On Tables & Reconciliation

  

What's the Parable of the Prodigal Son really about? Surprisingly, it's about tables... and reconciliation!

 

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32

2 Corinthians 5:16-21

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

 

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2025

 

Holy One, you prepare a table in the wilderness and set it before saints and sinners alike. Let your Word meet us in this moment. Let us receive your invitation with open hearts and open minds. Amen.

There’s something sacred about a shared table.

 

Maybe it’s the table in your kitchen, cluttered with mail and homework and a stray crayon or two, but still the place your family returns to, night after night. 

 

Maybe it’s a holiday table, bursting with joy, delicious dishes, and awkward conversation. 

 

Or maybe it’s this table—the altar—where bread and wine become more than bread and wine. Where we meet the mystery of grace. Where heaven and earth kiss one another. Where we take part in a feast, which has been on-going for 2,000 years and will continue on into eternity.

 

In today’s Gospel, we hear one of Jesus’ most famous parables. But before we get to the story itself though, it’s helpful to notice what triggered it—a table. “Now all the tax collectors and sinners were coming near to listen to him. And the Pharisees and the scribes were grumbling, saying this fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them.”

 

Jesus was welcoming the wrong people to the table. The Pharisees—religious leaders not unlike you or I—and scribes—the lawyers of the day—began to mutter their disapproval. And so, Jesus told them this parable—not to shame them, but to show them what the kingdom of God looks like.

You know this story. Even if this morning was the very first time you ever heard it, the Parable of the Prodigal Son is our story—a tale about the human condition and God’s epic love for us. To recap it in brief, a son squandered his inheritance in a far-off land, wound up feeding pigs (not a great look for an Israelite forbidden from even touching swine), and eventually stumbled home with a well-rehearsed apology. His father saw him, ran to him, embraced him before a word was spoken. There was a feast—a raucous party. And then the elder brother, angry and excluded, was invited to the table, too. Did he go in? It’s a cliff-hanger meant for Pharisees, scribes, and us to figure out!

 

But, before you go picking on one son or the other, here’s the truth: both sons were lost. One was lost in rebellion—the other in resentment. One wandered far from home—the other far from grace.

 

And yet—this is what hits me every time—the father went out to meet both sons. The father ran to the younger and pleaded with the elder. No shame. No punishment. Only this: “Come inside. Rejoice. You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”

 

A First-Century patriarch would NEVER do this. And, I repeat, never! He would not run out to meet a son who essentially wished him dead in requesting his inheritance early. Nor would he leave a party that he was hosting. But, this is not a story meant to share the exemplary behavior of a father. No, this is a story about what the Kingdom of God looks like, who Our Father in Heaven is, and at least to me, it looks a lot like a family built not on getting it all right, but on having the grace to reconcile when we don’t get it all right.

Saint Paul knew this. Perhaps that is why in his letters to the Church in Corinth which we heard today, he wrote: “God has given us the ministry of reconciliation.” When heard alongside today’s Gospel lesson, we might just realize the Parable of the Prodigal Son isn’t just about God’s mercy—it’s about our call to join in the reconciling work of Christ. To be people who meet one another with grace. To refuse the false binary of “good son” vs. “bad son.” To say, “Come to the table. There's room for you. No matter where you’re from, what you’ve done, or what you have messed up… No matter what, there’s room for you.”

 

That’s especially important right now, in our church and our country—where it’s easy to define ourselves by who we’re not—not like those people, not like that party, not like them. And yes, it is meet and right, and our bounden duty (to borrow words from the Rite I Eucharistic Prayer) to live lives where we uphold Gospel values—to be people committed to unconditional love, service, stewardship, humility, grace, and prayer. But, anytime we put up a barrier separating us from them Christ tears down that dividing wall. Christ continually makes all things new, and we are invited to take part in that. To have the vision of Christ and to see that they are us and we are them. All of us are one.

 

At Holy Apostles, we strive to be a community that lives this out—not just in word but in action. A community where you can come back after you’ve made a mess of things. A community where resentment doesn’t harden into exile. A community where we feast on grace.

 

But, sometimes we don’t even get that right. Sometimes we hold grudges. We experience real hurt and it’s hard then to make amends. When this happens to me, sometimes I dig my feet into stubbornness. If I don’t forgive someone else, I think, I maintain power over them. However, Anne Lamott, the Christian author and pastor, described withholding forgiveness as us drinking rat poison and expecting the rat to die. It’s only hurting us. And, it is not taking seriously who God is calling this community to be. 

 

We can hear echoes of who God yearns for us to be in words we heard from Joshua. God says, “Today I have rolled away from you the disgrace of Egypt.” In this story, the people eat the first Passover in the Promised Land—they take part in a new beginning, a new table in a new place. It echoes the Gospel’s table of return and reconciliation. It foreshadows the Eucharistic table we approach week after week—our own table of new beginnings.

 

In truth, the parable we heard today from Luke isn’t just a story Jesus told. This is a narrative Jesus lived. He was accused of eating with the wrong people. He was betrayed at a table. He gave himself at a table. And he invites us still to join him at table.

 

So, wherever you are today—whether you feel like the younger son, broken and unsure if you belong, or the elder son, righteous and quietly bitter—the invitation is the same:

 

Come to the table.

 

Not because you deserve it. Not because you’ve got it all figured out. But because this is what grace looks like. A father running. A feast beginning. And, a love that refuses to let anyone stay lost. 

 

Amen.

Voices in the Wilderness Calling Us Home

Where's your wilderness?

 

This sermon was preached on the Second Sunday of Advent. A video of the sermon may be found by clicking here. The readings which inspired the sermon were the following:

Malachi 3:1-4

Philippians 1:3-11

Luke 3:1-6

Canticle 4 or 16

 

©2024 The Rev. Seth Olson

Holy God, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

 

Today’s readings transport us into the wilderness, both literal and metaphorical. Out there, voices are calling us to repentance, preparation, and ultimately, to come home. The Song of Zechariah, Malachi's prophecy, Paul’s joyful thanksgiving, and Luke’s depiction of John the Baptist, all draw our attention to God’s presence unfolding in the world, breaking into the silence, and transforming our lives. Observing the richness of these things taking place within today’s powerful lessons, invites us to also journey into wilderness to listen deeply to voices crying, trusting that they hold an Advent message for us as we await Christ’s coming past, present, and yet to come.

In Malachi, we heard the promise of a messenger preparing the way. This path of refinement and purification imitates fire trying metal. Thus, walking this way is rarely comfortable, much like the wilderness can be. However, whenever we do take Christ’s way of love, God transforms our hearts and lives. Malachi pointed to this metamorphosis as he prophesied about Jesus’ forerunner, John the Baptizer. 

 

When John, the prophet of the Most High God, emerged in Luke’s Gospel, he cut a surprising figure. He was not dressed in priestly robes or seated in places of honor instead choosing to wear camel’s hair and to locate himself outside the confines of the religious structure of that day. John was a voice crying out in the wilderness, fulfilling the words of Isaiah: “Prepare the way of the Lord.”

 

You might be wondering, why did this voice have to cry out in the wilderness, as opposed to civilization? The wilderness stands out as both a physical and spiritual place of preparation. In the wild we leave behind distractions, comforts, and pretenses. It is where Zechariah (John the Baptist’s father) was silenced, forced to listen and reflect during Elizabeth’s pregnancy. It is where John heard the word of God, not in the bustling city of Jerusalem but in the stillness of the desert. The wilderness is where God strips away the noise of the world to speak directly to our hearts. 

 

Prioritizing times to journey into the wild also helps us to hear God’s still small voice more clearly. When we do, we might be surprised by what God is saying, much like the way that God surprisingly spoke to a wild preacher’s kid instead of the powerful political figures of First Century Israel.

You may have noticed that Luke’s Gospel account situated John’s ministry within the context of influential figures—Emperor Tiberius, Governor Pilate, ruler Herod, and high priests Annas and Caiaphas. Yet, the word of God bypassed all these prominent men to land upon John, the son of an aging priest and a mother who once carried a promise too good to be true. As outlandish as it sounds, God often chooses the unlikely, the overlooked, and the unexpected to carry out divine purposes. I’ve heard it phrased this way: God does not call the qualified, God qualifies the called.

 

This pattern continues today. God often bypasses the powerful to speak to the lowly. Who are the voices in our wilderness calling us to repentance and transformation? Is it a child asking us to care for creation? A stranger reminding us of our shared humanity? God is trying to speak to us, but are we making the time to listen? The Advent season invites us to listen for those unexpected voices that echo John’s call to prepare the way of the Lord.

Now John’s call of preparation was simple yet profound: “Repent, for the forgiveness of sins.” Repentance, often misunderstood, is not about punishment or shame but turning back to God. The Greek word here is metanoia and it means a transformative change of heart and mind. It is a turning away from distortion of relationship and toward healthy relationships with God, Creation, neighbor, and self. 

 

This metanoia is about recognizing the crooked paths in our lives and seeing how God can use them, straightening them, so that even our mistakes are steppingstones on the pathway towards God’s grace. This way through the wilderness then is about coming home to the One who waits with open arms, like the Father in the parable of the Prodigal Son(s) sometimes also known as the parable of the Loving Father, which we find elsewhere in Luke. 

 

Truly this theme of returning home saturates Luke’s telling of the Good News, like in these words from the Song of Zechariah: “In the tender compassion of our God, the dawn from on high shall break upon us, to shine on those who dwell in darkness and the shadow of death, and to guide our feet into the way of peace.” Advent encourages us to remember that God’s light breaks into even the darkest places, guiding us back to peace, hope, and restoration. Perhaps that is why it feels like such a fitting season for this time of year when we recall the light of Christ coming to us when the natural world in the Northern Hemisphere is so bleak.

The implication of these readings appears clear enough—go to the wilderness to listen for God’s voice which calls us to return home to God. But, if your life is anything like mine, you might struggle with the following question: Where is my wilderness? It does not necessarily mean a desert or a forest; it might be a quiet morning with scripture, a long drive with the sound off, or a moment of stillness after the kids are asleep. The wilderness can be any place where we step away from the noise of the world to hear God’s voice calling us home. Sure, it could be out in the woods, on top of a mountain, or upon a sandy shore; however, it could also be at your kitchen table, on your sofa, or back porch.

 

This Advent, may we each find our wilderness. May God grant us time and space for silence and reflection. May we utilize those sacred gifts to listen for the voice that calls us to prepare, repent, and return home. In a world full of distractions, this is no small task, but it is in these quiet places that God speaks most clearly and we can hear God’s voice most loudly.

As we prepare for Christ’s coming, let us remember the voices in the wilderness that call us to transformation. Let us heed their message of repentance, not with fear but with hope, knowing that God’s forgiveness and grace await us. And let us prepare the way of the Lord, not just in our hearts but in our actions, making the crooked paths straight and the rough places smooth.

 

And may we, like John the Baptist, be voices in the wilderness, calling others to the peace and salvation of God. May we like Zechariah, find our tongues loosed, proclaiming the tender compassion of our God who shines light into every darkness and guides us all home. Amen.

 

Lost And Found

Rembrandt's The Return of the Prodigal Son

 

Joshua 5:9-12

Psalm 32 

2 Corinthians 5:16-21 

Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32

The Rev. Seth Olson © 2022

 

Holy One, finder of the lost, eternally embracing Father, let my words be your words and when my words are not your words, let your people be wise enough to know the same. Amen.

Late one night the father of two young men paced outside his younger son’s bedroom. The father wondered, “Where did I go wrong? When did I lose this son of mine?” Just a few days earlier, his younger child made a request that broke this father’s heart.

“Give me my inheritance now.” The son might as well have said, “Die why don’t you! At least then, I get what I want.” Remarkably, the father complied with his younger son’s wishes. Neighbors and friends urged him not to follow such a reckless and dishonorable request, but the father loved both his sons completely, abundantly, without regard for how others viewed him.

Still, on that night the father dreaded the daylight. He knew that when morning dawned, his little boy would be off to God-knows-where. So, he paced and prayed and pondered a way to keep his son under his roof.

When morning came though the father had no recourse. The elder son shook his brother’s hand saying half-heartedly, “Good luck, little one.” Then, the dutiful son headed off for his morning chores, just as the sun was rising. The father, on the other hand, pleaded one more time for his younger child to stay. It was to no avail. Little one stood limp as his father hugged him, the young man’s eyes gazed off into the distance, down the road that led away from the family farm. He thought, “I’m finally going to be free—to make my own choices, to live my life without my dad and brother bossing me around, and I’m gonna have some fun!”

With one-third of his family’s wealth the younger son set out toward a land of milk and honey, a land of debauchery. At first, he lived a carefree, exuberant existence—it was exhilarating! He feasted on forbidden foods. He slept with beautiful women. He followed pleasure, he sought bliss, and he chased highs. After a time, the ecstasy was harder to find. He still had plenty of money—until he got robbed, ran up a tab, and got too accustomed to finer things beyond his means. Going off to a foreign land had felt like freedom, but without any resources it quickly became like a prison—the young man was trapped.

His plight was made worse when a famine came upon the land where he was living. He reached into where he kept his coins so he could buy a moldy loaf of bread, but he felt the unfamiliar feeling of fraying fabric instead of gold. Even if he had money, there was less of everything to go around, so the young man stooped to an all-time low. He hired himself out to a gentile, which was degrading enough, but on top of that he defiled himself by feeding unclean pigs. His wallet and his belly were so empty that he began considering eating the pigs’ leftovers. In this broken state, a sobering question emerged deep in his heart. What if I go home, not as a son, but as a farm hand, like I am here?

Back at home, life was anything but how he’d left it. Everyday since the younger son went out, his father sat staring down the long road that led off the farm toward distant lands. When a passerby or a visitor stirred up dust coming onto the father’s land, the old man would hope and pray that it was his lost son coming back. Each time it was not, the father’s heart would break a little more.

The elder son kept working longer and longer days. He would wake early and stay up late tending to the land and its people. Pretty soon, the resources lost when the father liquidated the younger son’s inheritance were recouped. The elder son was proud, but his father never seemed to acknowledge his hard work. And, seeing the old man listlessly lingering on the farm road made the elder son furious. He kept thinking, “Don’t you see what I’m doing here! All that I am doing for you!” He never voiced his frustration, as he did not want to hurt his father even more.

Instead, he would care for his father—making sure the servants brought him food and drink. Often the meals would go untouched. One day the elder son even said in passing to his dad, “He’s gone. He wished you were dead, now I wish you would see that he is as good as dead.” As soon as the words left the son’s mouth, he knew they were a mistake. The father walked away, trying to hide his weeping. The elder son not knowing what to do, left to go work—mending a fence on the backside of their land.

The road back to his family’s farm felt foreign to the younger, wasteful son. Maybe it was because his steps were heavier. Perhaps it was because he did not have money to stay or eat at places along the way. Famished and emaciated, the younger son plodded along all the while rehearsing a speech of repentance. “Dad, I mean, Father, I have erred, no, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I cannot be considered your son. I wished you were dead. Treat me not like a son, this son is dead, so treat me like a hired hand. I will work for you if you have me.” Even though the younger son knew the way home, he was lost.

Being lost—in regards to purpose—one’s soul feeling lost is not the same thing as losing a beloved creature, like a sheep, or something, like a coin. In the case of a losing a sheep, a shepherd can go and find it. In the case of a coin, a woman can search and retrieve it. But, a person being truly lost—that’s a trickier issue altogether. We, as people, are craftier than sheep and coins, and we find all sorts of ways to not only get lost, but also to stay lost.

The father perhaps knew this. If he went in search for his younger son, the boy might stay lost forever, but the father never stopped looking down that road that would lead his son back home. And, wouldn’t you know, one day, as the father looked off into the distance, he saw dust rising in the wind.

After being mistaken by visitors and passersby the old man waited just long enough to decipher the silhouette off in the distance, but as soon as he recognized the gait of the man coming down the road—he began charging towards his lost boy.

Not hesitating for a millisecond, the old man pulled up his robe and began running as fast as his feeble, worn-out body could carry him. The dusty air burned his lungs, his sandals flew off as he reached a dead sprint. Servants who witnessed the act were shocked, dropping their tools in the dirt. No self-respecting patriarch would stoop so low as to run anywhere, let alone to run towards an ungrateful, prodigal son. To the father, nothing else mattered—not their opinions, nor his neighbors’, nor how silly it was for an old man to run.

As the father neared his younger son, he slowed down enough to see his child’s frail frame, sunken eyes, and tear-soaked cheeks. The old man wrapped his arms around his son—for a moment the boy’s body was as limp as it was on the day he had walked down that road away from his family and his father. Then, both men began to weep. The boy hugged his father, but a surge of responsibility and righteousness caused him to push his father away momentarily. He thought, I have to tell him.

So, the younger child practiced his rehearsed repentance: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you; I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” If the father heard his child’s words of penitence, they were superfluous and unnecessary, for the son’s presence back home was enough. Soon the father was kneeling down to put sandals on his son’s feet, a ring on his finger, and the best robe over his scrawny shoulders.

“Get the fatted calf, the one we were saving for somebody’s marriage or my first grandchild’s birth, invite all the neighbors, let us celebrate for this son of mine was dead and is alive again, he was lost and now is found!” The servants set out to invite neighbors. Both the hired hands and the fellow citizens were skeptical, curious, and apprehensive. Who celebrates a son who goes off and fails? Who kills a fatted calf for the one who wastes their inheritance?

At first, they remained puzzled, but coming to the party they saw the joy on the father’s face, heard the struggles the boy endured, and experienced this new life together. They joined in the celebration—helping to restore the younger son back into father’s household. Of course, not everyone came around so quickly.

Is it possible to be lost at home? The elder son had been so caught up in work on the far edge of his family’s farm that he never saw his brother’s arrival, he did not see the servants slaughtering the plump heifer, so when he heard music and saw dancing, he was quite puzzled. “What gives?” the older son asked a servant. The hired hand happily replied, “Your brother has come home, and your father has killed the fatted calf, because he got him back safe and sound.”

Tearing his clothes, the older son seethed in anger. As the celebration grew, the heir apparent, pouted refusing to take part in any merrymaking with his wasteful, younger brother. Word of this made its way to the father.

While the father had not gone in search of his prodigal son, he knew that this older lost boy, his righteous son, might require a different approach. Thus, he breached the etiquette of the day and left his guests and younger son celebrating on their own. He went in search of his other child. The old man, looked into his son’s eyes, and pleaded. “Join the celebration!” The son looked away—his jaw locked, his stare burning the horizon. Finally, he spoke.

“Listen!” he screeched, “For all these years I have been working like a slave for you—never resting on laurels or saying work was beneath me because I am the rightful heir—and I never disobeyed your command; yet you have never given me even a measly goat, so I could party with my friends.” Tears streamed down the elder son’s cheeks. “But when my—” then he stopped. “But when this son of yours comes back, who made a mockery of our family name, who devoured your property—our property—with prostitutes and drunkenness and debauchery, what do you do? YOU kill the fatted calf for him!”

The father knelt and looked up at his child. “My boy, you are always with me. You always have been. You always will be. All that is mine is yours. All of it.” The elder son exhaled and met eyes with his dad who continued. “But, we had to celebrate and rejoice, because my s—” then he stopped. “Because this brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found.

“Do not let his being found get you lost. Won’t you come and join the celebration? The table is set. The feast is being readied. And all are welcome here—you are welcome here.”

 

Riotous Living

This Sunday's Gospel lesson is so well known that even Michael Scott knows it!

This past Sunday night I joked with the 5:30 congregation that I thought I was being pranked by my fellow clergy. My first Sunday in the pulpit at All Saints' Church, I got to take on the challenging passage from Luke 4:1-13 in which the Devil tempted Jesus with three tests. Then last Sunday, my second time in the pulpit, I had the "privilege" of preaching on Luke 13:1-9, which can easily be misinterpreted as a "turn or burn" story that personifies God as an angry and impatient landowner in a parable about a fig tree. FUN STUFF (and by that I mean two challenging passages that left me wondering if I was being punked)! These two lessons were hardly cheery stories that described God as a loving and ever pursing presence in our lives, which is precisely who I believe God is. But, turn the page to this week's Gospel lesson from Luke 15:1-3, 11b-32, and you will find just that image of a loving father.

This week's Good News brings us back in touch with one of the most famous and familiar stories of the New Testament. The Parable of the Prodigal Son (also known as the Parable of the Prodigal Sons, the Parable of the Prodigals, or the Parable of the Loving Father) is so well known that even Michael Scott (Steve Carell's character from the Office) knows the gist of it. The quick summary is that the younger of two sons made a request to get his inheritance ahead of his father's death, after shockingly complying with the son's request, the younger son wasted the resources in desolate living, then came home to beg to be his father's servant. Surprisingly the father did not let his son be a servant, but instead welcomed him home as a son once more. The older brother frustrated with the show of love from his father complained, which the father graciously turned into an invitation to celebrate the new life of the younger son after his having come home. Of course, if you are reading this you already knew all of that. And, the challenge (unlike the last two times I was in the pulpit) is not with difficult images from Scripture, but rather an all too familiar story. How will the preacher help the congregation to hear this radical story with new ears? Here are a few ideas!

"I WANT IT NOW!" - We live in a culture that wants everything now. Some call it "Microwave Culture" or blame it on technology, but nowadays people want 2 day shipping, same day pickup, and immediate high speed downloads of everything. Society in this way resembles the younger brother who despite the protocol demanded his portion of his family's wealth NOW! (See Veruca Salt from Willy Wonky) The details of the father having to sell or portion up his property in this way are painful and could be a good jumping off point for a sermon. The latter part of the story (and the father's loving embrace of his once estranged son) often overshadows the first details, but the father's love was so great throughout the story. Early on the father even accepted that his son wanted him dead, so that the son could have the father's property. Still the father kept on loving his son. This is the type of love God has for us... a love worth preaching about this Sunday!

The Liturgical Approach - If you walk into your church on Sunday and your clergy are wearing pink turn around... Okay, I'm just kidding! But, the Fourth Sunday in Lent is called Laetare Sunday. And, it is when Anglo Catholics and other fashion-focused Christians don pink liturgical vestments (okay, it's not about being chic Christians). All joking aside, this Sunday is named such for the first words of the Roman Catholic Mass, which in Latin is Laetare or Rejoice! Why are we rejoicing? Well, historically if you were living in strict observance of your Lenten disciplines then perhaps this day would be a small break from those most rigid of disciplines before the final push through Holy Week and the impending Eastertide. This Sunday's Gospel lesson fits with the lightness of a traditional Laetare Sunday. In what ways do we need to lighten up? How is our Heavenly Father pursuing us like the father from the parable? Can we share with Him all the burdens keeping us from blossoming in this spiritual springtime? These are some questions worth wondering.

Riotous Living - The most surprising thing I have found this week in my study of this Sunday's Gospel has been the way one Greek word was translated into English. On Sunday you will most likely hear the deacon or the priest or the pastor read that the younger son "squandered his property in dissolute living." Dissolute is not all that common a word in our everyday parlance (neither is parlance, mind you). In truth, when I hear the word dissolute I immediately think of the Parable of the Prodigal Son. However, one Greek Interlinear I rely upon gives us Luke 15:13 in this way: "And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living" (italics added)...

RIOTOUS LIVING! The passage opened up in quite a different way for me when I read this translation. Dissolute living has a sad connotation in my mind, as it rightly should, it means an overly indulgent, vice-focused form of living; however, riotous living gives me a different insight into the life of the younger son. The younger prodigal living riotously in that foreign land calls to mind the right desire (to live life abundantly) but wrongly aimed at selfish ends. How many people in the pews are passionate about life, but do not know in what direction to steer that ambition? I would imagine most have felt like they have desire without purpose at one time or another... maybe even right now. This could be the perfect time to tell this story from a new perspective. Instead of simply thinking about how terrible these brothers are could we try to see them as mirrors for us as we grow into the full stature of Christ? How might we utilize our desire for good as we grow? How might we avoid being the overly righteous older prodigal son when we do seem to find our right purpose? Can we become like the loving father who embraces all?

There are so many directions in which a preacher might go this Sunday. While this Gospel lesson might not possess the same challenge as a passage about the devil's temptations or one focused on turning or burning, it does still have its own set of challenges. Namely, that we have heard it all too many times, that its initial surprise ending has become rote, and that we think we already know how to interpret it. However, a faithful preacher will help us to hear these transformational words anew, so that we are again in awe of the grace-filled, abundant love that God shows us through Christ.