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We live in a world where the concept of fairness is nearly elevated to a level of worship. If you live or work with children on a regular basis then you will recognize that most squabbles erupt from this very old emotion of feeling somehow slighted or mistreated. He got a tablespoon more Moose Tracks ice cream than I did. No fair! Why does she get to stay up a half-hour later than I do? That's not fair! She got to sit in the front seat last time. It's not fair that I always have to sit in the back. Sally's curfew is 1:30. Why do I have to be home at midnight? I've decided that if you're going to be an effective parent in the twenty-first century then you might consider enrolling in law school first. A parent needs the wisdom of a judge and the memory of an elephant. Wisdom to hand down rulings on a moment's notice and a memory to recall past court cases so that at least a semblance of fairness might be projected to all parties involved.

If you think we outgrow this obsession with fairness, think again. It's as old as Eden and so deeply imbedded in our collective marrow that most people take it to the grave. I've seen adult strangers argue over their place in line at Wal-Mart. I've seen loving family members get in a tiff after a funeral over who gets what in the will. All over issues of fairness. And you might say to yourself, "Oh, I would never do something like that." I was coming back from the hospital the other day, waiting patiently as interstate traffic funneled down to one lane, and here came a teenager in a sports car, blowing past those in line, looking for a place to sneak in. What did I do? Hey, I tried to cut him off. He wasn't getting in front of me. It wasn't fair.

According to the dictionary, the word "prodigal" is an adjective that means "recklessly wasteful." "Prodigal" is derived from the Latin word prodigere, which is translated as the verb "to squander." Therefore, a prodigal son is literally a wasteful son, one who throws away opportunities recklessly and wastefully.

The younger son in this famous parable is a waster. He is one of the most famous rogues in the entire Bible. In our soap opera imaginations we can read between the lines and pencil in all the sordid ways he must have wasted his inheritance. He had a good case of the "gimmee's." "Give me the share of the property that will belong to me." He takes the money and blows it on "dissolute living." The story actually doesn't go into detail here about what such dissolute living entails but a vast panorama of fanciful options stands before a wasteful young man with a pocketful of change.

In 1636, Rembrandt painted a suggestive portrait of a jaunty, saucy, debonair Prodigal with a pencil-thin moustache. He wears a hat with enough plumage to take flight while hoisting a large flute of ale, itself over a foot tall. There is a young lady on his lap enjoying the fun while (in the original painting) another lass sans clothing plays a mandolin in the background. A peacock pie on the table suggests the arrogance of the scene. In Rembrandt and the Bible, a note says that the great painter used himself as a model for this particular canvas1, which might tell us more than we'd like to know about how parables are supposed to work.

We know this story well. We know all about this Prodigal, this waster. And what we don't know, our imaginations are more than happy to provide. And we know all about the father, too, who takes back his rogue of a son even before the confession gets completely confessed. The father runs across the field and smothers his son with kisses, a robe, a ring, and a huge party. Come to think of it, many would call him a "waster" too. For who would spend so much so foolishly? Especially on somebody who doesn't deserve it? I don't know what you'd call it. I'd call it a huge waste.

But even though you may have sown a few wild oats in your past, grateful to be taken back and forgiven, my guess is that you probably identify most with the older brother in this old story. Jesus definitely wants his listeners to see the folly in the older brother's behavior, but, darn it, slip into his shoes for just a second and see if you don't sympathize.

What has the older son been doing as the sun is setting in this story? In short, he has been working his hind end off all day. Make that all month, because he's been doing his own work plus that of his brother for weeks now. He is exhausted, his boots smell of cow manure, and he could certainly use a shower. And then he hears it -- music and dancing. The Greek word here for "music" is interesting. The older brother hears the symphonia. Not just a fiddle and a banjo player. He hears a "symphony" of instruments, a veritable orchestra of merriment.

Befuddlement is not the right word to describe the older brother's reaction. He knows his old man doesn't throw parties on weekdays. Someone finally breaks the news. It is too much to bear. Robe, ring, and fatted calf -- an unbelievably excessive trinity of welcome for someone's who's been a royal jerk. "Father, give me the share of the property that will belong to me," said the younger son before he left. I don't know whether you noticed, but he was asking his dad to execute the will before the old man stopped breathing. In effect, the younger son was saying, "Drop dead, Dad."

So tell the truth. Had you been in the older brother's shoes, working double shifts while your younger brother lived it up, would you have gone in to the party? A tongue-lashing, yes. Some clearly-defined way to make up for all the heartache, yes. A definite period of visible remorse, yes. But a party? Be honest. There is something primitive and basic afoot here that tweaks our sense of moral outrage. I'll tell you why you probably wouldn't have gone in: it simply wasn't fair.

There are many theological nuggets to mine in this old story. But this is perhaps the most basic: God isn't fair. Sorry. God doesn't play by our rules, see life the way we see it, or keep score the way we keep it. God isn't fair. And if we're honest, we won't be tickled pink by that. Why? Because it is precisely a sense of fairness that floats most of our ethical boats.

God isn't fair. And not only that: God has an ongoing love affair with sinners. He throws a party of rich food and drink to get their attention. He invites the undeserving. Dances with ne'er-do-wells. Slips a ring on their finger. Curious word: "ring." It appears only here and one other instance in the entire New Testament. Perhaps the implication is that Jesus is eternally "wedded" to sinners.

So let's step back outside with the older brother, still in need of a shower, arms folded across his chest, the moral high road. "But when this son of yours came back ... you killed the fatted calf for him." He cannot even bring himself to acknowledge his brother with a name -- "this son of yours." A sense of unfairness, as you know, can turn venomous rather quickly.

So where are we at parable's end? Are we inside the party celebrating? Or are we standing outside with our arms folded, refusing to come in? Jesus will not tell us how this story will end. The father passionately invites the older son inside, "pleads with him" to join in the welcome. Curiously, however, we are never told what the older brother decides to do. The story ends but it doesn't end. You can almost hear the voice of Walter Cronkite saying, "YOU ARE THERE." Will we RSVP to a party thrown by an unfair God? Or will we stubbornly remain outside?

In a world where God does not play fair, this parable forces us to make a choice. Who is the real "prodigal" here? Who is the real "waster"? From the beginning Jesus says that this is a story about two brothers. Which one is the authentic prodigal? Which one has yet to come home to the Father's extravagant love?

We can waste our lives keeping score and complaining about unfairness. We can harbor grudges to the grave. We can completely misunderstand what Jesus is all about even as we worship every Sunday. We can waste life waiting for apologies, waiting for people to act decently and fairly, waiting for others to earn our forgiveness and acceptance. Jesus waited on none of those things. As I recall, his words as they nailed his hands and feet, his words as they rammed the crown of thorns over his brow until the blood trickled were not: "You'll get yours, sucker." Remember? "Father, forgive them; for they do not know what they are doing" (Luke 23:34). He too has a gracious dad who welcomes sinners.

Every Sunday, God throws a party for sinners. Some of us have recently been in a "far country" and we are making our way back home. And others, perhaps working hard in the fields of the Lord for years, have slipped into a Christianity that is more about controlling God's love than celebrating it. An orchestra of voices, a symphonia, a communion of saints, calls one and all to the table. The judge of the world presides. But let me warn you. He is not fair. Will not play favorites. But clearly likes to throw a party.

So who is the real prodigal? It's not the one with a shady past. It's the one who stays outside. The one who could not bring himself to forgive. "This brother of yours was dead and has come to life; he was lost and has been found." The one we usually call "prodigal" is alive. Found. That means the dead one, the lost one, is the one who stubbornly chooses to remain outside the Father's party.

What a waste.

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1. Hidde Hoekstra, Rembrandt and the Bible (Weert, Netherlands: Magna Books, 1990), p. 337.