I Am Not Now Worthy

When we contemplate the two sons in the familiar parable of the Prodigal Son, we see, not merely two men of different inclinations, but two souls alike in their failure to trust. The younger son, restless and ambitious, casts himself into the world in pursuit of pleasure, believing that fulfillment lies beyond the boundaries of his Father’s house. The elder son, steadfast and dutiful, remained, but not with the spirit of a cherished son. He dwelled in his Father’s house as one who labors for a wage, not as one who basks in the generosity of an inheritance freely given. Both were lost. One wandered far and was starved by his folly, the other remained close yet lived in the famine of a hardened heart.

The younger son’s journey into the far country is the path of every soul that seeks joy apart from its Maker. He takes the riches of his Father’s estate, his very life, his strength, his gifts and squanders them upon fleeting pleasures, indulging in mirages that promise satisfaction yet leave only a greater thirst. How familiar is his plight! How many souls have taken what was given in love and spent it on their own designs, only to find themselves in want, longing for the mere husks of joy that swine consume? It is only in the dark and wretched squalor of his folly that the son remembers what he had abandoned, the provision, the abundance, the security of his Father’s love. And yet, even in his return, his trust is incomplete for he does not yet believe he can be restored. He plans only to beg for a servant’s place, convinced that his sin has made him unworthy of sonship.

But the Father, ever watchful, does not wait for this wayward child to reach the threshold before running to embrace him. The Father does not demand an account of his ruinous ways, he does not weigh out the shame and misery of his son before determining if forgiveness may be granted. No, the Father's mercy overflows at the mere sight of his child’s return. He orders not rags, but the finest robe: not rebuke, but rejoicing. And yet, even as the halls ring with celebration, the older son stands apart, indignant, unwilling to share in the joy.

The elder son’s failure is no less grievous than his brother’s, for though his hands have labored, his heart has never rested in the certainty of his Father’s love. He is the one who toiled beneath the sun, keeping the rules, doing his duty, yet all the while, he did not believe himself the heir of boundless generosity. He viewed his Father as a taskmaster, a keeper of ledgers, a dispenser of earned rewards. And so, when he sees the lavish mercy poured out upon the undeserving, his heart swells with resentment rather than wonder. For so many years do I serve thee and I have never transgressed thy commandment, he protests, and yet thou hast never given me a kid to make merry with my friends! His complaint reveals the tragic truth: though he remained in his Father’s house, he never truly dwelt in his Father’s love. He saw himself as a laborer, a mere tenant, rather than as a son. And so he, too, was lost.

The great wound of both sons is this, neither trusted in the sufficiency of the Father’s love. One sought fulfillment in reckless indulgence, believing his Father’s house could not satisfy him; the other sought fulfillment in merit, believing he must earn what had always been his by right of sonship. How many of us fall into these same errors? We either stray into the world in search of what we think God will not provide, or we remain in our faith with the anxious heart of a servant, forever striving, never resting in the security of His love.

But the Father, full of tenderness and love, speaks the words that should resound in every heart that has ever doubted the goodness of its Maker: Son, thou art always with me, and all I have is thine; There is no need to toil for it, no need to run after distant pleasures or measure our worth in labor and sacrifice. We are sons and daughters, and the inheritance of love and mercy is already ours. Whether we have wandered far or have stood near with arms crossed in quiet resentment, the invitation is the same: enter into the joy of the Father, for all He has is freely given to those who will only receive it.

For in the end, the greatest famine is not of bread, nor of wealth, nor even of outward sin: it is the hunger of a soul that does not trust in the abundance of the Father’s love.

I detest all my sins, because I dread the loss of heaven and the pains of hell; but most of all because they offend thee, my God, who are all good and deserving of all my love. 

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