Fourth Sunday of Lent - The Prodigal Sons

It doesn’t say so anywhere in the Bible, but this story is popularly known as the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Saint John Paul II preferred to call it the Parable of the Merciful Father. And I’d suggest we might even call it the Parable of the Prodigal Sons—plural.

That shift in emphasis can help this parable impact our lives more deeply, especially in the circumstances we face today.

When we read the Scriptures—particularly the Gospel—in the context of the sacred liturgy, we believe something remarkable happens: God becomes present in the Word. He speaks to us directly, just as truly as He becomes present in the Eucharist. That’s why there are two poles in the liturgy: the Liturgy of the Word and the Liturgy of the Eucharist. Both are real. Both are powerful. When the Gospel is proclaimed, it is not merely a retelling of something long ago. It is God’s living Word, spoken to you and me, here and now.

That’s what I try to do each week—meditate on the Scriptures and preach something from them. And usually, I’m preaching to myself. Because if nothing else, I know at least one person might benefit.

I’m not up here because I know everything. Not at all. We are all called to be challenged by the Scriptures—to let them speak to us and call us to live differently.

And this parable of the prodigal sons feels especially relevant right now. In a time of division and political tension—when people on every side hold strong opinions—Christians can easily get caught up in that spirit of turmoil. It’s tempting to take sides. It’s tempting to judge.

Every society, every community, every family, even every church has different types of people. Psychology tells us this too. The “Big Five” personality traits include something called trait openness. People high in openness tend to be more progressive—they enjoy new ideas, experimentation, breaking boundaries. People lower in openness tend to be more conservative—they value tradition, caution, and structure.

And that diversity is actually a good thing.

We need both kinds of people. A society that lacks openness becomes rigid and stagnant. But a society that lacks structure and continuity becomes chaotic and unstable. We need dialogue between these different tendencies. We need both perspectives to remain healthy.

In this Gospel, we see two sons who represent these two tendencies.

The younger son is high in openness. He’s sick of the routine. He’s tired of the farm. He wants adventure—something new. So he says to his father, “Give me my share of the inheritance.” In Jewish culture, this was essentially saying, “I wish you were dead so I could get my money and leave.”

That’s a deeply hurtful thing to say. And yet—the father doesn’t respond in anger. He simply does what the son asks. He divides the property, gives him the inheritance, and lets him go.

The son goes off, loses everything, hits rock bottom, and decides to return—not because of some noble change of heart, but because he’s hungry. And he remembers: At least my father’s servants had food to eat.

Then there’s the older son. He never leaves. He stays home, does what he’s supposed to, works hard. Externally, he seems like the “good” one. But when his brother returns, his heart is filled with bitterness and resentment. He doesn't share his father’s joy. He doesn't even seem capable of love. He’s doing all the “right things,” but his heart is not in the right place.

And so here we are—on a Sunday—when we could be doing something else, while many of our friends or family don’t go to church and seem to be enjoying life just fine. And if we’re honest, the same dynamic can occur in us. We start resenting others, judging others—and they, in turn, resent us. We say, “Those people think they’re better than me.” Or, “Those people are the problem.”

But this parable challenges that.

It shows us that the real problem isn’t those people. The real problem is me. Each son has rejected his father in his own way. Each one is broken. Each one needs to come home.

And the younger son—despite his recklessness—is the one who returns. He acknowledges his failure. He turns back. The older son? We’re left with a question mark. The parable ends with him outside, unwilling to enter the celebration. We don’t know what he chooses.

And that’s deliberate. The Gospel leaves that open for you. Which son are you? What resentment are you carrying? Who do you think “the problem” is in your life?

If I’m not at peace inside, it’s not going to help if someone else changes. There’s no political solution to my interior turmoil. Because the problem lives within me.

But to both sons, the father comes out. The father runs to meet the younger son—and notice, he sees him from far off. That means he was waiting, day after day, hoping his son might return.

And to the older son, he goes out as well. He pleads with him. Come in. Rejoice. Let go of your resentment. Live differently.

That’s the kind of father we have. That’s who God is to us. He’s not waiting to punish. He’s waiting to welcome.

And He’s calling each of us to live in a new way. To let go of bitterness. To stop dividing ourselves from others. To stop blaming them. And to find healing in relationship—in love, in community, in forgiveness.

Because only then will we begin to live with joy.

Only then can we reach out to others—those who are different from us—and truly see them as people. Not as enemies. Not as obstacles. But as beloved children of God.

This is the only way forward. This is how families heal. This is how cultures heal. This is how the Church heals. Not by eliminating the “other side,” but by recognizing that we all need the Father. And He is already running toward us.

Let us listen to this parable. Let us take it into our hearts. And let it shape the way we live—not just this week, but in every season.