Lent 4 C: The Prodigal God

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

Dear Partner in Preaching,

I found our exchange in the comments last week kind of fascinating. You probably don’t read the comments, so I’ll recap briefly. The exchange centered on how we understand the cross and was prompted by a statement I made that “the cross is not about punishment for sin.” Several folks questioned that, referencing Anselm’s substitutionary theory of atonement and the attendant Scriptural passages associated with it. I’ll say up front that I appreciated the conversation and the spirit in which we engaged. And I want also to say that Anselm’s view – echoed later by Thomas Aquinas, John Calvin, and Reformed theologians in North America – is one of the primary ways the Church, particularly in the West, has understood the cross and, indeed, is perhaps the dominant view today.

And yet all that notwithstanding, I have to say I find it utterly unconvincing and, indeed, rather off-putting and out of character with the God I know in Jesus. And this week’s parable helps me name why.

Anselm’s theory, to be brief, revolves around two conflicting impulses in God and how the cross solves what seems like an insurmountable dilemma. Because God is just, God must punish human sin. But because God is loving, God doesn’t want to punish humanity, let alone condemn us to hell. Enter Jesus, whom Anselm described as “the God-man.” Because Jesus is human, he can represent us before God and so God can punish Jesus instead of us. Because Jesus is God, his sacrifice is an equal exchange for all the sins we will ever commit.

I won’t go into all the reasons that I’m not wild about this theory, but two stand out. First, I don’t understand why God has to punish at all. Can’t God just forgive? We all do that all that time. Indeed, if “payment” has been made, then it seems inaccurate to call what God does forgiveness. Convenient, yes, but not forgiving. Second, I think this configuration pits divine love against divine justice and, frankly, justice wins out as it must be satisfied by suspending love for Jesus on the cross. Okay, enough. I realize others will disagree, and that’s fine.

What I find actually more fascinating than the theory – or objections to it – is the question of why it has such a hold on our theological imagination. And I think today’s famous parable explains helps to explain that.

We’re used to focusing on the younger son, I realize, often identifying with his taking off on his own, realizing he screwed up, and being overwhelmed by grace. It’s a classic story of forgiveness and repentance. (Actually, I’m not so sure it is, as I can’t tell whether he’s actually repentant or just conning his old man one more time, but that’s another story.)

But today I also want to focus on the other half of the story, the exchange between the landowner and his elder son. In fact, I’ve wondered if this parable sheds light on two very different reactions to grace. One – when you are totally down and out – is to receive it with surprise and delight. The other – when you have been working hard and trying your best – can be rather resentful, as it seems like it makes all your efforts overlooked at best and perhaps even worthless.

And I think these two responses reflect two dimensions of ourselves. One dimension – that of the elder son – reflects our life in the world and our need to keep track of things. To count, to make sure things add up, to quantify and measure and compare and the like. And all this counting is not for its own sake, but is in service of a larger goal: fairness. We track things not because we often need to, but to keep things fair, to make sure things are running right, and out of a concern for equity.

I think this is what makes the view of the cross as substitutionary punishment appealing – it all adds up. We have sin that demands punishment. Jesus is righteous and can take that punishment for us. God’s justice is upheld and, indeed, the whole thing is set in motion because God loves us and doesn’t want to have to punish us at all. This theory makes sense. God’s righteous anger at sin is satisfied and God’s love for humanity is also satisfied in that God didn’t have to condemn humans to a payment we could never make and punishment we could not endure. It is, in short, an accountant’s dream.

But as important as counting is, sometimes it just doesn’t work. Especially in relationships. I mean, imagine counting every good thing someone did for you and using that to judge how much they love you. Or imagine keeping track of every unhelpful or hurtful thing people in your life do to you and demanding payment. (Worse, imagine them demanding payment from you for your mistakes!)

It just doesn’t work. And so the landowner in Jesus’ parable does something landowners never do. He runs out to meet his wayward son the minute he spies him coming from afar. He doesn’t send a servant. He doesn’t wait for his son to come. He dashes down the road like no respectable landowner ever would, making a complete fool of himself. Why in the world, after all, would he be so eager to see a son who claimed his inheritance early (which is kind of like he said he couldn’t wait for his dad to be dead) and then wasted it all. Not only that, he doesn’t even give his son a chance to explain or repent but interrupts his sincere (or maybe half-baked, it doesn’t really matter) speech but instead embraces and restores him immediately. Trust me, all the other landowners will be talking about his ridiculous and demeaning behavior at the first-century equivalent of the Lion’s Club that week. But this landowner doesn’t care because he’s a parent before he’s a landowner and so he doesn’t count all the wrongs his son has done him but only tries to count his lucky and innumerable stars when his son comes back.

And if that’s not enough, he then does something a landowner would never do yet a second time when he goes out to speak to his elder son. He doesn’t call his son inside. He doesn’t relay a message by a servant. He goes out to plead with his son to come into the party. What should have been a command performance, in other words, turns into an embarrassing occasion where the landowner must beg his son to obedience. And all those who see him behave as no self-respecting landowner will be talking about this as well. But he doesn’t care, because before he’s a respectable landowner, he’s a parent who loves both his children more than anyone can measure.

And that’s when counting breaks down. When you love so much there is no scale adequate to calculate your devotion. The elder son, he counts, and you can hear his ill-fated calculations saturating everything he says: “all these years…,” “you never…,” “This son of yours….” But the landowner – I mean, father – doesn’t. Can’t. Love like this, you see, cannot be measured, tracked, or managed.

Which his why I think the cross is not a means of payment but rather shows us just how far our prodigal God will go to tell us of God’s immeasurable love. Period.

So wherever you stand on various theories of atonement, in the end, Dear Partner, tell your people this week that God loves them – fiercely, vulnerably, courageously…and unendingly. Whether they have wasted opportunity after opportunity or have been quietly working away faithfully and wondering when they’ll be noticed, God loves them. Whether they have welcomed others who are down and out or have judged others for not measuring up, God loves them. Whether they think this news is the best in the world or barely notice it, yet God loves them. Whether they’re in the church reluctantly or with joy, whether they have had a lifelong relationship with God, have just come to know God, or aren’t even sure God really exists, yet God loves them…truly, madly, and deeply.

Ultimately, Dear Partner, leave all the atonement stuff behind and just preach this, God’s unending and immeasurable love. And if you do, you’ll discover that while it may seem a rather simple message, for so many of your folks it’s just the word they need to hear. Thank you. Even more, thank God for you.

Yours in Christ,
David

 

Post image: “The Return of the Prodigal Son,” by James Tissot, 1862.