The word prodigal rolls off our tongues as easily as if Jesus Himself put it there. The word feels biblical. Familiar. Almost sacred.
I’m a parent of five young adult kids, and I don’t know many families at this stage of life who don’t have someone they lovingly call their prodigal. My heart breaks with families whose kids have walked away from God, and I have my own beloved wanderers. In this long, painful journey, I not only pray for prodigals, I champion intercessory prayer for every one of them to return. If anyone is banking on God’s Luke 15 promises for the next generation, it’s me.
And yet, while reading Luke 15 again recently, I sensed the Holy Spirit nudging me with a question: “Where did I call the lost son a prodigal?”
The answer was obvious: It’s in the story, right? I kept reading, but paying more attention this time.
As I ended the chapter, I suddenly realized that the word prodigal is not in the story. Nowhere. Nada. Not. At. All.
The father doesn’t say prodigal. Jesus doesn’t say prodigal. The book of Luke doesn’t say prodigal, and neither do any of the Gospels. The truth is, the word prodigal never appears anywhere in Scripture.
The Christian Pejorative that is Not Biblical
As I sat with the Lord in this unexpected realization, a second question hit me: How did the lost son get that name then?
I started to research, noting that history doesn’t say that the apostles or early Church named the lost son the prodigal. Apparently this label came later, somewhere during the medieval period, when Jesus’ parables were given memorable titles for preaching and teaching. Art and literature carried the name forward from there. Medieval biblical manuscripts featured illuminated illustrations with headings stating “The Prodigal Son,” showing him in his excess and extravagance. Art gave paintings of him names like, The Prodigal Son Among the Swine (Durer, 1496). Most famously, he was immortalized in works like Rembrandt’s The Return of the Prodigal Son.
What began as a descriptor of this young man’s lascivious behavior became a lasting pejorative about his identity. The title lodged deep within the collective consciousness of Christian thought and imagination. And here we are, hundreds of years later. Because prodigal is in our spiritual lingo, we think it’s also in the Bible.
We’ve thought this for so long that of all those I’ve asked, “Where is the lost son called a prodigal in Scripture?” I’ve yet to have anyone give me what I now know is the correct answer.
The Power of Names
The thing is, once a descriptive name sticks, it doesn’t just impact our language; it also shapes how we see everything.
Whenever someone walks away from God, we call them a prodigal. We see them as a prodigal. But look at what Jesus actually quoted the father in His story as saying:
“For this son of mine was dead and is alive again; he was lost and is found.” (Luke 15:24)
Never prodigal. Never failure. Never disappointment. Never wretched, despicable, disgraceful kid of mine.
The father in this story names him son, anchoring the lost one’s identity in relationship, not rebellion.
In the Greek, “This son of mine” is a beautiful echo of God the Father’s statement over Jesus the Son at His baptism (Matthew 3:17) and His Transfiguration (Matthew 17:5). Lord God Almighty, that You would reflect such onto us! Us! This is overwhelming kindness!
And it reframes the entire story.
It’s About the Father
This parable has never been primarily about a wayward son. It has always been about a loving father – – – a father who Jesus used to give us a picture of our Heavenly Father. Scripture is clear about the heart of God: “He is patient with you, not wanting anyone to perish, but everyone to come to repentance” (2 Peter 3:9 NIV). This Father keeps the candle lit in the window. He sets a place at the table. The ring is purchased, guest list ready, celebration planned.
He fattens a calf, and – when that calf ages out of calfhood because the wait is so long – the father fattens another calf. The banquet prep is in full motion long before repentance or return. The father is ever ready for his precious one to come home.
He watches. He waits. He woos from afar.
His eyes are gazing through the windows; his running shoes are on, laces tied. And when he catches sight – – – not of the prodigal, but of his son – – – he runs. He runs!!!
Oh God, how have we missed Your heart in this?
We’ve been focused on our wanderer’s problems. They’ve become our projects, the summation of our past failures, the defining statements about our parenting.
And yet, the Truth is, they are the deepest longing of Your heart. You were weeping before we were; You were watching before we were even caught off guard.
As I meditated on this story and these truths, I felt the Spirit gently whisper to me again, this time with, not a question, but a statement: “Your prodigal is My Passion.”
My prodigal is His passion. This one statement changes everything.
A Change in Focus
God loves our children. He loves the lost ones. He loves them so much that He gave His Son to pay the price for their redemption. Our prodigals are more valuable to Him than we can comprehend.
When I truly lean into this truth, everything shifts. My heart changes. My posture changes. My prayers change.
If my lost loved ones are His passion, then I no longer need to despair. I don’t have to tear myself apart with regret. I don’t have to live in constant panic, fussing and fuming, worrying and wasting the waiting.
Instead, I am invited to align my heart with His heart, so that I can name and pray for the lost ones the way He names them. This is so important because what we call someone eventually shapes how we speak to them and how we pray for them.
When we label people by the disasters of their lives, our prayers tend to sound like urgency, fear, and desperation. We pray at the problem. But when we speak the way the Father speaks – son, daughter, brother, sister, beloved – our prayers realign with heaven. We pray from promise instead of panic, from confidence instead of control.
Speaking rightly does not deny reality. It does not minimize grief, for yes, there is real grief when those we love walk away from the Lord. But naming them correctly refuses to let their wastefulness, wandering, or wantonness become their identity to us. We refuse to let a season become their permanent status.
For parents and churches, this is a quiet but radical shift.
It means we recognize that we, too, have been the lost ones, beloved by the Father regardless. It also means we hold space without labeling, intercede without controlling, welcome without checking ID, and watch without despair.
We keep the candle lit.
We keep the place set.
We keep speaking what God speaks, even when so much time passes that the original fattened calf becomes a great-grandmother cow.
We watch and wait with hope, because our love for the lost ones is only a glimpse of the Father’s great love.
And if He calls them His passion, then so will we.
We will Meet with God and Make Him Known to those precious ones He has entrusted to us, until the day they come home to Him and to us.
Be encouraged! ❤️
Tosha
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