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.
