What if I’m the Older Brother?

In my last post, I wrote about the story of the prodigal son and how the father ran to him. I likened that prodigal to myself. I know what it’s like to wander far, to squander much, and to be pursued by mercy that ran down the road to meet me. But as I’ve continued sitting with Luke 15, I’ve realized something harder to admit: sometimes, I am also guilty of being the older brother.

We know the story. A father with two sons. The younger demands his inheritance, essentially saying: “Dad, I can’t wait for you to die. Give me what’s mine now.” With grief, the father obliges, dividing his estate. The son runs off, spends everything, and ends up in the filth of a pig pen. But when he “comes to his senses,” he begins the long walk home, rehearsing his apology with every step. What he doesn’t realize is that while he’s still far off, his father is watching. The father runs—robes flying, tears streaming, arms wide. He embraces the boy before shame or community rejection can crush him. He restores him with robe, ring, shoes, and a feast.

Meanwhile, the older brother is in the field. Faithful. Dutiful. Watching, but unmoved by his father’s joy. He hears the music and grows bitter. His words cut sharp: “I’ve slaved for you. I’ve obeyed every order. Yet you never celebrated me. But this son of yours, after wasting everything—you kill the fattened calf for him!” And the father answers with tenderness: “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.”

Here’s the uncomfortable truth: it is possible to be in the presence of God and never be changed by Him. To stay in the house, yet miss the heart. To live faithfully, but still let bitterness take root. The older son is a picture of the religious spirit. He knew about his father, but did not reflect him. He stayed near but lived like a slave rather than a son. And if I’m honest, I have too. There have been moments when God celebrated another, and jealousy rose in me. Times when I measured my obedience and whispered, “Why them, Lord? Why not me?”

This isn’t new. Cain resented Abel when God received his brother’s sacrifice but not his own (Genesis 4). Israel, though freed from Egypt and fed daily by God, grumbled and longed for Egypt’s food (Exodus 16). Jonah sat outside Nineveh, angry that God showed mercy to people he didn’t think deserved it (Jonah 4). The story of the older brother is the story of humanity’s oldest struggle: missing the joy of God’s mercy because we cannot take our eyes off ourselves.

But notice the father’s heart: “My son, you are always with me, and everything I have is yours.” The older son had access the entire time. He wasn’t forgotten. He wasn’t overlooked. He was already secure in his inheritance, but he couldn’t see it. This is why Paul prayed for the church in Ephesians 3—to grasp the breadth, length, height, and depth of Christ’s love. Once you are found, your greatest need isn’t rescue anymore—it’s revelation. Revelation that in Him, you already have everything you need.

When we forget who we are, we slip into comparison. We resent the Father’s mercy toward others instead of celebrating it. We look for the next blessing, the next handout, the next “moment,” as though the Father is holding something back from us. But He isn’t. There is no shortage in the Kingdom. His love is not a pie divided into smaller slices the more people eat. It is a fountain—ever-flowing, never-ending, more than enough for every son and daughter.

That’s why Acts says, “It is in Him we live and move and have our being” (Acts 17:28). Not just me. Not just you. But all of us—the body of Christ, the family of God. We cannot be like Cain, consumed with another’s favor. We cannot be like Israel, blind to the miracle because we’re fixated on what we lack. And we cannot be like the older brother, standing outside the celebration because our pride won’t let us join the feast.

Instead, let us be mature children of God—secure in our sonship, confident in our place at the table, eager to celebrate when the lost are found.

Because the Father’s table is big enough for us all.

The Journey Back

It’s been a little while since I’ve blogged. I was on a journey back home, much like the prodigal son in the Bible. I spent months rehearsing my speech, wondering how I could fit back in, But God. Who is rich in mercy, has not only brought me home, but has made a celebration. And from this space, we will continue that celebration over and over again. Here’s the latest blog about that journey!

In Luke 15, we find one of the most famous stories in the Bible: the parable of the prodigal son. The story is so commonly known that many believers and even non-believers are familiar with it.

Basically, there’s a man with two sons. The younger son grows discontent and musters up the boldness to ask for his inheritance. What an audacious act of rebellion. “Dad, your life means nothing to me—go ahead and give me what’s rightfully mine, the part I’m only supposed to receive after your death. I can’t wait for you to die.” Grieved by his own son, the father obliges. He sells all he has and gives half of his fortune to the younger son. The community watches closely. The older son watches in disbelief. “What a lowlife jerk. I would never do that to my father.”

With all his inheritance in hand, the younger son leaves the father’s home to live luxuriously. Eager to be far from control, he journeys as far as he can go. With so many riches come so many friends and good times. “This is way better than life at home. No laws to govern me. No community looking over my shoulder—I can do and have whatever I want. This is the life.” His spending continues, and he grows more and more selfish in his self-gratification. Eventually, he has nothing left. The good times slow down. The friends fade. Until no one is left. He’s alone. And he’s hungry.

He searches and searches for food, but he can’t afford any. He’s in a foreign land—far from anyone who knows him. That distance was great when he had control, when he had the resources. But now? Now, it’s a prison. His body becomes frail from hunger. One day, he sees a farmer feeding pigs and slips into the pen after the farmer walks away. Not long ago, he was feasting. Now, he’s famished. He grows queasy as he lifts pig slop to his lips. His hunger pains him more than the smell. His robe—once costly—is saturated in mud, tattered, and meaningless.

He’s exhausted. Humiliated. Shunned by his community because of the choices he made. His inheritance is gone, and there’s no going back. In his heartbreak, he remembers his father’s house. How well he was cared for. How servants had been hired just to care for him. His father always provided whatever he needed.

How had he been so selfish? He looks back with pure grief. That version of his life is dead and gone—never to be again. His father’s servants now live like kings compared to this. At least they have a place at the table. He’s sneaking into a pig pen when no one’s looking. How dreadfully shameful. If his father saw him now… it really might kill him.

Maybe… maybe he could go back. As a servant. That is, if the community didn’t shun him first. If he could just reach his dad before the village elders saw him. Maybe he could plead his case—ask to be a hired hand. Not for money. Just for food. Just for a bed. Anything but this. His thoughts swirl as he slips into slumber, the mud clinging to him. He reeks of rotten corn. But something rises up in him. “I can’t do this anymore.”

He wipes the mud from his eyes.“I am the son of my father. I had a place in his home. Why am I lying in a pig pen right now?!” The same boldness that rose up when he asked for his inheritance rises again—but this time, it feels more scandalous. He knows he’s undeserving. “I’m going home. I’ll serve my father. But I’ll die before I spend another day here.”

He begins the long journey back. He had gone far—on purpose—so he could never be found again. Now, the road home feels unfamiliar. Home. He hadn’t known that word in so long. He hangs his head in shame. He knows he won’t return as a son. He begins rehearsing what he’ll say—to the village leaders, to his brother, to his father. “I was wrong.” That’s where he’ll start. “Just let me serve in the house. Don’t even pay me. Just let me be in the house again.”

Weary after the long, hot journey, his heart pounds as he gets closer. He knows how this works. As soon as the elders see him, they’ll begin the kaddish—the ceremonial act of cutting him off forever. He can already hear the clay pots breaking. He already feels the spit of rejection. He longs to see his father’s eyes—but deep down, he believes his father won’t even be able to look at him.

He has to get there first. Before they cast him out. He continues walking. Head lower and lower. He chants his apologies. Over and over. Feeling the weight of them more each time. Hoping. Praying. Just let me in. His shame wraps him tight. So tight, he doesn’t even realize what’s happening. He doesn’t see it. Because his head is too low—he misses the running of his father from a long way off.

The father, watching the road, sees his son and runs. He runs. Not minding his robes. Not minding the dust. Not caring about appearances. Before anyone else can reach the boy—the Father reaches him first. The embrace takes the son’s breath away. He’s stunned. He tries to begin his apology, but chokes through tears. He weeps bitterly. The father weeps too—but with joy. 

The son, still full of shame, begins explaining all the ways he can earn back a place in the household. But the father isn’t listening. He’s already shouting for a robe. A ring. Shoes. And an embrace—something the son hasn’t felt in a long, long time.

The village stares. What is happening? Why would the father take on the shame of a son like this? Wasn’t it enough to lose half of everything? Enough to lose the son? The older brother watches as jealousy brews. He would never have done that. He was faithful. Where was his celebration?

But the Father is undeterred. A great feast is had in honor of the son’s return. Though the Father is filled with joy, the son can’t stop weeping. Weeping over mercy. Over grace. He didn’t deserve a seat in the house—much less at the table. Yet before everyone, he’s seated in the place of honor. A place appointed by the Father Himself.

What a story, right? So it was with me. I thought I could have it all and leave the presence of my Father. The more joy I chased in temporary things, the more empty and shallow I became. I had it all—then I lost it. I deserved nothing else. I was shameful. A disgrace. Shunned from the Christian community. Undeserving. Unrighteous. An embarrassment. Yet I came to my end—and He came running. He lifted me up when I deserved to be struck down. He restored my honor when I should’ve been forgotten. He didn’t wait for my speech. He reminded me: the price was already paid.

He didn’t just call me home. He met me on the road. He covered me. And He celebrates me still. As I sit at the table I don’t deserve to be at, I still weep at the mercy that came running.

Thank God I came home.