The Real Prodigal- Rev. Wallace W. Bubar- March 30,2025
The Rev. Wallace W. Bubar
First Presbyterian Church
The Fourth Sunday in Lent, Year C
March 30, 2025
The Real Prodigal
We’ve always called this story “the parable of the prodigal son.” But now, I don’t know about you, but I don’t use that word prodigal very often in everyday conversation. And I don’t hear the word prodigal very often in everyday conversation, either. In fact, it’s pretty much only in connection with this story that you ever hear that word, right?
Now you might use the term with reference to someone else. “Oh, he’s the ‘prodigal son’ of the family.” And you know exactly what that means when you hear that, don’t you? It means he’s the one who was always getting in trouble, the black sheep of the family, the ne’er-do-well, the one who ran off and went out to California to “find himself” and wound up working as a bartender, unlike his older brother who studied hard and applied himself and got an MBA from Northwestern.
So I had always assumed that the word prodigal meant something like wayward, or wild, rebellious—something along those lines. So you can imagine my surprise when I happened to look up the word in the dictionary, and discovered that I had been wrong all this time about what the word prodigal actually means.
Webster’s defines like this: “liberal, wasteful, extravagant, reckless in spending, lavish.” That’s what prodigalactually refers to.
* * *
You want a contemporary example? Think of professional athletes, how they throw away their money sometimes. I read recently in Sports Illustrated that 78% of former NFL players are either bankrupt or under financial stress five years after retirement. How is that possible?
Case in point: This is going back a few years, but Michael Vick. Remember him? Back in 2004, the Atlanta Falcons signed Vick to a ten-year, $130 million contract. It was a record deal at the time. $130 million! You’d be set for life, wouldn’t you?
Well, four years later—guess what? Michael Vick declares chapter eleven bankruptcy. Now how in the world do you blow through $130 million in four years? I mean, that’s a real accomplishment! You’ve got to be doing some pretty serious sinning to do that. Not just anybody could pull off something like that.
And then after Vick got his act together—got out of bankruptcy, got out of prison for dogfighting—the Philadelphia Eagles signed him to a $100 million contract. And shortly after that, the news came out that Vick had blown through $29 million of that in just four years.
The word is prodigal. That’s what prodigal means. Wasteful, reckless, extravagant. And the character in our story today is prodigal. Blows through his whole inheritance in a matter of months on prostitutes and who knows what all else. Winds up living on skid row without a roof over his head, or a thing to eat except for the slop given to the pigs.
* * *
We call this “the parable of the prodigal son.” And that’s not an incorrect title. But I’ve been wondering if we haven’t gotten the title a little wrong somehow. You see, Jesus doesn’t begin his story by saying, “There once was a son who had a father and an older brother.” No. “There once was a man who had two sons.”
Jesus lets us know from the very beginning who the main character here is, even if he’s kind of in the background a good bit of the time. He lets us know at the outset who this story is really about. It’s about a father, and a father’s love for his two boys.
But something about the way the father in this story acts doesn’t sit too well with me. From the very beginning, when the son goes to his father to ask for his half of the inheritance. We often skip over that part of the story. But think about that for a minute—what that means.
If your kid comes up to you and says, “Mom, Dad, I know you’re not dead quite yet. But can I go ahead and have my part of my inheritance now, so I can move away from here and never have to see you all again?” You’d say, “Well, sure, honey. Absolutely.”
No, of course not! What kind of parent would say that?!
That’s essentially what the son is saying here. “I wish you were dead, so I can get what’s coming to me, and I can just get out of here and do whatever the heck I want, and let someone else take care of you when you get old. But don’t come calling me.” You’d be tempted to just kick the kid out of the house right then and there, wouldn’t you?
And yet the father in this story says, “Sure, son. Whatever you want.” He gets out the checkbook, and writes a big fat check. That’s nuts! That’s irresponsible! That’s reckless! That’s—well, prodigal, is a word that comes to mind. What kind of father would do something like this?!
And what kind of father—when the son finally runs out of his dad’s cash, and comes home in disgrace—what kind of father goes to these absurd lengths to welcome him back like royalty?! Kill the fatted calf?! Throw a gigantic party?! Get out the best robe for him?! Put a ring on his finger?!
Seriously?! A ring?! Now I could see the sandals, maybe. But a ring?! This good-for-nothing guy who just squandered half of your hard-earned money on prostitutes comes back, and you’re like, “Oh, here’s a gold ring for you!” It’d be like the owner of the Falcons giving Michael Vick another multi-million-dollar contract. I mean, that’s ridiculous!
The whole thing is just too much. I’m wondering if it’s not the father who’s maybe got a screw loose here. Maybe the father is the real prodigal in this story?
* * *
So personally, I’m with the older brother on all of this. Fact is, I’ve never been a prodigal. That’s not a word that describes me. I’m whatever the opposite of prodigal is. Responsible, frugal, sensible. Never got in trouble as a kid. Did what I was told. Got home by curfew. Never been in debt. I take reusable bags to the grocery store. I’ve got clothes in my closet that I’ve had since, like, the George W. Bush administration. I’m a Presbyterian, for Pete’s sake! Okay?
So I don’t have a lot of patience for prodigals. I say, “Look, you make choices, and you have to suffer the consequences of those choices. If you can’t pull yourself together, then too bad for you. But there’s got to be a limit to our tolerance before we cut you off. There’s got to be some accountability around here. Got to be some responsibility.” That’s what I say.
But Jesus comes along—Jesus comes along, and says something else entirely. He’s always out there with the prodigals, isn’t he?
* * *
There was an article in the Washington Post a while back, about how Michael Vick had had this experience in jail where he discovered Jesus. He was born again. He had hit rock bottom. Accepted Jesus into his heart. The Lord had redeemed him from all of the mess he had made of his life, and turned his life around. Vick was speaking, sharing his testimony with students at Liberty University out in Virginia—Jerry Falwell’s school—talking about how much Jesus means to him.
And I remember thinking at the time, “Oh, isn’t that great?! As if Christianity doesn’t have enough problems, now we’ve got Michael Vick out there as one of our chief spokesmen. Thanks a lot, Jesus!”
I mean, really! I wonder what is God thinking sometimes? What kind of God wants to have anything to do with someone as unsavory a character as Michael Vick? That’s a fair question, isn’t it?
* * *
And for that matter, what kind of God creates this beautiful, amazing world, and then entrusts it to a species that he knows is going to make a colossal mess of it, and yet entrusts it to us anyway?
And what kind of God keeps reaching out to his people, making covenants with them? And keeps getting his heart broken over and over again, but keeps reaching out in love, time and time and time again?
What kind of God sends his only Son into the world, so desperate to be in relationship with us, knowing he’s going to die? Knowing we’re going to kill him? Giving his life away for a sinful and wayward race?
And what kind of God keeps listening to us—week in and week out—confessing our sin, and keeps assuring us of his forgiveness? And keeps throwing a banquet every Sunday with music and bread and wine, welcoming everybody to the table, and he’s not going to rest until everyone is there who belongs there?
What kind of God would do all this? Well, the kind of God that Jesus came to tell us about. It’s not the kind of God I would have invented, if it were up to me. But it’s not up to me.
* * *
So it seems it’s God who turns out to be the real prodigal, in the end. Lavish in his love—almost obscenely so. Reckless in his pursuit of his children—the good and bad alike. Extravagant in his welcome. Downright wasteful in his forgiveness. Throwing around grace like...Michael Vick, throwing around cash at an Atlanta nightclub. Dishing out mercy and forgiveness like he’s got an endless supply of it, because—well—he does.
I hate to admit it, sensible guy that I am. But there’s nothing sensible about the way this God of ours operates. We’re dealing here with an unbelievably prodigal God, and God’s wondrously prodigal love.
Amen.
