I’ve done some meditation lately around the prodigal son. His story is an interesting one: blessed with an abundance of wealth, he foregoes prudence and elects to gallivant about, indulging every whim and, promptly, depleting his gifts. He winds up destitute, alone, and far from home.
This parable of Jesus’s has always been a source of hope to me. The prodigal assesses his situation and elects to return home. He cannot possibly do so with much expectation; in fact, when he arrives at his father’s house, he begs even a lowly position. But his father, overjoyed to see him again, embraces him, draws him in, and throws a banquet in his honor.
My door is always open, I have imagined Jesus saying. Though we exhaust years resisting God’s love and generosity, it remains always available to us, if we but ask. Home in God is, indeed, a radical kind of home.
It strikes me this week how different Jesus’ return to his own earthly home was. By the time he returns to Jerusalem, he and the apostles have been all around Israel, they witnessing his great acts, he performing miracles and teaching. His fame precedes him into the city. He may have had every reason to expect a grand reception. And, indeed, he initially receives one; the gospel tells us that the crowd spread their cloaks on the road before him, made his path laden with palm branches, and exalted him as he rode in. These reverent acts seem much deserved; unlike the prodigal, he has not embarrassed his father’s household. Rather, he has made its name great.
And yet, for Jesus there is no fatted calf. There is no banquet. There is no happily ever after. Shortly after his arrival in the city, he is betrayed and murdered. The results of that have reverberated through our theology down through the ages.
One could claim that my distress over considering these stories side by side arises only because I’ve misunderstood them. The moral of the parable of the prodigal son is not that we deserve to be welcomed home no matter our transgressions; it is rather a story that praises the son’s eventual humility, the father’s boundless generosity and which cautions against the brother’s jealousy. Obviously, Jesus’ story is neither a painful lesson that, no matter how boundless our virtues, we are not guaranteed an easy go; his story, theologians have taught us, relates more to incarnation, atonement, and grace.
All of this is true. But beyond these truths are internalized readings; and, in connection to the approaching holidays, I can’t help but think about how both stories have much to say about the fragile nature of returning home.
We are, obviously, expected to be more like the father of the prodigal than we are to be like the Roman community which demanded the homecoming Jesus’ crucifixion. The scriptures enjoin us to maintain an open door, as well as an open heart. Jesus’ spirit is a generous one; he operates in a mode of grace. If we wish to call ourselves Christ-like, so too must we be generous, and channels for grace.
But these stories also have something to say about what we expect from one another. To enter a former home, or the home of another, cloaked in deference belies our equal dignity as co-humans; it inhibits hospitality for all involved, which does damage that requires correcting. If we are invited in to another’s space, it seems best to enter with an open spirit, relegating to back burners questions of whether we have earned such hospitality. Love, under heaven, is something that perhaps none of us have earned, but which the story of Jesus tells us we all deserve.
And yet the other side of this is that temperance is still required. To bustle back home with an inflated sense of self, expecting to have our path marked by flower petals and bordered by grateful hosts, is as irresponsible as instantaneous deference. It leaves us vulnerable to volatile situations which humility might illuminate; it, too is a barrier to hospitality. Learning this lesson does not imply blaming Christ for his fate; the gospels tell us that Jesus’s knowledge transcended our own, and so he did not enter Jerusalem, or any situation, unaware of impending situations. We receive Jesus’ grace but not his foresight. What he could anticipate, we cannot.
What both of these stories lack, and which makes homecoming, in theory, so worthwhile, is mutual trust. The prodigal, because he has not earned a warm reception, does not trust his father to give it; the Roman community, though Jesus has proven himself worthy of a hearty welcome, refuses to trust in his goodness enough to get it. While the prodigal son has the fortunate surprise of being granted unearned and conditionless love, Jesus falls victim to Rome’s suspicion. Their stories are extremes; but they also highlight the dangers of refusing intimate connections with others.
And so I offer an Easter prayer—for all of us, wherever we may find ourselves: may our tables be open, may access to them be freely and lovingly offered. And may our entrance into other circles be easy; may we find others as welcoming as we strive to be. May we exemplify grace. In no way can I imagine more thorough rejoicing; how better to convey our gladness in God.
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