08/02/2026
Homily for the Sunday of the Prodigal Son
February 8/January 26, 2026
In the Name of the Father, and of the Son, and of the Holy Spirit.
Beloved Brothers and Sisters in Christ,
Today, the Lord gives us one of the most tender, unsettling, and revealing parables in all of Scripture. The parable of the Prodigal Son is not a moral tale meant to scold us. It is a revelation of the heart of God. And if we are honest, it is also a revelation of our own hearts—often in ways that make us uncomfortable.
Just last Sunday, the Church placed before us two men at prayer: one confident in his righteousness, the other with nothing to offer God except his broken heart and the plea, “Lord, have mercy on me, a sinner.” We were reminded then that salvation begins not with achievement but with truth, not with comparison but with humility. Today’s Gospel continues that same movement of the soul. It takes us deeper into the mystery of repentance—not as self-condemnation, but as coming home.
At some point in our lives, every one of us is in this Gospel. Sometimes we are the younger son, reckless and hungry. Sometimes we are the older son, obedient yet bitter. And sometimes—though rarely, and only by grace—we are invited to glimpse the heart of the Father Himself.
The younger son does something unthinkable. He asks for his inheritance while his father is still alive. In the culture of the time, this is not just rude; it is a kind of death wish. It is as though he is saying, “I want your things, but I do not want you.” And yet the father gives. He does not argue. He does not shame. He does not negotiate. St. John Chrysostom notes that God often allows us to go our own way, not because He approves of our choices, but because He respects our freedom and waits for love to return freely.
The son goes off to a far country, and how familiar that far country is. It is not only a geographical place. It is any interior space where we imagine life will be fuller without God, where we believe the grass is greener elsewhere, where we spend the riches of grace, time, love, and calling on things that cannot satisfy. St. Gregory of Nyssa says that sin always promises enlargement but delivers famine. And famine comes—not immediately, but inevitably.
The Gospel tells us that the son becomes hungry, empty, and desperate. He has plenty around him, yet nothing within him. He feeds animals while starving himself. How many times have we known that hunger? How many times have we felt empty even while surrounded by abundance? How many times have we reached the bottom and finally said, “I cannot live like this anymore”?
Then comes one of the most important lines in all of Scripture: “He came to himself.” Repentance begins not with eloquent apologies but with truth. With awakening. With brokenness. The son does not rehearse a legal defense; he rehearses a confession. He does not return demanding restoration; he returns hoping only for survival.
And yet—and this is the heart of the Gospel—the father does not wait for the speech.
While the son is still far off, the father runs. God does not wait for explanations. God does not demand proof of improvement. God does not say, “Let us see how serious you are.” St. Ephrem the Syrian says that God’s mercy outruns our repentance. The father runs, embraces, kisses, and restores. He places a robe, a ring, sandals—not probation, not suspicion, but full sonship.
This is not transactional love. This is grace.
The son returns broken, tired, and ashamed. And he is met not with interrogation but with joy. Heaven rejoices not because the son has proven himself worthy, but because he was dead and is alive, lost and is found. God welcomes the repentant sinner without conditions. That is both comforting and frightening, because it leaves no room for pride.
Then the parable turns, and the mirror shifts.
The older son stands outside. He has done everything right. He has stayed. He has obeyed. And yet he is angry, jealous, resentful. He is physically in the father’s house but spiritually far from the father’s heart. St. Augustine warns us here that it is possible to serve God faithfully and still not love Him. It is possible to be religious and yet resent mercy when it is shown to others.
The older son speaks the language of entitlement: “I have served you. I have earned this.” But the father gently corrects him. “All that I have is yours.” The tragedy is not that the father withholds anything; it is that the son cannot rejoice. He cannot accept grace—for his brother or for himself.
This is where the parable presses us hardest. Do we rejoice in forgiveness? Are we happy in our Father’s house? Or do we secretly believe that love must be earned, that grace must be deserved, that others are receiving something they do not merit—while we quietly tally our own righteousness?
Here, the Gospel quietly returns us to last Sunday’s warning. The elder son, like the Pharisee, stands before God with a list of merits and grievances. The younger son, like the Publican, has nothing left to defend. And once again, it is the one who dares to stand empty before God who is closest to the Kingdom.
St. Isaac the Syrian says that the sign of true repentance is not despair, but compassion for others. The elder son’s anger reveals that he does not yet know the heart of the father he serves.
So today, the Gospel asks us difficult questions. When in my life have I wasted the riches I was given? Where have I run away, thinking life would be better elsewhere? When I am desperate and defeated, to whom do I turn? Do I struggle to accept God’s grace because I cannot control it or earn it? Do I stand in judgment like the older brother, or do I dare to enter the feast, even though my garments betray me?
And perhaps the deepest question of all: can I accept the home God offers me? Can I believe that I am truly wanted, truly welcomed, truly loved, not as a servant earning wages, but as a child embraced?
Beloved, as we move closer to Great Lent, the Church is already teaching us how we will be judged—not by the strict accounting of our failures, but by the state of our hearts. Next week, when we hear of the Last Judgment, we will learn that the final question is not “How much did you accomplish?” but “Did you learn to love? Did you learn mercy? Did you recognize Me in your brother and sister?” Today’s Gospel prepares us for that day by revealing the mercy we ourselves live by.
Great Lent approaches not as a season of punishment, but as the road home. The Church does not stand at the door with crossed arms. She stands with the Father, watching the horizon, waiting, ready to run.
Let us picture ourselves today as the prodigal—returning home broken and tired. Let us feel the embrace we did not earn. And let us ask God to heal in us both our rebellion and our self-righteousness, so that when we stand before Him, we may stand not with excuses or accusations, but with hearts finally made capable of mercy, and live as true sons and daughters in the house of our Father.
Amen.
+Archbishop Stephen