© 2025 Evan D. Garner
Audio of this sermon can be heard here. Video can be seen here.
Some people just ooze faithfulness. They are the grandmothers, the kindergarten teachers, the little league coaches, and the librarians who quietly and faithfully radiate God’s love. Shaped by a life of prayer, they instinctively recognize who needs a hug, who needs a word of encouragement, and who needs another chance, which they freely give without even thinking about it. Many times without knowing it, they are the role models that we think of with gratitude when we recall those people who helped us get where we are.
People like that seem to dress themselves in kindness and compassion as easily as the rest of us put on a T-shirt. But they aren’t particularly showy about their faith. That’s not because they hide it from us. They are quite willing to engage in a conversation about religion, but their relationship with God has more to do with all the little things that guide their everyday lives than the sort of religiosity that grabs the world’s attention.
On the other hand, there are plenty of other people who openly claim their religious identity but lead lives that in no way reflect the faith that they say is theirs. They are the hypocrites, the self-seekers, the power-grabbers, and the manipulators who talk about how important their faith is right before they step on your neck as they climb their way to success. They say that they read the same Bible and worship the same God as the rest of us, but their life seems devoid of even the most basic principles of our faith.
People like that always find a way to tune out the criticism of the religious community. Instead of engaging in meaningful discourse about teachings of our faith, they quote chapter and verse as a way of shutting down the conversation. They manage to shroud their self-interested agenda in a thin veneer of divine justification, appealing to the persistence of the powers of this world as a sign that God is on their side. And they are the ones with whom Jesus chooses to dine.
Two thousand years later, we’re so accustomed to Jesus’ hostility toward the Pharisees and his embrace of tax collectors and sinners that we forget how good and righteous the Pharisees were and how terrible and wicked were the tax collectors and sinners. Tax collectors were no better than thieves. They made their living collecting revenue for the occupying empire. They contracted with government officials, agreeing to pay the expected tax revenue up front and then using the authority of the government to threaten and extort their own people until they not only collected what was due but also enough to turn a profit. And the Pharisees were the faithful Jewish people who denounced that behavior and the tyranny of Rome that it represented.
It’s hard to come up with a contemporary analogy that conveys the level of betrayal of God and God’s people that the tax collectors represented in first-century Palestine, but, whatever example of social, moral, and ancestral infidelity you can come up with, those are the people Jesus is having dinner with at the start of today’s gospel lesson. Whoever they are in today’s world, they are the very last people you would ever want to break bread with, and our savior’s decision to eat with them should be as controversial for church-goers like us as it was for the Pharisees back then.
The parable of the prodigal son, as it is often called, is not told to those who have lost their place in society—to those who yearn for a seat at God’s table—it is told to those who are not comfortable with the people whom God has invited to have a seat. How we hear this story depends on who we are. What do you need to hear Jesus saying today? With which of the two brothers do you identify more closely? Are you the sort who is still waiting for the father to come and wrap his arms around you in a loving embrace, celebrating your return? Then hear Jesus say without equivocation that you belong here—that you are welcome at God’s table and are a part of God’s family. But, if you are more like the older brother and you feel the cortisol rushing through your body when you see who it is that Jesus welcomes to his table, then ask Jesus for the grace to see what he sees in those whom you find hardest to love.
Although I suspect that our congregation is more likely full of Pharisees than tax collectors—of older brothers than prodigal sons—I think there is a little bit of both in all of us. In the parable, the younger son dishonors his father, effectively selling his relationship with his family for his share of the estate. But, when he comes to his senses, he is still able to trust that his father will be merciful enough to accept him back, not as a son but as a hired hand. The older son dutifully honors his father every day of his life, effectively exchanging his own desires for his loyalty to his family. But, when his wayward brother returns, he is unable to accept his father’s forgiveness and mercy. There is no room in the heart of the older son for grace and undeserved love. It seems that neither son really knew who his father was.
No matter what side of the parable we find ourselves on, Jesus is beckoning us to sit down at the table with those from the other side. To those who feel unworthy of anything more than a place in the servants’ quarters, Jesus says, “Come and sit with me. Tonight, we share a feast to celebrate your place in the family of God.” To those who feel resentment toward the ones whom God would welcome with open arms, Jesus says, “Come and sit with me. Tonight, we share a feast to celebrate your place in the family of God.” The invitation is the same for all of us. No matter who we are, we belong at God’s table, and so does everyone else. When we refuse to accept that invitation, whether it’s because we feel unworthy or because we resent the unworthiness of others, we dishonor the one who invites us—we dishonor the generosity of God.
In a world that is divided by good and bad, holy and unholy, faithful and hypocrite, Jesus comes to abolish those divisions by welcoming everyone to his table. That means you, and it also means those whose faithlessness and hypocrisy you resent the most. The prodigal within us does not believe that we could ever be worthy of a place in the heart of God, but it is not our worthiness that matters. God’s love is what welcomes us there. The Pharisee within us tends to believe that, when the whole world takes God’s love as seriously as we do, God’s reign will be complete, and that means that those who don’t are standing in God’s way. But nothing can stand in the way of God’s love because God’s love belongs to everyone. Jesus shows us that God’s reign cannot be complete until they belong, too.
Our belonging—our belovedness—comes not from within us but from God. It is not a measure of who we are or what we believe or how we behave. No matter how good or bad, holy or unholy, faithful or hypocritical we are, we have a place in God’s reign—at God’s table—purely because of God’s infinite grace, acceptance, and love. And that means that the possibility of unity among us—even with those most different from us—is not a product of our intention or effort but of God’s love. That is the message of the parable. That is the message of Jesus. Our job is to accept the gracious invitation that God has given to us and to all people and to let that invitation shape us together into a people worthy of a place in God’s heart.