Passage: Luke 15:17-20a

Perspective: Son

I can’t believe this is the state of my life right now.

I had asked for my share of the inheritance that was to be mine. I couldn’t wait to get my hands on it. I imagined the power, luxury, indulgence that I could experience with all that money and property. So I took my share from my father, and left him and my brother to move to a different country to “live my life”.

I thought I could take everything into my own hands. I thought I could run things smoothly. I thought I could be my own master. I thought I could chase and fulfill all my desires and be happy. I thought I was set for life.

But I went ahead and spent it all too quickly on temporary things. And at the worst timing, a famine struck the country I was staying in. I was forced to work for a living. I couldn’t find anyone to hire me for anything else but to feed pigs, and even then I couldn’t find much to eat. They wouldn’t even give me the pods the pigs ate.

Now here I am, hungry, not a single cent to my name, with nothing to show for the life I have lived so far, except for an empty stomach, dirty hands, and tattered clothes. And I feel so empty and alone.

I messed up. I’m so ashamed. None of this was worth it. What have I done with my life?

So here I am now, on the road back home to see my father. I remembered how hardworking he was, how prepared he was for every situation; surely he would have bread, even more than enough for his servants. I figured I could come back home and ask him to take me back.

I see our family house down the road. I grew up here with my brother, with my father taking care of us. I didn’t realize how much I missed this, how much I missed being their brother and son, how much I missed them.

This time around, I don’t deserve to be a son. But, knowing my father, he would surely be gracious enough to at least take me back as a servant. Then, maybe then, I could eat some bread.

I see him now in the distance. Memories of what he used to say to me, of the moments we shared in my childhood, of what kind of father he was, of our final moment together before I left, came flooding in.

Yes, it is best to come back home. I can’t find relief anywhere else for my hunger and isolation. I have tried, and I have failed.

What should I say when I finally meet him again? “I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as one of your hired servants.” That sounds just about right. Yet my train of thought is interrupted, as somewhere down the road, my father seems to be running towards me.

Passage: Luke 15:20-31

Perspective: Father

Most of you know my family. Much has been said and shared about us, mostly about my sons, especially about my youngest one.  Some of you call us the PRODIGALS.  So, I checked what that word really means. I found out that to be a prodigal is to do things or live in such a way that is considered wasteful — wasteful in the usage of time, effort, attention and resources.  Looking back, in a way, that was a fairly accurate assessment of us from a human point of view, but most of you simply do not understand.

For a while, life was good. Really good. I was blessed with abundance. I had land, livestock, servants, and family. More importantly, I had my sons. I live in a time where having an heir is considered the ultimate blessing. What more having 2 of them? In the eyes of society, we could have been the perfect family, but I have always wanted to lead my family differently.

I gave my sons the freedom of choice to be who they wanted to be and to do what they wanted to do. It was not something afforded to me growing up. I wanted my sons to experience life differently from me. I wanted to give them the life I never had. So you can imagine my shock when, one day, my youngest son approached me and did the most unimaginably offensive thing: He dared to ask me for his share of the inheritance while I was still alive. To make things worse, he wanted to move away from me.

Hearing this broke my heart, but I didn't want to hold him back, so I did as he asked. Shortly after, he moved away. 

People around me knew I was heartbroken. My family, friends, and even my servants tried to comfort me. Some reprimanded me, saying that if I disowned him and cast him away, no one would blame me. They said a lot of nasty things about him, thinking that it would comfort me. They told me my youngest son was not worthy to be called my son anymore and should be considered as dead. But they simply do not understand. He is MY son.

I admit. I did feel angry, disappointed and deeply wounded by what he did. Yet, I still longed for his return. I stood daily by our doorway, looking beyond the courtyard and down the road leading out from my estate. I may have lost contact with my youngest son, but I kept the hope burning in me that I would see him coming back home to me someday.

People around me called me a fool, telling me to stop wasting my time, to stop hoping, because it was a lost cause. I knew the looks they gave to each other behind my back. I knew what they whispered amongst themselves about me. But they simply do not understand. He is MY son.

One day, as had become my new routine, I stood by the doorway looking out. I saw a tiny figure from afar, walking down the road to my property. My breath caught in my chest. There was something familiar about the way he walked; but from afar, I couldn’t be sure. The man looked tired, gaunt, disheveled and severely malnourished. But…could it be? Was that my son?

I had to be sure, I couldn't wait. I had to know. I ran with all my might towards him, not even caring if I looked silly doing so.

Yes! It was my son!! My long-lost son! 

My heart was bursting from all the love and compassion that overflowed from it.  I finally reached him; and I hugged him so tightly and kissed him so many times, I must have cleaned all the dust off his face. He was sobbing, trying to say something about being sorry and something about wanting to be my servant.  Even through my own tear-filled eyes, I could see clearly the shame in his tear-filled eyes; but the only thing that mattered to me was him calling me FATHER.  That was all that mattered. My son was home and he called me his father. 

By this time, all the servants had finally caught up. I ordered them to bring out the best robe and the ring for my son. I wanted them to know the one they considered as a scoundrel, a prodigal, has just been restored as my son! I told them to prepare a feast because this very day, we will party, we will celebrate. My son and the servants looked at me confused and disoriented, as if asking “Why?” But they simply do not understand. He is MY son.

Word traveled fast. My ever-loyal eldest son heard about what happened and he was furious. You see, he no longer saw my other son as his brother. He may have called him “this son of yours”, but he too did not truly understand that his brother is still my son.

All of them simply do not understand. He is MY son. It doesn’t matter what he had done, or whether he or anyone else thinks he deserves it. He will always be welcome in my home for it is also his home. Because He's my son, my beloved son. Nothing delights me more than to be his father.

Passage: Luke 15:23-24

Perspective: Servants & Crowds

“He’s home! The Master’s son is now back home!”

“I heard he moved to a faraway, distant land.”

“I heard he partied and wasted all his money. That costs more than a fortune!”

“I heard he spent everything and has nowhere left to go.”

“I heard he had to work for a farmer and feed the pigs.”

“I heard he even wanted to eat the pigs' food. Yuck!”

He’s not the same anymore. We saw him take off. He saddled his donkey and summoned us to fetch his things, including the bags of money the Master prepared for him—his inheritance. 

But now, he shows up with nothing. His clothes are tattered and ripped. There were mud stains all over. He was walking slowly, step after step after step. He must be wondering, “Would my father still accept me after all I have done?” 

We wondered that, too. But then, the Master does something unexpected, something we couldn’t understand. Why would our Master run toward him with a loving embrace and a kiss, even though his son had run away? 

We saw him, sweat and tears falling down his cheeks, saying he was no longer worthy of being called his son. He wanted his father to take him in as one of us: a servant who toils each day just to get enough food to eat. 

But our Master tells us to kill the fattened calf and bring the finest robe, a ring, and sandals for his son. Why should we celebrate when the son had turned away from his own father? 

How can a father love his own son with a heart that keeps no record of wrongs, a love that has no limits? Why would he still call him “son” despite all that he had done? Does the title not depend on how worthy he is? 

It does not. The only thing that matters is how the Master sees him. The Master’s eyes were only fixed on his son. He chooses him. He wants him. He loves him.

In the same way, He chooses us, wants us, and loves us too. 

Our Master’s love is not just for the son who wandered away with his inheritance and came back home with nothing. Our Master’s love was also given to us, too, in how He welcomed each servant into His home and prepared a place for us to stay. He gave us enough food to eat that we never went a day starving, even when we had nothing to give him in return. 

Our Master showed us that this love He had was meant to be shared with each brother and sister. Even if one – yes, just one of us! – had gotten lost but has now found their way back home, their homecoming was already to be celebrated. It’s not about our Master finding more favor in the one who messes up. It’s Him choosing to chase after and pursue each one of us, when no one was even worthy in His sight in the first place. His love is such, that when His son had been lost and is now back home, He immediately met him with a warm embrace in His loving arms. 

The son has returned. This calls for a feast!

Let us kill the fattened calf to celebrate his return. Let us look for the finest robe in the house for him to wear. Let us get a ring for his finger and sandals for his feet. Let us celebrate, for he who was dead has now returned to life. He who was once lost is now found. 

More than just found, he is now welcomed back into the Father’s house. 

Let us rejoice as one community and embrace him with open arms, not for his squandering and running away, but for who the Father is and the kind of love He shows His son, the kind of love He shows us—a love that chooses to stay even when we have nothing left to give. 

Let us celebrate because he’s home. 

“The Master’s son is now back home!”