Sunday of the Prodigal Son / Apostles Archippus and Philemon / 1 Cor. 6.12-20; Luke 15.11-32
F/S/HS. Brothers and sisters, the third of five Sundays leading up to the start of Great Lent—what our church for centuries has named The Sunday of the Prodigal Son. There is such broad consensus across the saints that our Lord’s parable of the Prodigal Son is perhaps His most magnificent of all parables.
I well remember the first time I laid eyes on Rembrandt’s painting The Return of the Prodigal Son. I was moved to tears! The father hunched over his younger son who has returned back home from his prodigal wayward ways; that son now on his knees before his father, enveloped in his father’s loving embrace, the father’s two hands on his son’s shoulder, holding him closely, holding him tightly. The father’s gaze downward upon his son, the gaze of love, the gaze of gratitude and awe that his son, who was lost, is now found.
If you look closely at Rembrandt’s painting, you notice that one of the son’s two feet is bare, a tattered shoe lying next to that foot, symbolic of the prodigal’s life since leaving his home and wallowing as he had in his prodigal passions. And far off in the distance is the son’s older brother, barely noticeable, anger and envy upon his gaze, so different from the father’s gaze.
When you read our saint’s interpretation of our Lord’s parable of The Prodigal Son, you quickly discern a common motif; namely, that all three figures in the story—the prodigal son himself, the older brother, and the loving father—are symbolic of a single life—our life—and of matters deep in our own heart at any given moment in our life.
At any given moment our heart is susceptible to prodigal wayward behavior. At any given moment we too possess the jealous and envious heart of the older brother. And the father in this story, observes St. Maria Skobtsova, he is the archetype of our truest destiny while we live here on this earth.
A heart that patiently endures heart ache while those we love go and do their prodigal thing, who then embraces and forgives that person when they return, they, having come to their senses, now contrite and repentant. The father’s heart—a heart of unending and unconditional love, just as God our Father forever forgives us when we repent of our passions and unrighteous ways of living.
So now a closer look at these three figures, beginning with the prodigal son himself. Matushka Anastasia has been reading a book that has quite moved her own heart: Saint Joseph the Hesychast—Life and Teachings, by Elder Joseph of Vatopedi Monastery.
What is happening down in a human heart that begins to incline itself towards acting in prodigal ways? asks Saint Joseph. That heart, he observes, is evermore succumbing to negligence. Negligence is not attending to your spiritual life, not attending to the commandments of God, not attending to the way of love.
When we are negligent, we become ever more apathetic. Slothfulness sets in. A terrible conspiracy begins to mount in our heart, against our heart; a conspiracy of negligence towards those spiritual medicines that once kept our heart healthy and vibrant—the practice of prayer, fasting, almsgiving, various labors, and attention to divine services and sacred reading.
In a very compelling line of thinking, Saint Joseph points out that such negligence often begins with the granting of economia: when you grant yourself, or are granted by your father confessor or spiritual father, to cut yourself a measure of slack or leniency in your spiritual life—in your prayer life, your fasting, almsgiving, or attending services, for example. Yes, there are important times where economia ought to be granted, and needs to be granted.
Negligence arises, however, when we take advantage of economia, where we grant ourselves the leniency of an inch, only then—days or weeks or months later—to turn that inch into a mile.
And with what consequence? What we once faithfully attended to, that helped nurture our spiritual life, is now neglected. Such negligence signals the beginning of a spiritual drought. The virtues cannot grow during a drought, when they are not nourished by diligent attention to spiritual labors. Negligence spells destruction in our lives because we have become captive to something that is pulling our heart away from holy things.
Something somewhere along the way began to happen deep in the heart of this father’s younger son. Dreams of a better life elsewhere and the juicy seductions of that elsewhere life began to occupy his heart. Negligence began to spawn internal rot, like the rot inside an apple that cannot be seen from the outside. Soon this younger son began to neglect his duties around home, his chores, his responsibilities and obligations. He started attending temple worship less and less.
And so he leaves his home, asking his father for what is rightfully his to take—his inheritance. Notice the deepest nature of love here, dear ones. The father lets his son go, lets him leave, knowing very well the wayward prodigal life that his son is about to binge on.
There are times in life where a parent, a friend, a loved one, a priest, ought to do everything possible to keep that person from leaving, where that person should in no way receive what is rightfully theirs, where giving it to them dangerously enables their sin.
Why was this not one of those times? Why did this father so willingly let his youngest son go forth into personal and spiritual demise? Why did he allow his son to continue in such negligence?
Because he knew that the son needed to learn a most valuable lesson in life. Sometimes the nature of love is that it lets go of the need to manage and control another’s life, because love knows that to continue to manage and control that life will only lead to rebellion and further negligence. In the Garden of Paradise, God freely allowed Adam and Eve to choose whether to eat of the tree of the knowledge of good and evil.
Out on his own now and having indulged the depths of negligence, this prodigal son finally comes to his senses. His is a light-bulb moment; the moment of realizing the depth of his negligence and sin; the moment of realizing the heights of how much he has sinned against heaven and against his own father.
And so he sets his gaze back home, his loving father waiting to receive him. Waiting, the parable says, with compassion, with the household’s finest robe, a ring, new sandals for his feet, and a fatted calf for all to partake of at a celebratory feast, to honor the return of his lost son. And from the father’s lips we hear one of the most beautiful verses in all of Scripture: For my son was dead and is now alive; he was lost and is now found.
This father’s heart, dear sisters and brothers, his heart is the truest destiny of our own heart—a wise and discerning father, who knows when to hold on and when to let go; who, when a loved one sins against you by going their prodigal way, lovingly and patiently awaits their return; who, when that person does return repentant and contrite, lavishly adorns him or her with compassion, grace, and mercy, just as God lavishly adorns us with grace and mercy when we repent of our prodigal ways.
The older son, out in the fields, he hears merriment and draws near. He inquirers as to what is going on. Upon finding out that it is a festal celebration for his younger brother, he is angry—angry with the passion of envy and jealousy; angry with self-justification, angry with self-entitlement: Lo, these many years I have been serving you; I never transgressed your commandments at any time; and yet you never gave me a young goat, that I might make merry with my friends.
In his own negligence during that potent moment, this older son did not guard his own heart; guard himself with prayer as did the Publican in last week’s Gospel, who cried out to God while standing in the back of the temple, at war with his own passions: Have mercy on me, O God, have mercy on me a sinner; have mercy on me.
And this father, upon being confronted by his older son, once again exemplifies our truest destiny; He pleads with his older son, words that ought to forever adorn our own hearts and teach us how to conduct ourselves in similar moments: Son, you are always with me, and all that I have is yours.
Dear ones, dear sisters and brothers, all of us from time to time are prodigals. All of us from time to time are this older son. And amidst our struggle to battle our prodigal and older-son ways, all of us are invited to become this father. This father’s compassion, his love, his joy at receiving back that which was lost and is now found; his desire to throw a festive celebration in our honor—may such virtues adorn our own hearts.
And along our journey, may we remain forever vigilant to guard ourselves against the negligence that seeks to root itself like a silent and secret rot in our hearts. In part, this is what Great and Holy Lent will be all about—a season to guard ourselves against the conspiracy of negligence that tempts all of us. May our dear Lord protect us against such negligence. May He find our hearts striving to labor in the vineyard of the virtues, ever loving as this father ever loved. F/S/HS
