The French novelist Charles Peguy famously wrote that if, in some tragic cataclysm, all the copies of the Bible were lost, and only the one page containing the parable of "The Prodigal Son" was salvaged, we would still know the God whom Jesus Christ came to reveal, and could eventually reconstruct the entire Gospel message.  It is a text not only of literary genius, but layers upon layers of depth and meaning. 

So much is happening in this story: loss, betrayal, escape, despair, “coming to oneself”, return, forgiveness, resentment, and celebration. Hearing the parable for the first time, we tend to see it in terms of sin, repentance, and forgiveness.  But it is about so much more: the permanence of family ties, so that even when we feel most lost and disconnected from our roots, it is still possible to return home.  It rises to a beautiful climax, a tender scene of reconciliation, a joyful celebration. However, that bit at the end about the older brother, standing outside and refusing to come into the party, prevents the parable from ending with a full-flown “and they all lived happily ever after,” and makes it all the more real, true to life. 

For when we look at our own families, with their own histories of departures and separations, returns and reconciliation, unhealed resentments and breakdowns, we see what a master story-teller Jesus was: his deep insights into human nature and our need for healing and mercy in all our relationships: with loved ones, with ourselves, with God.  And his realization that indeed, not all resentments are healed, that “happily ever after” is not always the immediate result.

When this Gospel comes up in Lent, the parable of the Prodigal Son is told as an independent story.  But here, in Ordinary Time, it comes as the climax of a series of stories Jesus tells in response to a very specific accusation: “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”  So Jesus tells not one, but three stories, remarkably parallel in structure.  In each story:

1. someone or something is lost – a sheep, a coin, a son;
2. that someone or something is deemed so precious, so important, that all is put aside in order to the search for what is lost;
3. that which was lost, is eventually found;
4. this finding becomes a cause for joy and celebration. 

This story of loss and gain, of seeking and finding, is not just a commentary on family life.  It is equally a call to take seriously the call of Pope Francis that the church become more and more a place of mercy, a “field-hospital” where those who have been wounded by life can be healed, without a long investigation into whether their wounds were self-inflicted, and thus not worthy of our compassion or consideration. 

It seems hard to believe that it was fifteen years ago this weekend that our world-view, at least here in North America, was seriously shaken by the tragic events collectively referred to as “9-11”.  There is no need to revisit this sad story in detail, but perhaps more than any other recent event, it has penetrated our sense of safety, of security, of our place in the global family, of the danger of our world collapsing anew into deep-seated conflicts, rooted in profoundly different understandings of religion, of politics, of what constitutes genuine justice and true peace, and of what paths are likely to lead us to a “future full of hope” rather than despair. 

How do these texts that we read shed light upon the difficult and painful realities that our world must henceforth confront: not just terrorism, but war, internal displacement, the refugee crisis, the violation of human rights, the environmental crisis?  How can Jesus’ stories about lost sheep, lost coins, and lost sons, show us the way in a world of lost sleep, lost peace, and lost innocence?  

The story of the Prodigal Son is typically preached on during Lent, or at communal services of reconciliation.  In this context, we tend to focus on the experience of the younger son, relate to his journey: a story of sin, selfishness, alienation, repentance, forgiveness, and eventually, restoration to life and the community. More recently, authors like Henri Nouwen have invited us to explore the journey of the elder son, to examine how unhealed wounds, self-righteousness, and resentments can cause us to drift away from our loving God, just as much as the lustful, spendthrift, party-loving ways of his younger brother.  The danger is that we invest all of our energy into identifying with one or the other son in the story: the spendthrift and dissolute younger son, the dutiful and bitterly resentful elder. 

Hearing these three stories together reminds us that for Jesus, the focus is on the Seeker. In the end, who are we being called to identify with?  Who are we called to become?  Is it not the shepherd seeking the lost sheep, the woman seeking the lost coin, the forgiving Father seeking both his lost sons?  It matters little whether we are lost in sin, disobedience, poverty and alienation, like the younger son; or whether, like his older brother, we are lost in bitterness and resentment, in our refusal to accept that we are loved and forgiven, and thus called to share that gift of love and forgiveness with the brother who has returned from “the far country”.  What matters is that we allow ourselves to be found. What matters is that we, in turn, become those who, (like the shepherd, the housewife, the Father) actively seek out the lost, welcome them with love, bring them home.

When Anna and I were on retreat last week with a wonderfully warm, witty, and wise Jesuit from Malta, Fr. Philip Chircop, he reminded us that we tend to “become the God we worship.”  Translation: if your God is a petty, punitive policeman, just waiting to catch you out to judge you and punish you, then you will likely treat others in the same way.  On the other hand, if we allow our image of God to be shaped by Jesus, by his teaching, his parables, his own experience of profound union with the God he called Abba, his gentle way with those who were deemed outcasts or sinners, then this is the kind of people we will become as well.

Our other readings today show us that it took a while for the Judeo-Christian tradition to grow into this more expansive and generous vision of the Divine.  In the text of Exodus, it is God who seems to speak the language of vengeance and retribution.  But Moses gently reminds God of his truer and deeper identity: that he is the God of the covenant, a God of mercy, slow to anger and rich in steadfast love, even for those who have sinned. 

Similarly, in his letter to Timothy, Paul acknowledges his past: that he has been a blasphemer, a persecutor, a man of violence, the foremost of sinners.  Yet God in his grace and mercy reached out to him, opened his eyes, changed his heart.  As we recall the tragic events of 9/11, as we confront the injustices that continue to plague our world today, let us resist the temptation to  engage in vengeance, suspicion, and scapegoating.  Let us pray and work for true justice: opposing those who perpetrate evil, showing compassion on those who suffer it, and recognizing that all of us – individuals, families, nations, the global community – stand in need of mercy, as each of us confronts the anger and violence in our own hearts. 

As we gather around the Eucharistic table today, lost sheep all of us, misplaced coins, resentful daughters and prodigal sons, may we be grateful for the mercy we have received. Let us embrace our call to become, more and more each day, like the Good Shepherd, like the Wise Homemaker, like the Prodigal Father.  Let us strive to emulate, to become the God whom we worship: a God who stands in solidarity with those who suffer, who rejoices with those who repent, who comes to abolish our divisions, to reconcile our differences, to bring peace to our troubled world.  May we be transformed by mercy, and so become vessels of mercy for one another, and for our broken world. Amen.