Sermon - “The Brother’s Response” - The Prodigal Son, Part 2
The Rev. Leah D. Schade
August 13, 2006
Texts:  Luke 15:11b-32

We’re not so different, you know.  My younger brother and me.  We both left our father’s house.  He was greedy and foolish.  But I left because of my pride.

I left that very day of the party, the day my brother came home.  At first, I thought I was angry at my brother.  That ungrateful little ne’er-do-well.  But, no, the person I was really angry with was my father.  I just could not believe he would welcome home that son of his, after what he’d done.  Squandered everything.  Took it all for granted.  I knew I couldn’t share a house with them at that point.  I couldn’t sit down to a meal with them without choking on my food. 

So I left.

If this is what kind of father you are, I told him, I want no parts of it.  You had me all this time and you took me for granted.  You want your younger son back so bad, fine.  But you’re losing your eldest.  

I took only my clothes with me when I left.  I didn’t ask for any inheritance, like that irresponsible younger brother of mine.  No sir, I intended to live frugally, independently, to prove to my father that I did not need him. 

And that’s exactly what I did.  And let me tell you, it was a struggle.  That famine lasted a long time.  But I was smart.  I knew how to manage an estate.  It’s what I was trained to do.  I very quickly found a household in need of a manager, and they hired me on the spot.   

Of course I became very successful.  I was well-respected.  The owner of that estate knew I ran a tight ship.  I made the rules.  I made sure people followed the rules.  And if you messed up, out you went.  My motto:  Life is too short for second chances.

I had the highest expectations, and got the best results.  And don’t think that I didn’t  expect any less of myself.  There’s was nothing that I required of my employees that I didn’t require of myself.  In fact, I held myself to the highest standards of them all.   No one could look at me and call me a slacker.  No sir.  No one could accuse me of being lazy, or say that I wasn’t pulling my weight.  I did more than my fair share.  I only wished my father had been able to appreciate that. 

Looking back now, I will say that my success did cost me something.  I had very little time to enjoy myself.  Not that I thought that much of it at the time, I was always so busy.  And not that I would have had anyone to enjoy it with.  Being that driven also drove me away from anyone who would want to get close to me. 

And I guess you could say it cost me my health.  My younger brother may have been addicted to pleasure.  But I was addicted to work.  I have the heart condition and the ulcers to prove it.  

I think maybe I drove myself so hard just to spite my father.  I’ll tell you, holding a grudge can be a seductive illusion of power.  I was using my rage to empower myself.  It was like a fire inside of me that gave me energy.  What I didn’t realize is that it was also burning me up inside, physically, emotionally and, I guess, spiritually.


Not that I’ve ever been that spiritual.  I’ve never had time for religion and all that “pie in the sky by and by” stuff.  But there did come a point in my life when I began questioning things.  You know, as you get older, your priorities change.  Things begin to shift a little in your head.  And this nagging question kept creeping into my brain:  What do you do when you have it all  . . . and realize that you have nothing?

That’s about the time when something happened to me that . .  well, it changed me.  There was this roaming prophet around these parts who had been quite a rabble rouser.  I’d heard him preach a few times. I swear he and my father must have been cut from the same cloth.  Always hanging out with the dregs of society, welcoming them, eating with them, partying with them.  I never liked that guy.  In fact, I was glad when they arrested him.  I thought that would put him in his place, teach him a lesson, get him to calm down a little.

What I didn’t expect was to see him paraded before the crowds, with everyone shouting out for him to be crucified.  I mean, I didn’t agree with him, but I certainly didn’t think they ought to kill him for what he preached. 

But that’s exactly what they did.  I watched him carry that cross all the way to the dump at Calvary.  I don’t know why, but I couldn’t tear myself away as I saw them hammer those nails into his wrists and feet, and hoist him up on those wooden planks.  I just stood and stared at him.  And I had the most awful vision.  I looked at him . . . and saw my father’s face.    And I saw my own face on those Roman soldiers, on those Pharisees gathered around, mocking the prophet as he hung there, gasping for breath.

And then I heard him say something like, “Father, forgive them, for they know not what they do.”  And I began to weep.  And I just started running.  I ran down the hill, away from that place, past the city gate, all the way to the field behind my father’s house.  I stood in the exact spot where I last spoke to my father, so many years ago. 

And for the first time, I saw things clearly.  I saw just how similar I was to my younger brother.  Both of us cut ourselves off from the love of our father.  He thought he could find what he needed in material things  I thought I could find what I needed in my success and my favored position.

Both of us squandered our father’s love.   He took it for granted, devalued it, wasted it.  And I did exactly the same thing - I wasted the time I did spent  with my father by not learning the true nature of his love.  I had him all those years and took him for granted.

And we both found ourselves in the midst of a famine.     My brother was cut off from physical food.  But I was cut off from spiritual and emotional nourishment.

And, ironically, both of us were out in a field when we were confronted with the inner darkness inside of us.  He was out in some pig field.  And it was happening for me right here in my father’s field.

Both my brother and I were lost, although for different reasons.  You see, my younger brother’s plight was so easy to see.  Pigs and pods . . . it doesn’t get much worse than that.  It was plain to see where he was and what he needed to do.

But in some ways, I was more lost than he was. And I knew, standing there in that field, that it would take an even bigger miracle for me, because I was stubbornly determined not be found.  I didn’t foolishly wander away from the flock.  I deliberately stepped outside and made my own hierarchical flock, so that I could play God and mete out punishment the way I saw fit.

I made an idol of my status.  I was so strongly attached to being the favored child, the one who would surely be given the big party someday because I’ve paid my dues, walked the line, stayed on the straight and narrow. And what did I have now except my pride and my rules and my lonely, ulcerated success? 

I realized in that moment that God had led me to Calvary for a reason that day -- to come face to face with the demon within myself, and understand that I didn’t know how to get rid of it on my own.  I had to encounter God in the darkness there. I had to learn that the darkness is where God is. 

Standing in that field, something told me that I had let go of something.  But I wasn’t sure what it was or how to do it.  After so many years of being chained to this self-righteous rage, how could I move myself away from needing to be right all the time?  How could I open myself up to that love and forgiveness that my father so generously gave to my brother?  That the prophet had so unbelievably given to his killers?  But not only could I not forgive others, I couldn’t even forgive myself.  I had to be perfect, all the time.  I couldn’t accept their love, because it was an imperfect love.

I finally realized that the only way was to go back to my father.  I remembered his words to me out there in the field on that fateful day so many years ago.  He did not chastise or punish me for what I was feeling.  He took it all in, and then he tried to show me where he wanted me to be.  He tried to soften my heart.  He tried to show me the depth and breadth of his love.  But I could listen then.  I ran away. 

But not this time.  I couldn’t get that image of the cross or the prophet’s voice out of my head.  So I knew what I had to do.  I had my speech all prepared:

“Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you [because I have presumed to be judge and jury over both you and my brother];

I am no longer worthy to be called your son [because I have cut myself off from you, insulted you with my arrogance];

But I want to come home.  Treat me like one of your hired hands [because I realize that only with that kind of humbleness will I truly be able to experience your love].  I just want to come home.”

With those words in my head, I began walking across the field towards my father’s house.  As I approached the porch, I saw my father come out.  He looked much older now.  His hair was a shimmering white, and he was stooped a bit.  But he came ou to me, walking as fast as he could with his cane.  And he put his arms around me and he kissed him.  I began my speech:  “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you . . .”  But he cut me off, calling out for a robe to be brought, and the fatted calf to be killed, and  . .. well, I finally got the party I’d always wanted!  Tears were streaming down his face as he said, “You were dead and is alive again; you were lost but now you’re found!”

So does my story have a happy ending?  Honestly, I’m not sure yet.  To tell you the truth, I haven’t totally forgiven my brother.  I still don’t like him very much.   But we’ve . . . come to an understanding.  And there are times when I feel incredible guilt for how I acted toward my father.  But he treats both of us the same.  He has accepted both of us, demons and all, blessed us, held us, and released us. 

It will probably take the rest of my life to work through this.  Even after we have that moment of self-reckoning, when we “come to ourselves”, it doesn’t end there.  It takes a long time to live it out from there.

I still don’t understand it all.  I don’t understand how my father could love both us so dearly, so equally.  I don’t understand why that prophet had to die on that cross.  And I don’t understand the rumors floating around that he’s somehow been risen from the dead. 

All I know is I have tasted forgiveness.  And I cling to the words of that prophet, to the words of my father, every day of my life.  I’m not some saint, by any means.  I can still be an arrogant jerk and perfectionist when that demon gets the best of me. 

But my father seems to understand me, with all my faults.  And he loves me anyway.  And that love helps me to look that demon in the eye and embrace it, bless it and release it, no matter how many times it rears its ugly head.  I guess if my father can give me a second chance, I have to change my motto.  And I guess I can give myself one as well. 

Like I said, my story doesn’t have a “happily ever after.”  But it does have a fresh, “Once upon a time,” waiting for me, every day.

Sources: 
Wink, Walter; Unmasking the Powers, Fortress Press, Philadelphia, 1986

Estes, Clarissa Pinkola, Women Who Run With the Wolves, 1992, 1995, Ballantine Books, New York