Prodigal God

It is a great mistake to think of it as the story of one son. We call it the parable of the prodigal son, but as Tim Keller unfolds in his book The Prodigal God, it is really the story of two sons, and we are meant to compare and contrast them or we will miss the radical heart of it. Jesus tells this parable to show us that nearly every idea the human race has ever had about how to connect with God falls short — and to offer something completely different.

When Christianity first appeared, no one even recognized it as a religion. The Romans called Christians atheists, because what they said about God sounded like no religion anyone knew. Where is your temple? We have none; we are the temple. Where is your sacrifice? One sacrifice was offered once for all. Where is your priest? We have one High Priest in heaven, and we are all priests. Where are your rules? We have one — to love others the way we have been loved. They were right. Christianity is not a religion, not one more system by which people climb up to save themselves. Jesus came to show a different way: how God came down to save us. And this parable shows why.

Two Sons, Both Lost

The story opens with a shocking demand. The younger son asks for his share of the estate — which, in that culture, was as good as wishing his father dead. He wanted his father's things but not his father; the relationship had become only a means to an end. And astonishingly, the father grants it, dividing his living between his sons at real cost to himself. When the boy finally comes to his senses in a distant country, it is not fear of judgment or hope of reward that turns him homeward, but the memory of his father's love. Yet even then he underestimates it, planning to earn his way back as a hired servant. He never gets the chance. The father sees him far off, and — casting aside all dignity — runs to him, embraces him, clothes him in the best robe, and puts a ring on his hand, restoring him fully as a son before he can clean himself up or prove a thing.

Then comes the elder brother, and here the parable turns. He is furious that the father would spend the family wealth to welcome the runaway home. He will not go into the feast. He insults his father, refusing even to call him father, and protests, 'All these years I have served you and never disobeyed.' And the father comes out to him, too, and pleads just as tenderly: my child, I still want you at the feast; please come home.

Jesus Redefines God

Keller draws out three things Jesus does through this story, and the first is that He redefines God. Many of us grew up picturing God as mainly harsh and severe, quick to crush any challenge to His authority. But in this parable God endures the agony of rejected love — twice — and each time is willing to lose His own dignity and give up His own rights to have His children back. The father is prodigal, which simply means recklessly extravagant. He is extravagant in his love toward you. Yes, God is mighty and strong, but His strength shows itself most in His love and tenderness toward His children.

Jesus Redefines Sin

In the younger son, Jesus paints a very traditional picture of sin — the reckless living everyone can point to and say, 'Yes, that is a sinner.' But by the end, in the elder brother, He shows something we would never have guessed: here are two sons, one very bad and one very good, and both are alienated from their father's heart. Each one wanted the father's things rather than the father himself. One pursued them by being very bad; the other by being very good. Both were lost — and it was the openly bad one who came home, while the respectable one stayed outside.

That is the sharp edge of the story. The elder brother is lost not in spite of his goodness but because of it. 'I have never disobeyed you,' he says — it is his record, not his rebellion, that keeps him from the feast. Luke tells us two kinds of people were listening to Jesus: tax collectors and Pharisees. The two sons are those two crowds — and two ways every human being tries to reach God. Keller names them self-discovery and moral conformity. Self-discovery says, be yourself, follow your heart, let no one impose their rules on you. Moral conformity says, keep the rules, work hard, deny yourself, and your life will go well. Each side is sure that people like them make the world better. Jesus says both are wrong, both are lost. The proud are out and the humble are in — only those who know they need the Father's grace.

So the deeper question is never simply what you do, but why. As Flannery O'Connor wrote of one of her characters, there was a dark, nameless conviction in him that the way to avoid Jesus was to avoid sin. If you believe that because you love people, read your Bible, and go to church, God therefore owes you His blessing, then Jesus may be your example or your helper, but He is not your Savior — you are still trying to save yourself. Religious people obey God to get things from Him; gospel people obey God to get God.

Jesus Redefines Salvation

Third, Jesus redefines salvation. Neither self-discovery nor moral conformity goes deep enough, because the default setting of every human heart — religious or irreligious — is to be its own savior and lord. We need the initiating love of the Father, who goes out to both sons. The father's welcome brings about the son's repentance, not the other way around. And we need to learn to repent of more than our sins. The younger son had a long list of wrongs to bring home; the elder son had no list at all — that was precisely his problem.

What is the difference between a Christian and a moralist? A Christian repents not only of the wrong things they have done, but of the reasons behind the right things they have done — the self-justifying desire to put God in their debt and control Him. When that realization lands, everything changes. This is what it means to be born again: to lay down the deadly goodness we have piled up in the hope of earning God's favor, and to stand complete in Christ alone. You stop slaving to be a Christian, because you finally see what it cost to bring you home.

The True Elder Brother

Here is the note the parable leaves ringing. It cost the elder brother dearly to bring the younger one home — every bit of that inheritance now belonged to him. Someone always has to pay. And Someone has. His name is Jesus. He is the true Elder Brother the younger son never had, the one who would spend every resource, travel to the far country, and hold nothing back to bring us home. When you see that, your motivation is transformed at the root. The reason you love is that you have been loved. The reason you give is that you have been given. The reason you pray is that Someone prayed for you first.

That is Christianity, and it is not religion — it is life. It is the Father, in Keller's telling of Jesus' story, calling out to both the wild younger son and the dutiful elder son: come into the feast. The parable ends without telling us what the elder brother decided, because we are in the story, and Jesus is inviting each of us to finish it ourselves. Salvation is coming home — coming to rest in a love you did not earn and cannot lose. So whoever you are, whichever son you have been, hear the welcome: this is home. Come in, come and rest. The Father's love for you is far greater than your exile.