Hey friend, welcome back here to the Seminar
Seminary, and I'm Pastor Jim, and yeah, I'm not
just a famous podcaster, I'm also pastor of a
small town church. And what you're joining with
us tonight is our Wednesday night Bible study.
Tonight, we're going to look at the parable of
the prodigal son. Now, listen, you've heard it
a hundred times. The wayward rebel, the loyal
rule follower, one runs, one resents, and every
preacher draws the map. Don't be like him, be
like him. But here's the truth. Jesus wasn't
talking about either one of them. He was aiming
at the people who thought they had already had
it figured out. He was talking to the grumblers,
the one who couldn't stomach mercy being served
to the wrong folks. And if you're listening to
this thinking, well, that's not me, you might
want to hold on. Because this parable doesn't
just reveal grace, it exposes pride. And sometimes
the most lost person in the story never even
left home. If this kind of hard gospel wrapped
in storytelling hits you just right, do me a
favor. Like, share, subscribe, tell somebody
else who's been sitting outside the party. Let's
dig in. I'll see you on the other side. Are we
ready, Wayne? So parables part four. And I think
what we're going to find as we continue to look
at these parables that many of the details that
we were taught about these stories as kids. we're
going to find that we had wrong and that the
lessons being taught are actually different than
the way that we thought. I think the story is
just one of those. We're doing the parable of
the prodigal son tonight, and this story is not
about the younger son. In fact, this parable
isn't about the elder son either. It's about
neither of them. Parable actually is a lesson
on God's grace. So you've been here all day,
dust settling on your shoes, grit creeping between
your toes, the sun slipping lower, but the crowd
still presses in. You'd think hunger or weakness
would scatter them, but not when he's speaking.
There's something about his voice that makes
the stomach grow quiet. Something about his stories
pulls you in deeper than the ache in your legs.
You glance around at the faces. On one side,
the ones who can't usually get this close. Tax
collectors with shifty reputations. Women whispered
about. Men with pasts so heavy they rarely lift
their eyes. But tonight they lean in as though
the words themselves are bread. On the other
side, arms folded, jaws set. Pharisees, scribes,
synagogue leaders. You can feel their tension
before you ever even hear their grumbling. They
don't like the company he keeps. And they hate.
that holiness smells like lamb fat and cheap
wine set at a sinner's table. That's the stage.
Hungry ones near, self -righteous ones grumbling,
and right in the middle, Jesus. And he doesn't
back down, he doesn't scold, he doesn't retreat.
He opens his mouth and he tells a story. So,
let the ancient sound wash over you. Here not
just with your ears, but with the deep place
where memory and spirit meet. Luke chapter 15,
verse 1. Now the tax collectors and sinners were
all drawing near to him. And the Pharisees and
scribes rumbled, saying, This man receives sinners
and eats with them. So he told them this parable.
And he said, There was a man who had two sons,
and the younger of them said to the father, Father,
give me the share of property that is coming
to me, and he divided his property between them.
Not many days later, the younger son gathered
all that he had and took a journey into the far
country. There he squandered his property in
reckless living. And when he had spent everything,
a severe famine arose in that country, and he
began to be in need. So he went and hired himself
out. One of the citizens of that country sent
him into the field to feed the pigs. And he was
longing to be fed with the pods that the pigs
ate, and no one gave him anything. But when he
came to himself, he said, How many of my father's
hired servants have more than enough bread? But
I perish here with hunger. I will arise and go
to my father, and I will say to him, Father,
I've sinned against heaven and before you. I
am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat
me as one of your hired servants. And he arose
and he came to his father. While he was still
a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion
and ran and embraced him and kissed him. And
the son said to him, Father, I have sinned against
heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy
to be called your son. But the father said to
his servants, Bring quickly the best robe. Put
it on him. Put a ring on his hand and shoes on
his feet. Bring the fatted calf and kill it.
And let us eat and celebrate. For my son was
dead and is alive again. He was lost and is now
found. And they began to celebrate. Now the older
son was in the field. And as he came and drew
near the house, he heard music and dancing. And
he called one of the servants and asked what
these things meant. And he said to him, Your
brother has come, and your father has killed
the fatted calf because he has received him back
safe and sound. But he, that's the older brother,
was angry. and refused to go in. His father came
out and entreated him, but as he answered his
father, Look, these many years I have served
you, and I never disobeyed your commands. Yet
you never gave me one young goat that I might
celebrate with my friends. But when this son
of yours came, who has devoured your property
with prostitutes, you killed the fatted calf
for him. And he said to him, Son, you're always
with me, and all that is mine is yours. It was
fitting to celebrate and be glad, for this your
brother was dead and is now alive. He was lost
and is found. The word is spoken, now it lingers,
asking to be lived. You actually hear it before
you see it. Not loud, not shouted, low and steady.
A grumble, faintly rumbling like distant thunder.
You glance to your left and there they are, the
Pharisees, the scribes. Lips moving, heads leaning
close to whisper to one another. You don't need
to ask what they're saying. You can feel it.
Disapproval. Disgust. Their arms are crossed,
their eyes narrowed, their voices carry a single
word, grumble. Now, we get this account from
the gospel, according to Luke. Luke tells you
exactly how to name that sound. Diagongazo. Say
it with me into your breath. Diagongazo. It feels
like the word itself. In fact, in Greek, it's
an onomatopoeia. a growl in the throat, a complaint
rolling low. It isn't just one man shaking his
head in disapproval. It is a whole group grumbling
together, letting their discontent buzz in the
air. And remember, we're in that crowd. If you've
heard the scriptures at any point read in the
synagogue in your life, you know this sound already.
Because the Greek Old Testament, something called
the Septuagint, used this very word to describe
your ancestors when they were in the wilderness.
Now, the Septuagint isn't just any old translation
of the Hebrew Bible. It is the scriptures in
Greek. It is the version that Jews in Jesus'
day... as well as most of the early church of
Christians, read aloud. It's the bridge between
Hebrew memory and Greek storytelling. And it
matters here because when Luke writes Diagongazo,
he's not just describing complaint. He's dragging
the wilderness. Into the street right where Jesus
stands. Close your eyes. Suddenly you're not
in Galilee anymore. You're standing in the desert.
Your tongue cracked with thirst. Your stomach
twisted in hunger. You've just passed through
the Red Sea. Your sandals, your cloak are still
damp from freedom. Pharaoh's army is gone, swallowed
up whole. And yet this sound rises from your
own throat. You may remember Exodus 16. And the
whole congregation of the people of Israel grumbled,
against Moses and Aaron in the wilderness. And
the people of Israel said to them, Would that
we had died by the hand of the Lord in the land
of Egypt, where we sat by meat pots and ate bread
to the full, for you have brought us out into
the wilderness to kill this whole assembly of
hunger. Can you hear it? Even with manna on the
ground, they still grumble. Even with water gushing
from the rock. still grumble, God's grace raining
down on them and God's people murmuring back.
Now we're back in Galilee, different desert,
same sound. Jesus is welcoming sinners, feeding
them with his presence, and the Pharisees stand
on the edges, lips curled, grumbling the wilderness
word, Diagonal. And here's what Luke wants you
to feel. That word is not a throwaway. That word
is not an accident. In the first century, these
stories were carried very carefully, word for
word like precious cargo. The eyewitnesses, that's
how Luke got his account, the eyewitnesses telling
and retelling the moment that we're talking about.
had other Greek verbs that they could have chosen
and used. But they reached for this one, the
wilderness word, so that you would hear that
echo, so that you would know that when the Pharisees
grumbled, they were standing in the exact same
posture as their ancestors who doubted in God's
provision. This is why the Septuagint is such
a gift to us, because it lets us lay Greek over
Greek, Luke's verb over Exodus' verb, and watch
the words line up. The lexicon of the New Testament
gets colored in by the palette of the Old Testament.
The grumble here used in Luke carries the dust
of the Sinai on it. And watch how the parable
itself will carry that sound to the very end.
The elder brother, standing outside the feast,
arms crossed, jaw tight, his lips will shape
the same complaint. The story begins with a grumble,
and it ends with a grumble. The wilderness is
not behind you, it's here. And it is alive in
every grumble that rises when grace somehow offends
your sense of fairness. So then the question
presses in. When grace sets the table, when forgiveness
smells like roasted calf and music shakes the
walls, what sound will come out of your mouth?
Will it be a song of joy? Or will it be that
same old wilderness grumble? The boy, the younger
son, had rehearsed his speech a hundred times
on the road home. Dirt covering him from head
to toe. Shame bowing his shoulders. The only
words that he can imagine. I have sinned. I am
no longer worthy. Treat me as a servant. That's
the script he writes for himself. But the father
won't even let him finish it. While the boy is
still a long ways away, far off, Scripture says,
the old man sees him, feels compassion, and runs.
Also know, fathers didn't run in this world.
Running for an adult male with the... tunics,
was considered beneath their dignity. But this
one gathers up his robes and sprints down the
road. He embraces his filthy son, kisses him,
and cuts his confession off mid -sentence. Everything
the crowd expects, the father refuses. Expected
a beanie. Given a kiss. Expected a slave's lot
in life, a servant contract. Given a robe, a
ring, sandals, food. Expected slow earning back
of trust. Given instant restoration to sonship.
It is grace that doesn't wait for permission.
It is reconciliation that ignores decorum. It
is a joy that explodes in music and dancing before
the neighbors can even stop gasping and clutching
the pearls. And here's what you must see. To
the sinners in the crowd, this is a revelation.
God's not wanting to scold you for your unworthiness.
He runs out to meet you. To the Pharisees, it's
a rebuke. And it's a comfort wrapped in one.
The father's honor is not diminished by welcoming
in the sinner. His house does not somehow get
smaller because another son has come home. The
same reality of God's love is revealed to both
audiences at once. Notice also the order of the
father's reassurance to the elder son. He doesn't
start with the bank accounts. He starts with
his presence. To the elder son, he'll say, son,
you've always been with me. And only then all
that is mine is yours. Presence, then property.
Communion, then calculation. And if we miss that
order, I think we miss the heart of God. Let's
look at him, the elder son, sweating from the
fields, hears music, and his rage flares up.
He's not going in, so the father comes out. Think
of that. Just as he's run to... Meet the younger,
now he steps outside for the elder. Two sons,
two refusals, two humiliating journeys of the
father. One onto the road, one out of the party.
And don't miss it, that same wilderness word,
diagongazo, comes here too. The elder's grumble
mirrors the Pharisee's grumble. The wilderness
complaint echoing through the generations. are
being embraced by a grace that moves first. And
this is where we need to see the double edge
of the parable. Because Jesus is teaching to
two audiences at once. To the sinners in the
crowd, the story is pure hope. The Father runs
to meet you, robe and ring ready, no delay, no
earning it back. Your shame cannot keep you out
of his house. To the Pharisees, that same story
is a mirror. The father comes out to you too.
His covenant with you hasn't changed. Not one
thing has been taken from you. The younger's
welcome back is not at your loss. It's the father's
freedom to love both sons. The same reality of
God's love is shown to both sons, to both crowds,
and it is wholly at the discretion of the father.
Grace does not divide a finite pie. It overflows
the table so that everyone can be called in.
And some of us know what it's like to live that
younger son's story. Ashamed, reckless, desperate
for mercy. And others know the other son's resentment,
faithful, dutiful, quietly furious that grace
could be given so freely to someone who hadn't
earned it. And here Jesus said, God is not choosing
between you. He's choosing for you, both of you,
with a love that does not diminish when it's
shared. Picture the crowd again. The tax collectors
and the sinners breathing easier. The Pharisees
shifting on their heels. Jesus isn't pitting
one against the other. He's pulling both towards
the Father. You may come home, he tells the sinners.
You may come in, he tells the Pharisees. The
only one who ends the story outside is the one
who chooses. to keep their arms folded. So ask
yourself, where do your arms rest? Are they open
like the fathers or crossed like the elders?
Have you learned to rejoice when someone else
gets grace at your party? Isn't it almost wasteful
the way the father gives the robe, the ring?
calf, the music, all for a son who had burned
through his inheritance. From a human perspective,
you could call it reckless. You could call it
inefficient. You could call it wasteful. And
you wouldn't be wrong if the father were working
with a limited supply. Think of the vineyard
owner that we talked about. Paying the last hour
workers a full day's wage while looking at the
dawn crew in the eye when they grumble and saying,
do you begrudge my generosity? You can hear the
elder brothers grumble in that question. You
can hear the Pharisees grumble in that question
too. The master is free to be generous. Grace
does not require your consent. Let's stand again
in the yard, listen to the soundtrack of this
house. Inside, singing, laughter, the shuffle
of sandals on packed earth, the thrum of a drum,
neighbors clapping, offbeat and not caring. Outside,
the cicadas buzz, the night wind grits the teeth
of the elder son, and between, the father's voice,
low and pleading. The same kindness that once
sprinted down the road now pausing in the doorway,
begging pride to die and letting joy live. Wasteful,
says the elder, because he thinks that calf was
his. Wasteful, says the Pharisee, because he
thinks his holiness will be cheapened by the
Father's mercy. Wasteful, say we, when we forget
that none of us hired the band or bought the
wine. The father owns the house. The father fills
the table. The father is the one who says it
is fitting to celebrate and be glad. Here's one
more echo. The father says all that is mine is
yours. And if you stand in that, Since it's long
enough, you can feel a mystery open. The inheritance
is not about a stockpile of money. It's about
a relationship. The son's true wealth is the
withness of the father. You are always with me
is the first treasure. All that is mine is yours
is the second. Presence then property. God gives
himself first. Everything else is wrapped around
that gift. So here we stand at the edge of the
party, music drifting through the windows, the
smell of roasted calf in the air, the father's
voice still echoing, it was fitting to celebrate
and be glad for your brother was dead and is
alive. He was lost and he is found. And the question
is not just for the Pharisees, not just for the
elder brother. It is for you and for me. Will
you walk inside? Will you lay down your grumble,
your clenched jaw, your arms crossed tight across
your chest? Or will you stay outside, grumbling
while grace dances without you? Because here's
the crystal truth. Plain enough for midnight
radio and Sunday morning both. Jesus is teaching
two audiences at once and one God in both. To
the sinners, he says, the Father runs to you.
Stop rehearsing your unworthiness and let him
wrap you in a robe you did not buy. To the Pharisees,
at the same time, he says, the Father comes out
for you too. Nothing has been taken from you.
Your place at the table has never been in jeopardy.
Do not let another's mercy feel like your loss.
The same reality of the Father's love is poured
out to both, never diminished, never divided,
and always at his discretion. Grace is not a
pie that shrinks when shared. It's a feast that
multiplies when you decide to pick up your fork.
So choose. Not between sons. Between postures.
Between grumbling and music. Between counting
and rejoicing. Between staying outside or stepping
into the light that leaks through the cracks
of that door the Father holds open with his very
own body. Lift your head. Hear the drum. Smell
the feast. Feel the hand of the Father on your
shoulder. Father is free in his love. He does
not ask the Pharisees permission to forgive the
sinner. He does not ask the sinner's permission
to bless the faithful. His love is wholly his
to give and he gives it in abundance. That is
what Jesus wanted that crowd to see. And that's
what he wants you to see too. Grace is already
poured out, friends. The party has already begun.
The only question left is, will you join in the
song or grumble? Amen? Amen. Thanks, guys. You
know, maybe the most haunting thing about this
parable is that the elder brother never walks
in. Jesus leaves it open. He doesn't tell us
if the brother forgives or even listens. Just
silence. Father's invitation hanging in the air
like smoke from a sacrifice. And maybe that's
because the story ain't finished. Maybe it's
your turn. You see, the elder brother obeyed
every rule but missed the father's heart. He
stayed near the house but far from joy. And if
we're honest, there's a little bit of elder brother
in all of us. We want grace for ourselves but
justice for them. We want celebration when we
come back, but punishment when they do. We love
the idea of God's mercy until he gives it to
someone we don't think deserves it. Then we hear
the spirit whisper, my child, you're always with
me. All I have is yours, but we had to celebrate.
He's dead and now he's alive. This is the gospel.
God doesn't wait at the door. He runs down the
road. He walks out of the party. He pleads with
the proud. He forgives the grumblers. He refuses
to write anyone out of the story. So maybe it's
time to stop folding your arms and start walking
towards the music. If this stirred something
in you, would you like, share, subscribe? Not
for clicks, but because someone you love might
be standing in the field, arms crossed, and they
don't even know the feast has started. I'll see
you next time