Two Sons, Lent 4 (C) – March 30, 2025

[RCL] Joshua 5:9-12; Psalm 32; 2 Corinthians 5:16-21; Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

---

---

[Today’s sermon is presented in the format of a spoken-word poem. – Ed.]

There was a man who had two sons. 
So our story begins. 

“A man with two sons,”
is how a lot of stories begin, 
if you think about it. 

That first man, expelled from the garden
had those two sons 
named Cain and Abel.
Later followed by those other famous
brothers, Ishmael and Isaac,
the duo Esau and Jacob.

There have been many men 
with two sons.
And the younger of the sons,
those second born:
Abel and Isaac and Jacob…
well, you know how it goes.
They are beloved,
the ones born to 
their fathers
late in life,
the ones born of the favored wife;
not the concubine’s children, but
the righteous ones,
the ones to inherit
the promises of God.  

We expect the second son
to be clever and righteous,
savvy and faithful to his father. 
We don’t expect the second son 
to squander away his inheritance. 
That is not how the tale of two sons goes.
And so, it would seem
our story instantly veers off 
course. 
We find ourselves surprised,
intrigued by the journey we are on.

This younger son,
heart of his father’s heart,
takes off for a distant country
to live his prodigal life
squandering away all that he had been given,
a narcissistic lavishness 
that we can’t help but frown upon.  
Such is not proper living, after all. 

And, as if a self-appointed Joseph,
in an Egypt-like place,
this younger son
finds himself 
facing a famine,
imagining his father’s
servants eating their fill
of daily bread. 

So, he puts on a repentant posture,
rehearsing his speech of remorse.
But does it even matter?
He can barely get it out of his
mouth, his father doesn’t seem
to even hear him,
it doesn’t seem to matter
what he says.

Because his father is
far too busy running
rushing
hugging
kissing
putting a robe around him
perhaps one that resembles
a coat of many colors,
Ordering his servants 
to kill a fatted calf.
The opposite of a famine
awaits him,
not because his repentance
was perfect or his posture
flawlessly humble.

The feast awaits 
not because we say the right things
or put on a good show of remorse.
The feast awaits because his father,
his yearning, adoring father was waiting
for him to come home
and come home he had.

And this would’ve
been a startling image
of the kingdom of God
in and of itself;
a depiction of a radically generous
and lavish God.
It is far too much mercy
for any of us to absorb 
in a single day. 

It would’ve been a
sufficient and scandalous
tale of grace and forgiveness
all by itself.

But this is a tale of two sons.

And so now
we join that elder son – 
the Cain, the Ishmael, the Esau, the one 
our ancient stories so rarely shine a light on,
letting them slip off into the sidelines of history.
But here, we have a moment
to see his world,
to know what it’s like 
to be the son who stayed.

We join him
on his way in from the fields,
tired from the sun,
thirsty and longing 
for respite, for a warm meal, for the coolness of night.

Had he counted the minutes
the hours, the days
that he had worked the fields,
since his younger brother had left,
his hands bearing the evidence
splintered and calloused,
had he counted those days? 

Had he kept track – 
a long tally of bitter triumphs – 
of the number of goats and calves 
he had raised from birth to slaughter? 
An offering of sustenance for the whole family,
laced with a dose of indignation. 

Had he silently seethed his way through the house
sucking the air out of the room as he walked in
or had he been exceedingly gentle with his father
tiptoeing on eggshells
too afraid to further shatter a delicate heart? 

Had his sense of fairness
and budding self-righteousness
ever put a boulder in front 
of his joy before 
this moment, here and now? 

We witness his father come toward him
pleading him to come inside
to join the feast.
The father, yet again, makes
a pilgrimage from the house
with urgency and sincerity
toward a wayward son.

This elder son’s waywardness
was marked not by opulent abandon
but by a thriftiness,
a stinginess of heart.
His stinginess morphed
into being,
with the good-intended
ingredients of
justice and fairness
mixed
with those nagging
thoughts that he had never been properly
thanked
or appreciated.

A deadly recipe.

He has exiled himself from his own home
and stands there enraged
unable to cross the hurdle
of his own hardened and bitter heart.

This elder son,
embodies what
poet Jack Gilbert 
warns about in his poem, “A Brief for the Defense”:

“To make injustice the only
measure of our attention is to praise the Devil.”

Gilbert is not telling us
to stop our ears or close our eyes
to the heap of sadnesses
we find ourselves witnessing or complicit in.
He’s not saying to ignore the wrongs
actually done against us or others. 
That will be impossible.
We live in a land of ruins
and with hearts that pang
with indignation and sorrow. 

Gilbert, instead, earlier in the poem
is pleading with us: Don’t let the sorrows
and injustices, 
the wrongs wronged and the deeds done, 
the sins of our brothers and the sins of our own hearts
be the only things that get our attention, 
don’t let all of that 
keep us from “risk[ing] delight.” 
Don’t let them become immovable boulders
on your path toward a party.

Because, Gilbert writes later in the poem,
“There will be
music despite everything.”

And music there is – 
A joyful and raucous celebration
in the house right beyond his father’s silhouette. 
Even after his younger brother
wastes his precious worldly goods,
even after the sorrow of watching his father
grieve a beloved son
and even after years of working
in the fields alone, abandoned,
the music begins again. 

And here, the parable, this tale of two sons,
does its final magic.
It ends. 
It does not narrate
the choice of the elder son.
It does not say he turned around
and walked away, toward the empty fields
all alone, with his righteousness as his sole companion.
Nor does it tell us that his heart
miraculously
thawed. 

It does not tell us what the elder son chooses. 

For he is us. And we are him. 

And it is our choice to make. 

Will we join the great feast 
where sinners of all kinds
gather,
welcomed home from their various
prodigal journeys?
Will we nurse our resentments
and self-righteous complaints
to the end of our days
alone in our castle on a hill?

Will we get out of our own way,
and let God’s love thaw those bricks
of bitterness?
Will we come back to
the only home we’ve ever known?

It is our choice to make.
No one will force you through the door. 
The father stands there,
arms extended,
eyes hopeful
and expectant,
grace abounding
for you and me,
a mercy that is 
hard to receive,
but what else
is there to do but
receive it? 

The music is playing.
The fatted calf is ready.
Will you risk delight?
Will you keep the feast? 

The Rev. Kellan Day is the rector of St. James Episcopal Church in Greenville, South Carolina. She is a graduate of The School of Theology at the University of the South. Kellan and her spouse, Kai, relish time outside – climbing, hiking with their dog, and sitting on porches with friends.