About three years ago, I was at a Christian youth conference in eastern Tennessee. There were roughly a thousand people in attendance, and as tends to be the case for these events, most of us had been Christians for pretty much our whole lives. We were sprawled across the briskly air-conditioned auditorium for the sessions, carrying the energy and enthusiasm of well-churched kids who fully expect each of these events to be life-changing. This particular one actually was. 

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There is a tendency among those of us who grew up in the church to have a singular, fixed view of the Bible. This applies especially to the highlight passages — those stories that are told in Sunday school and again in sermons on an almost weekly basis. You know the ones I mean: Noah's ark, the nativity, the five loaves and fish, Jericho and on the list continues through the oft-repeated portions of scripture. Before I go any further, there's a necessary caveat: I am not diminishing the power of God's word. I am pointing out a one-dimensional view of it. Because somewhere in the cycle of hearing these stories, they become just that: stories. We lose the ability to see them in new ways.

I do not remember the name of the speaker that day, but I do remember what he talked about: he told the parable of the prodigal son, a story that is a member of that pantheon of favorite Bible passages. But, he concluded his talk with a twist ending: our takeaway was not to place ourselves in the shoes of the prodigal and ask ourselves how we might have strayed. It was the opposite. We, the thousand church kids in the comfortable seats, were to place ourselves in the shoes of the closest thing the story has to a bad guy: the older son. This session was life-changing because it made me see an old story in a new way. 

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Much has been made of the so-called “Union bubble.” But whatever else that may or may not mean, this much is certain: on this campus, we dwell in our modern equivalent of the father’s house. In other words, Union is not the world. Cobo, Jennings, and the PAC are not the pig-sty of the younger son. For the most part, we here are not prodigals; we are church kids. That statement could be accompanied by pride, which would be fitting because it matches our situation and our attitude much better: we are the older son. As such, we are subject to the same shortcomings as the older son of the parable, namely self-righteousness and jealousy. That may sound preachy, but believe me, I am saying this into the mirror as much as I am writing it on the page. Every subculture has its own peculiar pits of quicksand, and these are ours. 

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As the speaker at that conference recognized, we instinctively see the story through the lens of the prodigal. But does this instinct cause us to miss the part of this story that may more fully suit the situation many of us are in? Certainly, we are hesitant to take on the perspective of a character who has become synonymous with self-righteousness, but there is another uniquely churchy phenomenon we fall prey to here as well: romanticizing the ascent up from the pig-sty. 

Growing up, our pastor would sometimes ask a church member to the pulpit to share their testimony. I remember one man in particular. He was charismatic, and he loved people. Every time someone mentioned Jesus, he would say, “He’s the best there is!” in a sort of half yell, half laid-back southern drawl. It was his catchphrase. He talked about his conversion with tears and passion, from an alcoholic life of crime to the front pew of our little church. The story was so moving that it had been adapted into an episode of a radio drama. I remember thinking, even as a kid, that my story would never be that interesting. 

I was jealous. 

But my salvation is not less miraculous just because my testimony could not be a radio drama, and my sin is no less sinful just because it happens closer to home and is not always as obvious. 

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The truth is, I only romanticize the story of the prodigal because I see it as somehow different from my own. But how different is it, really? I may not have run away to the far country, but my mind can still go full prodigal in a seat at chapel every Wednesday and Friday. 

I said earlier that the session on the prodigal son at that conference changed my life. It did. Because my takeaway was this: we miss half the redemptive picture the parable paints if we only focus on the younger son. Yes, it is beautiful that even though we may reject the father and revel in our sin, he still welcomes us with tears of joy. But there’s another half of beauty there. For a lot of us at Union, and for church kids everywhere, when we don’t take a good hard look at the older son, we crop ourselves out of the picture. 

This reminds me of something a youth leader told me once after a sermon on John 3:16: “Scripture can never be cliché.” That’s true. But our eyes can be tired, our minds can be apathetic, and our perspective can be limited.  

Viewed with fresh eyes, the parable of the prodigal son takes on two meanings, with applications to two kinds of Christians. Yes, we might go to the far country. We might waste our inheritance. We might end up in a pig-sty, and the father will love us anyway. 

Pastor Jonathan Akin put it this way:

“The same father who left the porch to go after the prodigal, left the party to go after the older brother.” 

I am an older brother, and the father came after me, just like he came after the prodigal.