The Prodigal Son is such a rich story, because it can be seen from several points of view--namely, those of the father, the older son, and the prodigal.
Though the title character is the younger (prodigal) son, some scholars believe the focus is more correctly on the father. The father represents God, honoring the free will of his people to stay or go and then welcoming an errant believer home, no matter what kind of mess he's made since he strayed from his father's presence. The father doesn't merely accept him back, either. First, he spies him in the distance while he's still a long way off. Think about this. He (1) still recognizes his son, even at that distance, even after all the debauchery and famine, even after however much time has passed, and (2) has very likely been watching for him all this time. Can you imagine that father's hope? His prayer, day after day? Thank you, God, for answering that father's prayer. Thank you, God, for revealing how much you care about us. When we go astray, do you watch for us like that, desiring so deeply for us to return to you? Knowing this, how could I ever bear to leave you?
Then there's the older son. I've always felt for him, to be honest, perhaps because I was also an older sibling. He has faithfully worked for his father all his life, but has never even been offered a goat-roast with his friends. He says to his father, "And when this other son of yours arrives, who has devoured your estate with immoral women, you slaughter the fattened calf for him!" I really rather love this line, and I can imagine how it sounds when the son speaks it. As the father responds, I hear his voice in my mind's ear as calm, soothing, reasonable. "You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours. But it was fitting to celebrate because this brother of yours was dead and has begun to live. He was lost and has been found." We tend to remember the father's second and third sentences easily, but concentrate on his first sentence for a moment. "You are always with me, and all that is mine is yours." I hear two things here: "You're the heir. You're the one who's shown you're cut out for this work. You're getting the business when I die. And it's all yours even now." Doesn't this echo the fact that we have eternal life now? And because of these words, the second thing I hear is that the son could have roasted one, two, or five goats with his friends, if only he had asked. If only he had recognized who he was instead of being jealous and bitter over who his brother was.
And now for the prodigal, the younger man who blew it all today and had nothing left in the entire world. In a last-ditch effort, he decides to go back to his father and work for him as a hired man. At least that way he won't starve to death. He rehearses what he will say. "Father, I have sinned against heaven and in your sight. I am no longer worthy to be called your son. Treat me like one of your hired men." Can you imagine him repeating this under his breath every now and then as he trudges along? As he gets near home, something happens that he doesn't expect. His father comes running toward him, wraps him in a huge embrace, and kisses him.
Which brings me to the point that struck me when, the other day, I reread this parable for the nth time: the prodigal could have said to himself, "Whoa, I never expected this! He's glad to see me! He's greeting me just like I'm his son! Maybe I don't need to give that little speech I had planned and we can just go on into the house like old times..." In other words, the son could have decided he didn't really need to repent to the full. Aren't we sometimes tempted to think this way when, after a transgression, we get a better reception than we were expecting? We want to jump straight to "everything's cool" instead of going through confession and repentance. But the prodigal doesn't do that. He says to his father exactly what he'd decided to say--at least until his father interrupts him by calling for the best robe for the guest of honor. This is how we know the prodigal was truly repentant.
So to which of these three characters does the story really belong? Theories of story construction say it belongs to the character who undergoes the most radical change. That's not the God character; God never changes. We can't prove from the parable that the older son changes either, although if he was a real person I hope he did. Who changed radically? The guy who repented. The man who turned from his sin and confessed to the father he had sinned against, even when it seemed for a moment that he might get away without doing so.
And so I conclude this parable is indeed rightly named. It's the parable of the Prodigal Son.
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