Two Lost Sons
There is something wrong in our world. Some people might seem more caught up in that wrong than others. So, as we try to get our lives right, we want to know—what is our relationship to what’s going on out there? Do we protect ourselves by keeping it all at a safe distance? Do we engage it? Do we affirm it? What’s the right relationship to have with the mess in the world?
That’s the question that leads to the series of parables in Luke 15.
At the beginning of the chapter, Jesus is having a meal. But unlike in Chapter 14, this time he’s eating and engaging with those described as “tax collectors and sinners” instead of the more respectable Pharisees. While Jesus eats, the Pharisees look on and cannot understand what he’s doing. They grumble. And in response, Jesus tells three parables in Luke 15—ending with the longest parable in the Gospels, the one we call the Parable of the Prodigal Son.
In all three parables, there are three roles:
Someone who is lost.
Someone who goes searching.
Someone who is asked to respond.
First, the shepherd with 100 sheep. One is lost, the shepherd goes searching, and then calls the neighbors to celebrate. Second, the woman with 10 coins. One is lost, she searches, and then calls the neighbors to celebrate. Finally, the Parable of the Prodigal Son. Again, there are three characters and three movements: someone who is lost, someone who searches, and someone who is asked to respond.
Act 1: The Lost Son
The first movement is the story of the lost son—the figure we usually call “the prodigal.”
It begins simply: “There was a man who had two sons. The younger said to his father, ‘Father, give me the share of property that is coming to me.’”
It feels morbid to divide an inheritance before the time comes. It’s deeply disrespectful. Yet, for reasons not explained, the father grants the request. He divides the property, gives the son his share, and the son cashes out as if his father were already dead.
The young man then plans a journey to a far country—cutting himself off from family. There, he squanders the money in reckless living. Just as he runs out of money, a famine strikes. The friends who were around when he had money are nowhere to be found when he doesn’t. Broke and humiliated, he hires himself out to feed pigs—the most degrading job imaginable for a Jewish man. And even then, he’s so desperate that he longs to eat the pig feed. Yet no one gives him even that.
The younger son shamed his father, but he also shamed himself. Every choice he made was the wrong one:
Treating his father as if he were dead
Leaving home
Wasting the inheritance
At every turn, he compounded his failure.
But then the text says: “He came to himself.”
This is Luke’s way of describing repentance. Earlier in the chapter, Jesus says, “There is joy in heaven over one sinner who repents.” Here, instead of using the word, Luke describes it. Repentance is a change of mind that leads to a change of direction.
The son finally realizes: “My father’s servants have more than enough bread. I will arise, go to my father, and say: ‘Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me as a hired servant.’”
He even rehearses the speech—like we all do before hard conversations. His plan has three parts:
Acknowledge his sin: “I have sinned against heaven and before you.”
Grovel: “I am no longer worthy to be called your son.”
Offer terms: “Make me like one of your hired servants.”
That’s his plan. And so he heads home.
The lesson of Act 1 is clear: when we sin, we shame our Father and humiliate ourselves. The only thing to do is turn back home. In going home, we find our true selves. Because the truest version of you is who you are in relationship to your Father.
Act 2: The Father Who Runs
In the second act, we meet the father.
The text says: “While he was still a long way off, his father saw him and felt compassion, and ran and embraced him and kissed him.”
That verse is shocking. Everyone listening to Jesus expected the story to go differently. They expected an honorable father who stands on the porch, arms crossed, waiting. They imagined how the son would make the long walk up the driveway. When he finally reaches the porch, the father lets him grovel—delivering his rehearsed speech for all to hear. Maybe, if the father is especially generous, he takes him back as a servant.
But instead, the father runs. He doesn’t wait. He runs to his son, throws his arms around him, and kisses him.
Remember—under the Law of Moses, a rebellious son who publicly shamed his father could be stoned. But this father throws himself around his son. If anyone casts a stone, they will have to strike him first.
A missionary in Japan once told me how people there reacted to this story. They called it not the “Parable of the Prodigal Son” but the “Parable of the Shameless Father.” Why? Because the father humiliates himself. He embraces the shame of his son. He runs, he kisses, he embarrasses himself—and that’s exactly the point.
The son begins his speech: “Father, I have sinned against heaven and before you.” (Step one: confession.) “I am no longer worthy to be called your son.” (Step two: humiliation.) But before he can continue to step three—offering to be a servant—the father interrupts.
There will be no groveling and offering of terms. Instead, the father calls for the best robe, the family ring, and shoes. Servants go barefoot; sons wear shoes. The father clothes him as a son again and commands a celebration.
The son was prepared to grovel. The father insists on rejoicing.
That’s the message of the second act of the story. God delights in restoration. Just as in the first two parables, the punchline is joy. There was joy in heaven over one lost sheep, joy before the angels over one lost coin. The father himself celebrates. The heart of God is revealed: he rejoices when his children come home.
Act 3: The Older Brother
The parable could have ended with a celebration. But Jesus adds a third act—because this isn’t only about one lost son. There are two.
The older brother comes in from the field and hears music and dancing. A servant tells him, “Your brother has come, and your father has killed the fattened calf.” The brother now has a choice: Will he share in his father’s joy? Sadly, he refuses.
He stays outside, angry and bitter. One step away from the party, one step away from joy—yet he will not take it. He’s closer to home than his brother was, but just as lost.
The father comes out to plead with him, just as he had run to the younger son. This is especially important: the father is seeking both sons. Whether you’re far away or standing outside the door, he is looking for you.
The older son responds with resentment:
“All these years I’ve served you. I never disobeyed. Yet you never gave me a goat so I could celebrate with my friends.”
“But this son of yours squandered your property with prostitutes, and you killed the fattened calf for him.”
Notice the exaggerations. “I never disobeyed.” Really? None of us can say that honestly. “You never gave me anything.” Living with a wealthy father, and never once blessed? Hard to believe.
And then the distancing phrase: “This son of yours.” Not “my brother.” He invents a story about the younger son—prostitutes and reckless living—details we never actually read in the text. Bitterness distorts reality.
But the father answers with grace:
“Son, you are always with me.” (The father’s “always” corrects the son’s “never.”)
“All that is mine is yours.”
“It was fitting to celebrate, for this brother of yours was dead and is alive; he was lost and is found.”
The older son’s refusal to embrace his brother distances him from his father. To reject his brother is to deny his father’s joy. All the while, the father pleads, “Come in. This is your brother.”
That’s the challenge of Act 3. It’s directed at us—people reading Christian blog articles and attending church. Will we share His joy when messy sinners come home? Or will we stand outside, bitter and self-righteous?
Avoiding sinners means avoiding God—because He is already running toward them.
The Father turns to us and asks: Will you share My joy?
If we refuse, we risk being like the older brother—on the outside looking in.
Closing Prayer
Father, we thank You for being the kind of God who runs to us even when we pull away from You. Please keep looking for us. Keep bringing us home.
If we are in the far country, help us come to ourselves and find our true selves in You. And if we are closer to home but filled with bitterness or complaint, teach us Your joy—the joy of Your salvation—so that we may rejoice with You and all the company of angels, celebrating the family You have created through Your Son, Jesus Christ.
In His name we pray, Amen.
Dr. Benjamin Williams is the Senior Minister at the Edgemere Church of Christ in Wichita Falls, TX and a regular writer at So We Speak. Check out his books The Faith of John’s Gospel and Why We Stayed or follow him on Twitter, @Benpreachin.
