What If My Skepticism is Keeping People out of Heaven? (The Prodigal Son Parable)
“But God chose what is foolish in the world to shame the wise; God chose what is weak in the world to shame the strong.” (1 Corinthians 1:27)
Last week, I took a deep dive into the parable of the Prodigal Son. I came away with a coin of perspectives, and shared part one (the prodigal’s story) last week. This week, I want to shift more into the character I most often see reflected in the mirror, the other son.
I grew up in church from birth. My parents used to wait for four-year-old me to fall asleep in the preaching to sneak chapstick on my mouth, the one time of day it stopped moving. I remember how slick the baptistry floor was beneath my seven-year-old feet and the last line of my featured solo in the church play. I have lived a semi-charmed faith, one devoid of what most would call a “radical” testimony.
Sure, I’ve had my fair share of rebellions and seasons of careless sin. I have grieved the fact that, though my strivings are many, my best righteousness is still rags. For the most part, though, the self-preservationist in me was never interested in riotous living. (What would people say about the girl who sent daily Bible verse texts to every contact in her Razr flip phone?) In this way, I think I’m more like the snotty brother in the prodigal parable than I care to admit.
“Now his older son was in the field, and as he came and drew near to 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 fattened calf, because he has received him back safe and sound.’ But he was angry and refused to go in.” (Luke 15: 25-28)
There is a noticeable difference between the father’s response and the latter son’s response. When the prodigal came to his senses and returned home, the father ran to embrace him with a kiss. Can I just be honest? My first instinct is never this. It is never grace without question. My first instinct is skepticism. What do you mean, you were hooking up in brothels, drinking yourself to oblivion, and suddenly are a changed man?
I have no personal context for so radical a repentance, and so the pride in me begins to pry apart the miracle.
What if the conversion is really an emotional high?
Are you just manipulating me to get what you want?
If I let you in, will you make a fool of me?
The term used to describe the prodigal (asōtōs) comes from an adjective meaning “one that cannot be saved,” or “an abandoned man.” The prodigal son went to limitless excess. Can you blame the other brother for his doubt?
“But he answered his father, ‘Look, these many years I have served you, and I never disobeyed your command, yet you never gave me a 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 fattened calf for him!’ And he said to him, ‘Son, you are 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 alive; he was lost, and is found.’” (v. 29-32)
Here’s the thing— I don’t think the stable son was necessarily jealous that he wasn’t receiving the glory of being the golden boy. I think he, the designated Responsible One, was skeptical. If his brother was putting on a show, if he manipulated his way back into the already-deceived heart of their father, what would this mean for the family business?
The prodigal squandered everything in moments he could never get back. Yet, Dad put the ring of authority on his hand, giving him authority to do business on his behalf. He probably saw the situation unfolding as a worst case scenario where his brother, having lost his own inheritance, would now siphon what was left of his. And Dad was going to just let it happen… again.
Like the skeptic, I’m just not so forgiving. “Fool me once, shame on you. Fool me twice, shame on me,” right? If I make the decision to let you in again, it’s on trial basis. With strict boundaries. And limited visitation hours. You will scale my fortress walls before you can reach my heart.
What does this say about my faith in God? I cringe against the thought I’m about to admit— I’m afraid I don’t trust God to save the right people.
When the recovering addict comes out of rehab too soon, claiming the love of God was enough to break chains, cold turkey.
When the spouse caught in adultery claims to have seen the error of their ways and reprises their loyalty in tears and kisses.
When the religion hopping friend claims to have ultimately found enlightenment in the true Church.
I raise my red flag and the drawbridge, on sight. I hold my breath for the impact of another false convert falling away. I raise my “I told you so” to God: “Why would you let them give this world false hope? Why would you let them ruin the family name? How many sinners are they dragging down with their failed repentance?”
And God answers: “How many sinners are you dragging down with your failed faith?”
“But woe to you, scribes and Pharisees, hypocrites! For you shut the kingdom of heaven in people’s faces. For you neither enter yourselves nor allow those who would enter to go in.” (Matthew 23:13)
If you ignore the context of Luke 15, you lose the audience. Jesus is preaching to the Pharisees, who are pictured in the well-behaved son. They kept every tradition and prided themselves in their righteousness. They also refused the Gentiles. Here, Jesus says, “You are closing the door to Heaven in the face of the lost.” My skepticism is not doing anybody any favors, least of all, myself.
How many miracles have I closed the door on because I didn’t want to look foolish for expecting them?
How many people could I have led to Christ if I genuinely believed He was eagerly awaiting them?
Would I rather be made a fool by people, with a power limited to these fragile days?
Or would I rather submit myself to the one with the power of all eternity? (Matthew 10:28)
The attitude of the father and son could not have been more different. The attitude of Jesus could not touch the hard heartedness of the Pharisees. I don’t know about you, but I cannot afford to live a life directly opposed to the character of my Father.
I want to be about His business, just like His most beloved Son.
