Sunday, April 6, 2025
1.
“And then they begin,” the story goes, “then they begin to celebrate.”
The father—the weary, heartbroken, but patient father—sprinting up the road to greet the younger son. And not just greeting him there, not just a fist bump or a peck on the cheek—but throwing his arms around the boy, and kissing him over and over and over. As if he’s spent every hour since the boy’s departure imagining just this very moment, praying for it. Isn’t this the only resurrection that really matters? The kind of love that bears all things, believes all things, hopes all things, endures all things? And then: isn’t this same parable an invitation, our invitation, to radically unreasonable mercy, the kind of mercy that resists fatigue and frustration and waits as long it takes, the kind of mercy that blasts a heart-shaped hole in the walls we so proudly build and protect?
Jesus is a wonderful storyteller. And this is perhaps not just his finest, but his theological masterpiece. A resurrection story. The younger son asking just for a job, but the father calling for a party, for a feast, for the fatted calf and the best band around and dancing into the wee hours. The ring for the boy’s finger and sandals for his feet. “For this son of mine was dead,” he says, “and is alive again; he was lost and is found!”
And this is the moment, Jesus says, this is the moment they begin to celebrate. A kind of Easter moment. The dead are alive again; the lost are found! Can you imagine all those sweet reunions, a feast for all five senses, a community at peace—shalom and salaam, shalom and salaam? Can you hear the laughter and the loving, the music and the dancing, a community made whole by joy? Resurrection and reunion. Resurrection and communion. Resurrection and a community made whole.
2.
Except it’s not, right? It’s not yet whole.
So often in his storytelling, Jesus keeps his hand partially hidden, plays his cards slowly and deliberately. And then: there’s something to shake things up, something to shake the story upside down, something to shake us up and make us wonder. All over again.
If this parable is indeed a resurrection story—and I believe that it is—it’s a resurrection interrupted. It’s a reunion incomplete. It’s a community yet to be fully realized. Right? Because out there in the field, nursing a handful of grievances (and one or two may be justified), the elder son is angry. Yes, they’ve got the best band around playing foot-stomping happy tunes. And yes, they’ve killed the fatted calf and put the ring on the young son’s finger. And yes, they’ve begun to celebrate.
But it turns out that this resurrection story is just getting started. This resurrection story is a work in progress. This resurrection story is going take some time to play out. Because something’s going on out there in the field, and the elder son’s not so sure about any of it. Not quite ready for Easter Sunday.
Some years ago, the wonderful scholar Amy Jill Levine noticed something many of us had missed in this story. And that is: that by the time the elder son hears about the celebration, by the time he catches wind of his brother’s return and the festivities planned around it—the party is well under way. The fatted calf has already been killed. The band’s already been hired—and, by the way, they’ve already set up and are well into their first or maybe their second set. What’s up with that? she asked. The timing seems a bit off, to be honest.
And then, these unsettling questions. Could it be that the father forgets about the son working his heart out in the field every day? Could it be that he truly has taken that boy for granted? He certainly doesn’t see fit to send word out—about this once-in-a-lifetime celebration. He certainly doesn’t give him advance notice, so he can plan his work day around the feast, or come in early to get cleaned up, or any of that. What’s up with all that? How is it that this lovely, loving, merciful man—who’s shown such overwhelming grace to the long-lost son—can have a blind spot in his heart for the needs and hopes and vulnerabilities of the other one?
The elder son gets a bum rap—through most of biblical history—as an ingrate. But maybe it’s just that he’s not been singled out for an invitation.
Maybe, Amy Jill Levine goes on to wonder, maybe this is a more complicated tale about ways the father comes to grips with his own oversight, and recognizes the absence of the other son, uninvited and ignored; and then, how he goes out to apologize and make things right. Maybe, then, it’s an important reminder to faith communities to resist any sense of perfection and continue to listen and watch for those who’ve been left out, or seem unimportant, or rendered invisible, or deemed unwanted in our midst. Maybe the resurrection is a work in progress, a celebration that’s just beginning; and maybe the whole point is that God’s beloved seek out the weary who can’t imagine there’s a place at God’s table, and the stubborn who are so hard on themselves they’d rather despair than dance, and the outcasts who’ve been turned away and mocked over and over again. This Easter story, you see, our Easter story: it’s just getting started. There’s some ground yet to cover.
3.
And, of course, our rainbow of lights is one way—and a dramatic way—to communicate a sacred and generous invitation to a world of friends who have to assume, sadly, that churches are hostile and unwelcoming places. That even our table is forever unavailable, and our fellowship sadly and harshly judgmental. Gestures like ours matter a lot. Breaking down the well-earned reputation of American churches. And I hear every day from Durham friends, and UNH students, who are so grateful for the visibility of our message! The radically inclusive spirit of this church!
But just the same I’m struck by the father’s decision—in Jesus’ parable—to leave the celebration for a bit, to step out into the field where the older boy’s waiting and maybe (let’s be honest) brooding. I’m struck by the importance of that one-to-one conversation, that father-and-son conversation, about all the things that go on in family life, and all the feelings, and all the reasons for not letting go. To know the one missing from our celebration is to go and sit and listen. To open the doors that seem so long locked is to look him in the eye and ask why.
And this is a reminder, I think, that we be mindful of those who may not feel as welcome at this table as we do. And let’s be really honest. There are still so, so many. It’s a reminder that there may be, there will be, opportunities for generous and honest conversation. It’s a reminder that welcoming those traditionally shut out or even shamed by religion sometimes means going to them, not waiting for them to come to us, but going to them with humility and compassion and a listening heart. Not to cajole and convince. But to wonder together, listen to one another, and explore shared values and needs.
There’s no guarantee that the father will be persuasive out there, in the field. But he’s out there—and that’s the thing.
4.
I grew up, as many of us did, thinking of the father in the parable as a lovely, sweet and accessible image of God. And I think this works. I’ll always cherish that one scene where the heartbroken man comes rushing and bounding from his kitchen to wrap the lost boy in his arms, and shower him with big kisses and sweet love and holy tears. There’s a God I can believe in. Father or mother, male or female, non-binary or trans: doesn’t really matter. It’s all about the love, the mercy, the heart.
But let’s not miss the rich and challenging fullness of this story, and Jesus’ intention in sharing it. It’s a story, I think, about God in us, and God’s passion for community with us, and God’s patience in building community one conversation at a time, one hard conversation at a time, one honest and searching conversation at a time. It’s a story about God’s patience in building a beloved community where none are shamed, and all are cherished. And it’s about leaving some comforts behind, and even some celebrations behind, to seek out the one we may have missed, the one who may have been unseen or even invisible to us.
Yes, this is a resurrection story. And this kind of resurrection is a work in progress, it’s a lifetime of inclusion and patient searching, it’s going to take some time.
But that’s just as it should be. Every celebration, every feast, every reunion takes time. Let’s enjoy the process. Let’s delight in the privilege of seeking and finding, even of being lost and being found. For in all this we discover the One Love that will never leave us forsaken, the One Love that will always wait on our return.
Amen and Ashe.
