The One Who Stayed Home
Dear Friends,
This Sunday, our Gospel reading will bring us one of Jesus’ most beloved parables—the story of the prodigal son. I’ve been drawn, at different times, to each of the characters in the story: to the son who leaves, to the father who welcomes him home, and—more and more—to the third figure in the scene, the older brother. The one who follows the rules. The one who does what’s expected. The one who, by all appearances, is the responsible one. He doesn’t run. He doesn’t fall to his knees. He doesn’t throw a party or weep tears of joy. He stands—just far enough away to keep himself from joining the celebration.
Among my favorite depictions of this parable is Rembrandt’s Return of the Prodigal Son, which hangs in the Hermitage Museum in St. Petersburg. Rembrandt has long been one of my favorite artists, for the way he captures the complexity and tenderness of human experience and brings the stories of scripture to life. In this painting, the father's embrace is powerful, but quiet—his hands resting gently, one masculine, one maternal, on the back of his kneeling son. The warmth of that moment is unmissable. But to the side—our right, the father’s left—stands the older brother standing in the shadows, arms crossed, expression clouded, difficult to read. Is it judgment? Hurt? Detachment? Maybe all three.
I’ve always found this figure compelling, maybe because he shows up so often in the Gospels—not just as a brother, but as the third voice, the one watching Jesus heal, or forgive, or share a table with someone deemed unworthy. One receives grace. The other questions it. One is transformed. The other stands apart.
A commentary I read this week invited me to think about that older brother—and what it really means to be “responsible.” Not in the way we usually think about it: rule-following, stability, being the “good one.” But as response-able—able to respond to what life offers. Sometimes our overattachment to being right or good can leave us rigid, unable to respond with grace. We cling so tightly to what we think others deserve that we miss the abundance being offered to us, too.
Henri Nouwen, reflecting on Rembrandt’s painting, wrote, “The hardest conversion to go through is the conversion of the one who stayed home.” The longer I sit with that line, the more I realize how true it can be. For many of us, the real invitation of this parable isn’t to stop running away—but to stop holding back. To uncross our arms. To re-enter the story. To become response-able again.
Wherever you find yourself this week—in the arms of mercy, in the shadows of resentment, or somewhere in between—may you remember that the prodigal Father’s embrace is always there. And the party, it seems, won’t truly begin until we’re all inside.
In Christ,
Amelie+
