can't see a face, there is always something in a walk, even if it is impaired by hunger and exhaustion. But there's no doubt about it, that's young Jacob down the road there, on his way back, back home.

And again, the father's action is absolutely scandalous. He gathers up his robes, dashes down from the top of the house, rushes out of the door and runs to the edge of the village. He falls on his son's neck, embraces him, kisses him, welcomes him home. And the son starts his prepared speech, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son....

But he is not able to continue. The father interrupts, 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 the son is dumbstruck. The banquet begins; and the older son comes home from working in the field, he hears the sound of partying and asks for the low-down from the most reliable source of information: one of the kids in the village. Your brother's here, and your dad has killed the fatted calf to celebrate.

The elder son - the law-keeper, as opposed to his brother, the law-breaker - is furious. Echoing the language of the story so far - this son of yours - and supplying some juicy embellishments about his brother's sexual tastes, he berates his father's generous behaviour. (Strange how, even when we are being legalistic, we can think imaginatively when it suits us!). And just as the father refrained from slapping his younger son for his insolence weeks, months, years before - whenever it was - he restrains himself now with his elder son, and explains.

Son, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But 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.

And there the story stops. Kenneth Bailey, upon whose work this reading of it is based, suggests that the father wants the story to end like this: And the older son entered the house, and joined in the festive banquet, and was reconciled to his brother and father.

And the father rejoiced with the two sons he had found and brought to life.

But it doesn't end like that. It ends in mid-air. It ends in uncertainty. Did he or didn't he? Will he or won't he?

Bailey also reminds his readers of the community context of the story; the father had a wife, who was the mother of the two brothers. They had neighbours, who witnessed what went on. They were prevented by the father's precipitate action from performing the kezazah ceremony - and they came to the party.

T.S. Eliot (Little Gidding 1942) observed, To make an end is to make a beginning. That was some party that can be heard around the non-ending of the story. It celebrated fellowship and reconciliation; it epitomized the father's generosity and effected a new beginning, certainly for the younger son; but also for the elder, if he could get over his anger at the father's generosity.

The first great Passover that took place in the land of Canaan - or rather, the first great Roll-over - was a new beginning, even though it marked the end of miraculous food. And the Christian Eucharist is the beginning of new life, even though it commemorates the death of Jesus.

And what about us? Our community is the world, one year on from the attack on Baghdad which launched the invasion of Iraq. We continue to squabble like childish brothers and sisters, but murderously. It is not surprising that The Sunday Times of last week, in the light of the Madrid bombings, could only manage the limp observation:

The lesson of Thursday's carnage ... is that terrorism can strike anywhere, at any time, without warning. The lesson also was that unity and defiance are the best response and that the war on terror will be long and hard.

And it is not surprising that The Observer could only contradict itself with, on the one hand, Our complicated, interdependent societies are particularly vulnerable to terrorism. We may have to act preemptively...., and on the other, Overturning the rule of law and suspending human rights are tempting options but must be resisted.

Parables are not just about what God is like; they are also about a new way of behaving. One day, Presidents and Prime Ministers are going to have to sit down with the law-keepers and the law-breakers - not just with 'those brothers and sisters of ours' among the children of Abraham, Isaac and Israel, but with all the children God across the globe - and they are going to have to chew over the future of a world in which cycles of recrimination can have no place; in which political grievances must give way to generosity and forgiveness, in which justice must mean not revenge, but an end to oppression, and the beginning of all the possibilities of beginning again. Or else none of us will survive.

We are not talking about a qualifying examination for a degree in an English university. We are talking about a way to live; we are not just reading and translating the Passion from Greek into English, but we are reading and translating the Passion from Christ to ourselves.

So the text is not the ending; the text is the beginning of a new life - for all who will hear it and live it: But 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.