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There was a man who had two sons. The younger one said to his father, “Father, give me my share of the estate.” So he divided his property between them. Not long after that, the younger son got together all he had, set off for a far country and there squandered his wealth in wild living. (Luke 15:11-13)

The parable of the Prodigal Son is a pretty familiar story to most. In a nutshell, it’s about a father who had two sons. The younger asked for his share of the inheritance, got it, and promptly left for Las Vegas where he blew it all. Humbly, he returned home and, to his amazement, was welcomed with open arms by his father. This reunion, however, alienated and angered his older brother, and the story closes with the father appealing to his firstborn to join in the celebration and forgiveness of his younger brother. Interestingly, we’re never told if the older brother came to the party. But that’s for another time, and on the surface of it all, the story’s not all that gripping. But in it are the seeds of the Gospel.

It’s important to read Jesus’ parable in the context of the whole of Luke since the story really has a much larger context. So, if we read the narrative in light of the Bible’s repeated theme of exile and homecoming, we begin to understand that Jesus gave us more than a touching account of redemption. In a sense, he has retold the story of the entire human race, and promised nothing less than hope for the whole world.

In Jesus’ parable, the younger brother goes to a distant country expecting a better life. However, after some pretty wild partying, he’s disappointed and reminisces about home, longing for the food that was so plentiful at his dad’s place. And, frankly, so do we all because “home” is a powerful influence over human life. We all have fond memories of times, people and places where we felt truly at “home.” However, if we ever have an opportunity to get back to the places we remember so fondly, we’re often disappointed.

For many years, my wife spent several weeks each summer at her grandparent’s ranch in Needville, Texas. The very recall of that time and place brought a wash of warm memories. But a recent return to the now-dilapidated property brought tears instead. The once pristine home of her summer youth lay ravaged by time and inattention, stealing from her a place to which she can no longer call “home.”

Home is a powerful but elusive concept. And the strong feelings that surround home reveal some deep longings within us for a place that fits us; a place where we can be, or perhaps find, our true selves. But it seems that no real place ever satisfies these desires, although lots of situations may arouse them. In East of Eden, John Steinbeck says of the mountains of central California that he wanted “to climb into their warm foothills almost as you want to climb into the lap of a beloved mother.”

The memory of home seems to be evoked by certain sights, sounds and even smells. But they can only arouse a desire they can’t fulfill. For instance, many know of the disappointment that Christmas and Thanksgiving can sometimes bring. We prepare for the holidays hoping that, finally, this year, the family gathering at home will bring the warmth, joy, comfort and love that we want from it – like a Norman Rockwell painting. But these events sometimes fail, crushed under the weight of impossible expectations. C.S. Lewis, in his sermon The Weight of Glory, refers to these experiences. “Our life-long nostalgia, our longing to be reunited with something in the universe from which we feel cut off, to be on the inside of some door which we have always seen from the outside, is no mere neurotic fancy, but the truest index of our real situation.”

There seems to be a sense in which we are all like the younger brother. We are all exiles, always longing for home. We are always traveling, but never arriving. Our houses and families are only stops along the way, but they aren’t home. Home, for whatever reason, seems to evade us. But why is the thought of “home” so powerful yet so elusive? The answer may surprise you.

In the beginning of the book of Genesis, we learn the reason why all people feel like exiles, like we aren’t really home. We’re told that we were created to live in the garden of God. That was the world we were built for: a place in which there was always love and never disease. And it was all that and then some because it was life in the very the presence of God. There we were to adore and serve him; to know, enjoy, and reflect his beauty. That was our original home.

But, as in Jesus’ parable, God was the “father” of that home and we rebelled against his authority. We wanted to live without God’s interference, and so we turned away and became alienated. Prodigal. Rashly or wastefully extravagant. We lost our home for the same reason the younger brother lost his, and the result was exile.

And we’ve been wandering as spiritual exiles ever since, living in a world that no longer fits our deepest longings. Although we ache for bodies that “run and will not grow weary” (Isaiah 40:31), we are subject to disease, aging and death. Though we need a love that lasts, all our relationships are subject to the inevitable ravages of time, crumbling in our hands. Even people who stay true to us die and leave us, or we die and leave them. And though we want to make a difference in the world through our work, we are constantly frustrated and never fully realize our hopes or dreams. We may work hard to re-create the home that we have lost, but it only exists in the presence of the heavenly father from whom we have run.

This theme is played out again and again in the Bible. After Adam and Eve’s exile from the Garden of Eden, their son, Cain, was forced to wander the earth without a home because he’d murdered his brother, Abel. Later, Jacob cheated his father and brother and fled into exile for years. After that, Jacob’s sons and his family were taken from their homeland into Egypt because of famine. There the Israelites were enslaved until, under Moses, they returned to their ancestral home. Centuries later, David, before he became king, lived like a fugitive.

It’s no coincidence that story after story in the Bible contains this pattern of exile. The message of the Bible is that the human race is a band of exiles trying to come home. You see, the parable of the prodigal son is about every one of us.

“Home,” Robert Frost said, “…is where, when you have to go there, they have to take you in.” The younger brother, however, knew that a successful return was not inevitable since his sins had created a barrier between himself and his father. He knew that he might be rejected and forced to stay in exile – forever. In the same way, the Bible shows how high the barriers are for our own homecoming as a human race.

For instance, during the Babylonian exile, the prophets of Israel predicted a great return and homecoming through the grace of God. Eventually, the people of Israel were given permission to leave Babylon and return to Israel. However, only a small percentage actually returned to Palestine, and there they continued to be under Persian domination and control. Later, one great world-power after another would invade and control Israel – first Greece, then Syria and finally, Rome.

The people were still oppressed. But why? Maybe one of the reasons is the brokenness within human beings. Israel, in particular, and the human race, in general, was still mired in selfishness, pride and sin. We are oppressed by conflicts within our own hearts, as well as constant battles and warfare with neighboring nations. We need a radical change in our very nature.

But another reason may be the brokenness around human beings. We live in a natural world that is fallen. We were not made for a world of disease and natural disaster; a world in which everything decays and dies. This world, as it now exists, is not the home we long for. So, a real, final homecoming would mean a radical change not only in our own human nature, but in the very fabric of the world in which we live.

By the time of Jesus’ ministry, many in Israel realized that, despite their return from Babylon, the nation was still in exile. Injustice and oppression dominated their national life. The final homecoming hadn’t yet happened. So, many began to pray to God for deliverance. The problem was that they pictured their delivery home as a national, political liberation for Israel. It was thought that the Messiah, the king who would redeem Israel, would be a figure of great military strength and political power. He would come to his people, be recognized and received by them, and then lead them on to victory.

But then Jesus appeared, and declared that he was bringing in “the kingdom of God.” (Mark 1:15) The people crowded around to hear him, but nothing about him fit their expectations. He was born in a feeding trough, far from home – not in a palace fit for a king. During his ministry, Jesus wandered and settled nowhere. In fact, Jesus said of himself, “Foxes have holes, and birds have nests, but the Son of Man has nowhere to lay his head.” (Matt. 8:20) He remained completely outside the social networks of political and economic power. He didn’t even seek academic or religious credentials.

Finally, at the end of his life, he was crucified outside the gates of Jerusalem, a powerful symbol of rejection – of exile. And as he died he said, "My God, my God, why have you forsaken me?” (Matt. 27:46) An excruciating cry of homelessness.

But Jesus hadn’t come to simply deliver Israel from political oppression; he came to save us all from sin and death itself. He came to bring the human race “home.” So, it’s fitting that he didn’t come in strength, but in weakness. He came and experienced the exile that we deserved. He was expelled from the presence of the Father and thrust into a darkness of the uttermost spiritual alienation. You see, he took our place. He took upon himself the curse of human rebellion and cosmic homelessness, so that we could be welcomed into our true home.

At the end of the story of the prodigal son, there’s a feast. So, too, at the end of the book of Revelation. At the end of history, there’s a feast, too. The “marriage supper of the Lamb.” (Revelation 19) The Lamb is Jesus, who was sacrificed for the sins of the world so that we could be pardoned and brought home. This feast happens in the New Jerusalem, the City of God that comes down out of heaven to fill the earth. (Revelation 21-22) And we’re told that God’s presence is in that city. So, too, is the tree of life whose leaves now provide “the healing of the nations.” (Revelation 22:2) The same tree of life that was in the Garden of Eden.

In other words, at the end of history the whole earth becomes the Garden of God once again where “He will wipe every tear from their eyes. There will be no more death or mourning or crying or pain – for the old order of things has passed away.” (Revelation 21:4) Jesus, unlike the founder of any major faith, holds out hope for the human race. Our future is not some sort of ethereal, impersonal other-consciousness. We won’t be floating through the air and strumming harps, either. Instead, we’ll eat, hug, sing, laugh and dance in the kingdom of God to a degree of joy that we can’t even begin to imagine.

Jesus will make the world our perfect home again. We will no longer be living “east of Eden,” always wandering and never arriving. We will come home and the Father will meet us and embrace us, and we will be brought into the celebration planned from the beginning of time for our return.

Home – at last.

Grace,

Randy