Sisters and brothers

A little over a year ago, Julie Lee & The Baby-Daddies recorded a song by Carly Simon from her 1974 album, Hotcakes. The song is called My Older Sister, and it’s a quick snapshot of a little girl growing up with an older sister. I won’t play the whole song, just a few lines and the chorus.

She rides in the front seat, she’s my older sister
She knows her power over me
She goes to bed an hour later than I do
When she turns the lights out
What does she think about?
And what does she do in the daylight
That makes her so great?

Oh but to be,
oh but to be, 
oh but to be, 
I’d like to be
My older sister

She flies through the back door, she’s my older sister
She throws French phrases ‘round the room
She has ice skates and legs that fit right in
She’s wicked to all the beaming dreamers
Who’ll later boast of an evening
By her fiery side

Oh but to be, 
oh but to be, 
oh but to be,
I’d like to be
My older sister

And in her black gymnastic tights
She runs into some elastic nights
Sophisticated sister sings for the
Soldiers of the soccer team
Their silver I.D.’s and sororities
They tinker with love in their Model T’s
Oh lord, won’t you let me be her for just one day

wa wa wa waoooooo 
older sister, my older sister
oh but to be ....older sister 

She turns everybody’s heads
While I wear her last year’s threads
With patches and stitches and a turned up hem
Oh, but to be, oh but to be, I’d like to be, Just once to be
My older sister

The song triggers memories, doesn’t it? I know about wearing hand-me-downs, and I always wanted an older sister but had to share a room with my older brother; and then we both had to put up with a little sister who always seemed to sail effortlessly through situations where we remembered having to paddle hard against parental currents. Do I sound jealous, perhaps just a little? I wouldn’t be surprised, and if you grew up with siblings, none of this will sound foreign to you.

One reason I wanted to play this song today is that the Bible reflects throughout a deep awareness of the impact of sibling relationships on individuals and families, but most of the stories are about brothers. If you have a moment when your mind wants to wander a little, see how many stories you can remember with sisters in them whose names aren’t Mary and Martha.

The first story in scripture that mentions any humans is about the first man and the first woman, and the second story is about their boys, Cain and Abel – and we know how that one ended for the younger of the two brothers. If you continue reading through Genesis, all those stories about our deepest roots and our oldest wounds, you encounter Ishmael and Isaac, Esau and Jacob, and finally the sons of Jacob and their little brother Joseph. In each of these generations, the little brother turns out to be the one whose story we remember. Isn’t that curious?

Today’s story from the gospel of Luke is similar in that regard. At some point in the past, somebody decided to add section headings to the text, and ever since this story has been known as the parable of the prodigal son, which is the younger of the two.

But it is of course just as much a story about the prodigal father as well as the son who resents his brother and his father. Jesus introduces the story as one about a man who had two sons, and that’s what it is.

Neither son is a particularly attractive character. The younger is disrespectful, self-absorbed, and reckless, perhaps manipulative. The older comes across as heartless, resentful, and jealous. But whether we like it or not, we can identify with each of them, at least to a degree, men and women alike, I presume. We wonder what it might be like to be so brave and just leave home to go and see the world. Sure, he is reckless, but he is young and we admire his adventurous spirit. Perhaps you were once just like him, or perhaps you find yourself humming quietly, Oh but to be, oh but to be, Lord let me be… Or do you find it easier to relate to the firstborn, the responsible one, the one who does what he says and shows up on time and takes care of the family business? “Doesn’t he have a point?” you say to yourself, and perhaps you know all too well what it’s like to make sacrifices every day and no one seems to care, let alone appreciate or celebrate what you do. Is it too much to ask to be treated fairly? The property had been divided, and each one had been given a fair share, and the younger chose to cash it all in and squander it. It may be good to give somebody a second chance, sure, give him work to do and food to eat, give him a roof over his head—but a party? That fatted calf they killed for the BBQ – whose was it after the property had been divided? Yes? How’s that for irony?

The father is perhaps the most confusing character of all. Apparently he doesn’t believe that children who are old enough to go away should also be ready to live with the consequences of their choices. When the younger son comes home – broke, humiliated, and hungry – dad is beside himself, acting like a fool. Forgetting all that is proper for a grown man in that ancient culture, and what most of us today would consider reasonable or wise, he runs down the road, throws his arms around the young man, shouting orders over his shoulder between hugs, “The robe—the best one—quickly. The ring—bring it—put in on his finger. And sandals, bring sandals!—Kill the calf! Invite the whole town! Let us eat. Let us celebrate! This is my son; he was dead and is alive again!”

Only Jesus could come up with a story like this. In our version of the story, the younger son would have some explaining to do. In our story, the father would be waiting in the house, sitting in his chair, arms folded, with a stern look on his face.

He would listen to what the young man had to say for himself, and then, perhaps, he would look at him and say, “Well, I’m glad you’ve come to see the foolishness of your choices and the error of your ways; I hope you learned your lesson. Now I want you to go and help your brother in the field.” In our story, there wouldn’t be a party. But it’s not our story. It’s Jesus’ story for us. It’s the gospel.

Sinners felt at home in the company of Jesus; even notorious sinners who were shunned by everybody in town came near to listen to him, or just to be around him.

He did not avoid them. He didn’t turn them away. He didn’t mind being seen with them, and everybody knew he even broke bread with them, openly. People with a deep concern for what is right were grumbling, “This fellow welcomes sinners and eats with them. Couldn’t he at least wait until they have changed their ways?” Jesus’ actions were confusing to them, and their hearts were pulled back and forth between a genuine desire to understand and loudly demanding an explanation.

In response, Jesus tells his stories about the joy of heaven, God stories that help us see who he is and what he is doing. He tells us about a shepherd who lost one of his one hundred sheep, and worried out of his mind, went searching for it. And when at last he found it, he was overjoyed and called together his friends and neighbors to rejoice with him. He tells us about a woman who had 10 silver coins and one of them got lost. She got a lamp and a broom, and she swept the house from top to bottom and searched carefully until she found it. Then she called together her friends and neighbors to rejoice with her.

Just so, Jesus tells us, there is joy in the presence of the angels of God over one sinner who repents. And then he tells the story about the father and his two sons. When he gets to the end, where the older of the two boys stands outside the house, light, music and laughter pouring through the windows, the father pleading with him to come in and rejoice with him – when he gets to the end of the story, Jesus looks at us. “Come on in,” he says, “come on in where mercy has prepared a feast that fairness cannot host. Come on in, for only love can heal what lovelessness has wounded.” The story, it turns out, is not about who is the golden boy and who is the other one. The story, the gospel is about God’s reckless extravagance in bringing about our reconciliation, overcoming the deep rifts within us and between us, and healing the wound of sin.

In the end, it doesn’t matter if we got lost wandering off to a distant country or if we got lost never leaving at all. It doesn’t matter how we forgot that we are not strangers or each other’s keeper, but rather each other’s brothers and sisters, all of us members of the family of God. What does matter is that God delights in looking for us and calling us, in finding and reminding us, in pleading with us, waiting with us, rejoicing with us. What does matter is that God does not treat the wound of God’s people carelessly but with great compassion and power to save, until there is peace and all sit at table in the house of laughter and light. Until each and all of us hear these words and never forget again, “Child, you are always with me, and all that is mine is yours.”