Repentance in the Parable of the Prodigal Son
My friend Trevin Wax has two posts in today's session of what has come to be one of my most frequented blogs, Kingdom People, one dealing with John Piper's critique of N.T. Wright's understanding of the definition of "the Gospel," and the other with a brief exegetical examination of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. I agree almost word for word with the former, and I especially appreciated the illuminating difference Trevin points out between "the definition of the Gospel" and "sharing the Gospel." Regarding the latter, though, anyone who knows me knows that I am a pretty big fan of the Parable of the Prodigal Son, for obvious reasons. I have just completed a book manuscript, which I hope to release in the near future, that chronicles my testimony through the lens of the Parable, tentatively titled Parables of a Prodigal Son: The Theologically Grounded Testimony of an Ordinary Scoundrel. Shameless plug here.
In today's post, Trevin says:
"The son, undoubtedly moved by his father’s action of running to him, has broken down and repented, allowing himself to be found by his father there at the edge of the village. He can resist no longer. The father has won him over by his love and sacrifice. The son accepts his sonship.
Many believe they must work their way back to God to pay the price for their sin, when He has already paid the price through Jesus’ sacrifice. Will we fall into His arms of grace? Will we give up our futile attempts to earn our way to Him and instead, trust Him as Father?"
I know that that has been the preferred interpretation of the Parable for many centuries, and while I agree with in one sense, I think the Parable's message is even more powerful than that if we examine it more closely. Instead of rehashing that examination, let me give you a snippet from Parables of a Prodigal Son:
"It has long been assumed that the Prodigal, although necessitated by his circumstances, at some point arrived at a place of true repentance and thereafter set off humbly to seek the Father’s forgiveness. But did he?
But when he came to himself, he said, “How many of my father’s hired servants have bread enough and to spare, but I perish here with hunger! I will rise arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me as one of your skilled craftsman.’”
When the language of parable is scrutinized from the perspective of Love, that is, from God’s perspective, it becomes clear that the Prodigal does not actually set out to go back because he has sinned against heaven and before his father, but because he is hungry and because he believes the best way to eat is if he becomes a servant, not a son, to his father. The premeditated speech he planned to give to his father is similar to and echoes the language of Pharaoh when he, by necessity rather than repentance, says to Moses: “I have sinned against the LORD your God, and against you.” The learned audience to whom Jesus would have spoken this parable would have immediately caught the reference. Neither Pharaoh nor the Prodigal was repenting, but were attempting to manipulate their “confessors” into serving their interests. In other words, neither was seeking grace.
And there is a monumental issue at play here that is seldom discussed or considered, and that is the usually selfish reasons for our initial turning to God. It is an issue that many Christians don’t contemplate much, but many non-Christians do, the correct perception that most people who have come to accept Christianity do so at a time in their lives when they have little to loose, when they are at the end of their rope. Non-Christians see this fact as evidence that Christianity is for the weak, the desperate and the broken. In a sense, a very important sense, they are right. The reason that we Christians tend to downplay this reality is that it reflects poorly on us, back within the standards of the real world where weakness, desperation and brokenness are states to be pitied, to be avoided at all cost. They are states to be pitied and avoided at all costs. But that’s not the point. The fact that God comes to meet us at the precise moments when we selfishly ask him to save us from our own demise is a fact that should be relished, shouted from rooftops, because although it reflects poorly on us, it reflects gloriously on the magnificent breadth of God’s love, and it is He, not ourselves, that we are trying to glorify, right?
'But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and raced and embraced him and kissed him.'
This is parousia; the sign of respect reserved for royalty coming into the city; but it is parousia turned around on its head. This is self-emptying humiliation on the part of the father toward someone who was in no way worthy of respect. A person of the father’s rank, in the cultural setting of the story, always walks in a slow, dignified pace. His act of racing toward his son, a son who, not only in the eyes of his brother but to everyone in the village, would be deserving of nothing less than the ceremony of the Kezazah, would have been viewed as a supremely shameful act on the part of the father. The father, however, had interests far greater than the preservation of his own dignity. I think Ken Baily summarizes this best:
"It is not possible to capture in any parable the mystery and wonder of God in Christ. Yet in this matchless story we have a clear indication of at least part of what these things mean. The father, in his house, clearly represents God. The best understanding of the text is to see that when the father leaves the house and takes upon himself a humiliating posture on the road, he becomes a symbol of God incarnate. He does not wait for the prodigal to come to him but rather at great cost goes down and out to find and resurrect the one who is lost and dead. These actions (seen in Middle Eastern context) clearly affirm one of the deepest levels of the meaning of both the incarnation and the atonement. Paul affirms the same truth with the great phrase, 'in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself'(2 Cor. 5:19). In John’s Gospel, Jesus says 'I and the father are one' (John 10:30). The mystery of the fullness of God in the Son in his incarnation is beyond us. Yet this parable depicts a father who leaves the comfort and security of his home and humiliates himself before the village. The coming down and going out to his son is a parable of the incarnation. The costly demonstration of unexpected love in the village street demonstrates a part of the meaning of the cross."
What then do we make of forgiveness, of repentance, if we are to view those issues as ones embodied by the Spirit of the Living God by His Son? In other words, the question is not “What would Jesus do” but, based on what Jesus did, “What would Love do?” The answer? Love would throw all dignity to the wind upon even the slightest hint of the mere appearance of something that cannot even be called “repentance” and race to embrace and kiss the sinner. That is Love. That is true, revolutionary, Satan-defeating, light-on-top-of-the-lamppost, salvation-bringing Love. That is substitutionary atonement."
Grace and Peace,
Raffi
In today's post, Trevin says:
"The son, undoubtedly moved by his father’s action of running to him, has broken down and repented, allowing himself to be found by his father there at the edge of the village. He can resist no longer. The father has won him over by his love and sacrifice. The son accepts his sonship.
Many believe they must work their way back to God to pay the price for their sin, when He has already paid the price through Jesus’ sacrifice. Will we fall into His arms of grace? Will we give up our futile attempts to earn our way to Him and instead, trust Him as Father?"
I know that that has been the preferred interpretation of the Parable for many centuries, and while I agree with in one sense, I think the Parable's message is even more powerful than that if we examine it more closely. Instead of rehashing that examination, let me give you a snippet from Parables of a Prodigal Son:
"It has long been assumed that the Prodigal, although necessitated by his circumstances, at some point arrived at a place of true repentance and thereafter set off humbly to seek the Father’s forgiveness. But did he?
But when he came to himself, he said, “How many of my father’s hired servants have bread enough and to spare, but I perish here with hunger! I will rise arise and go to my father, and I will say to him, ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son; treat me as one of your skilled craftsman.’”
When the language of parable is scrutinized from the perspective of Love, that is, from God’s perspective, it becomes clear that the Prodigal does not actually set out to go back because he has sinned against heaven and before his father, but because he is hungry and because he believes the best way to eat is if he becomes a servant, not a son, to his father. The premeditated speech he planned to give to his father is similar to and echoes the language of Pharaoh when he, by necessity rather than repentance, says to Moses: “I have sinned against the LORD your God, and against you.” The learned audience to whom Jesus would have spoken this parable would have immediately caught the reference. Neither Pharaoh nor the Prodigal was repenting, but were attempting to manipulate their “confessors” into serving their interests. In other words, neither was seeking grace.
And there is a monumental issue at play here that is seldom discussed or considered, and that is the usually selfish reasons for our initial turning to God. It is an issue that many Christians don’t contemplate much, but many non-Christians do, the correct perception that most people who have come to accept Christianity do so at a time in their lives when they have little to loose, when they are at the end of their rope. Non-Christians see this fact as evidence that Christianity is for the weak, the desperate and the broken. In a sense, a very important sense, they are right. The reason that we Christians tend to downplay this reality is that it reflects poorly on us, back within the standards of the real world where weakness, desperation and brokenness are states to be pitied, to be avoided at all cost. They are states to be pitied and avoided at all costs. But that’s not the point. The fact that God comes to meet us at the precise moments when we selfishly ask him to save us from our own demise is a fact that should be relished, shouted from rooftops, because although it reflects poorly on us, it reflects gloriously on the magnificent breadth of God’s love, and it is He, not ourselves, that we are trying to glorify, right?
'But while he was yet at a distance, his father saw him and had compassion, and raced and embraced him and kissed him.'
This is parousia; the sign of respect reserved for royalty coming into the city; but it is parousia turned around on its head. This is self-emptying humiliation on the part of the father toward someone who was in no way worthy of respect. A person of the father’s rank, in the cultural setting of the story, always walks in a slow, dignified pace. His act of racing toward his son, a son who, not only in the eyes of his brother but to everyone in the village, would be deserving of nothing less than the ceremony of the Kezazah, would have been viewed as a supremely shameful act on the part of the father. The father, however, had interests far greater than the preservation of his own dignity. I think Ken Baily summarizes this best:
"It is not possible to capture in any parable the mystery and wonder of God in Christ. Yet in this matchless story we have a clear indication of at least part of what these things mean. The father, in his house, clearly represents God. The best understanding of the text is to see that when the father leaves the house and takes upon himself a humiliating posture on the road, he becomes a symbol of God incarnate. He does not wait for the prodigal to come to him but rather at great cost goes down and out to find and resurrect the one who is lost and dead. These actions (seen in Middle Eastern context) clearly affirm one of the deepest levels of the meaning of both the incarnation and the atonement. Paul affirms the same truth with the great phrase, 'in Christ God was reconciling the world to himself'(2 Cor. 5:19). In John’s Gospel, Jesus says 'I and the father are one' (John 10:30). The mystery of the fullness of God in the Son in his incarnation is beyond us. Yet this parable depicts a father who leaves the comfort and security of his home and humiliates himself before the village. The coming down and going out to his son is a parable of the incarnation. The costly demonstration of unexpected love in the village street demonstrates a part of the meaning of the cross."
What then do we make of forgiveness, of repentance, if we are to view those issues as ones embodied by the Spirit of the Living God by His Son? In other words, the question is not “What would Jesus do” but, based on what Jesus did, “What would Love do?” The answer? Love would throw all dignity to the wind upon even the slightest hint of the mere appearance of something that cannot even be called “repentance” and race to embrace and kiss the sinner. That is Love. That is true, revolutionary, Satan-defeating, light-on-top-of-the-lamppost, salvation-bringing Love. That is substitutionary atonement."
Grace and Peace,
Raffi
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