This morning we heard a parable that Jesus shared, which many of us might think we fully understand. It revolves around a father and his two sons, one of whom runs away while the other stays behind, grumpy on the porch. This story is often referred to as the Prodigal Son, but it's important to recognize that there are two lost sons portrayed in it.

 

When we revisit Luke's introduction, he says, "A certain man had two sons: And the younger said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falls to me. And he divided unto them his living" (Luke 15:11-12). We're usually focused on the younger son — he takes his inheritance, leaves for a distant land, and squanders it on reckless living, becoming known as the "prodigal."

 

However, we must not overlook the older brother, who, by the story's conclusion, is found outside his father's house, unwilling to join the celebration. One son is lost far away, while the other is lost right at home.

 

This morning, I want us to reflect on both the compassion shown to the wayward son and the grace needed by the obedient one. The reality of this Gospel is that both sons are lost and require their father to seek them out. By the grace of God, both sons receive an invitation to the same table.

 

Let's focus on the younger son first. His request to his father is quite shocking; asking for his inheritance while his father is still alive implies, "I wish you were dead. Give me what I would receive if you were gone." Despite the hurt, the father complies, as he never forces love.

 

The younger son takes his share and travels to a distant land, where, as the King James Bible vividly expresses, he squanders his wealth on riotous living. Eventually, disaster strikes—a famine occurs, and he finds himself with nothing.

His friends abandon him, and in a desperate situation, he ends up feeding pigs, a humiliating job for a Jewish boy, to the point that he longs to eat what the pigs are eating. Sadly, no one helps him (v. 16).

 

Isn't that the essence of the distant land? It's a place where everyone takes, and no one gives. Sin entices with promises of abundance but leads to hardship instead.

 

Then we see a pivotal moment in verse 17: "And when he came to himself, he said, How many hired servants of my father's have bread enough and to spare, and I perish with hunger!" He recognizes his true self, separate from the false identities the distant land offered him. That's what true repentance involves—awakening in the pigpen and remembering you have a father.

 

He decides to return home, not as a son but as a servant, thinking, "I will arise and go to my father, and will say unto him, Father, I have sinned against heaven and before thee, and am no more worthy to be called thy son: make me as one of thy hired servants" (v. 18-19). He's preparing his apology, not knowing what awaits him on the way.

 

Here’s the verse I want you to remember: "But when he was yet a great way off, his father saw him, and had compassion, and ran, and fell on his neck, and kissed him" (v. 20).

 

This indicates that the father had been watching for his son every day, scanning the horizon. When he finally sees him approaching, he doesn't wait for an explanation. Instead, he runs, an undignified act for a man of his status, and embraces his son, who still reeks of the pigpen, before the son can even apologize.

 

The son manages to utter part of his speech about his sin, and the father interrupts, not with criticism but with joy. "Bring forth the best robe, and put it on him; and put a ring on his hand, and shoes on his feet: And bring the fatted calf, and kill it; and let us eat, and be merry" (v. 22-23).

 

The robe hides his shame. The ring signifies his restored sonship, a symbol of authority in the household. The shoes indicate, "You are a son, not a servant," since servants typically went barefoot. The fatted calf signifies a celebration reserved for special occasions.

 

This is grace—grace offered before the son can even finish his apology. It runs to meet us while we are still far off, still burdened by our failures. That is the nature of our Father.

 

Meanwhile, the joy of the celebration is at its peak. Music, dancing, and the aroma of roasted meat fill the air. But where’s the older brother? He’s out working in the field, diligently faithful. Upon hearing the commotion, he asks a servant what’s happening and learns that his brother has returned, prompting the father to kill the fatted calf to celebrate his safe return (v. 27).

 

Luke tells us, "And he was angry, and would not go in" (v. 28).

 

Consider a family gathering you’ve attended, where a long-absent sibling returns and everyone rushes to embrace them. But for the sibling who remained faithful—who did all the chores and preserved the family unity—there’s a lingering feeling of resentment, not out of a lack of love, but because they never received a celebration for their steadfastness.

 

This characterizes the older brother, who remains outside, his physical presence at home overshadowed by emotional distance. He expresses to his father, "Lo, these many years do I serve thee; neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends" (v. 29). Listen closely to his words: "I serve thee," not "I am your son." He views himself as a laborer owed a wage rather than as a beloved son. He has been at home yet does not understand his identity as a cherished child of the father. That is a form of lostness, too.

 

Here’s a powerful detail: the father doesn’t send a servant to fetch the older son or merely ignore him. Verse 28 states, "therefore came his father out, and intreated him." The father leaves the joy of the celebration for the younger son to reach out to the older son.

 

The same father who ran to embrace the prodigal now walks out to the loyal son. The grace that sought the younger sibling also seeks the older one, who may have never physically left but whose heart has grown cold and resentful.

 

And notice how the father speaks to him—not in anger, but with tenderness: "Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine" (v. 31). Everything the father has belongs to the older son. He lacked nothing but failed to recognize or appreciate the abundance surrounding him. The heart-wrenching reality is that the father had to remind him.

 

As we come to the conclusion of this parable, we find the narrative leaves the door open—literally. We don’t know if the older son ever joins the celebration. Jesus leaves the ending unresolved, prompting us to reflect: will you enter in?

 

This week, if you identify with the younger son—having strayed, squandered, and found yourself in a distant place—know that the Father is waiting for you, watching the road. Come to yourself. Rise up. Return home. He will meet you before you've even finished your thoughts.

 

Conversely, if you see yourself in the older brother—faithful and dutiful but quietly resentful and standing outside the joy—hear this: the Father is coming to you too, right where you are, to remind you that all He has is already yours.

 

Both sons, one Father, and grace sufficient for both. No matter where you find yourself-whether far away or just outside your own home—the Father is already heading out to greet you. All that remains is for you to accept His invitation to the feast.