I've had to face an uncomfortable truth. I've lived like the older brother in Jesus' parable of the prodigal son. I worked hard, kept myself from the "big sins," stayed faithful, and thought, "God, surely You see this. Surely You'll bless me more than others who've wandered away." When people hurt me, I secretly hoped He would hurt them back. When someone who had wasted their life came running home to God, I didn't always rejoice. Part of me thought, "Fine, forgive them, but don't give them what You give me. I've been here all along."

That's the older brother's voice, and it's been mine more often than I care to admit.

When the prodigal son returned home broken and ashamed, the Father didn't lecture him or make him prove his repentance. He ran to embrace him, restored him completely, and threw a celebration. The older brother's response? He refused to join the party. Standing outside in resentment, he complained to his Father:

"Lo, these many years do I serve thee, neither transgressed I at any time thy commandment: and yet thou never gavest me a kid, that I might make merry with my friends."

I hear my own voice in those words. The whisper in my heart when I feel overlooked: "I've done more. I've been better. I've sacrificed. Why do they get the blessing?"

But here's what strikes me about the older brother's complaint. He didn't see himself as a son. His words betray it: "These many years do I serve thee." The Greek word means slave labor. He was living in his Father's house, but his heart was that of a servant trying to earn wages, not a son enjoying an inheritance. He didn't know he already had everything. He thought blessing was a paycheck earned through hard work, not a gift that came with belonging.

That's exactly where I've been. Wanting God to notice my effort, keeping score in my head, waiting for reward. And just like the older brother, I found myself bitter, outside the celebration, needing someone "worse" than me so I could feel good about myself.

But grace doesn't work through comparison. The Father loved both sons, not because they deserved it, but because love is who he is. The prodigal's sins didn't cancel his sonship. The older brother's years of faithful service didn't earn it. Both were lost, just in different ways. One got lost in the far country of rebellion, while the other was ensnared in the near field of self-righteousness. And to both, the Father came out.

This is where the gospel confronts our religious thinking. We assume grace is just for the "bad ones" who run away, while the rest of us earn our place through good behavior. But the truth is, both rebellion and religion are forms of lostness when they're separated from the Father's heart. One says, "I don't need the Father." The other says, "The Father owes me." Both are wrong.

Grace isn't a reward for the good or a second chance for the bad. It's the Father's heart freely given to children who belong to Him, period.

The tragedy is that resentment always leaves us outside the feast. Sin ruined one boy's life, but resentment ruined the other's joy. The younger son knew he was unworthy, so he came home with empty hands, ready to receive mercy. The older son thought he was worthy, and his pride kept him from entering in.

Bitterness is a prison where we become both the jailer and the prisoner. Forgiveness is the key, not because it excuses the wrong, but because it releases us from being chained to it. The older brother couldn't forgive his younger brother's waste or his Father's grace. His resentment locked him outside while the music played and the feast was spread inside.

And that's where I've been too many times, so focused on keeping score that I missed the celebration.

The Father's response to his older son cuts through all the performance-based thinking:

"Son, thou art ever with me, and all that I have is thine."

Think about that. Everything was already his. He wasn't missing a single thing except the ability to see it. He had been living like a pauper in a palace, working like a servant in his own inheritance.

That's where so many of us live. God has blessed us with every spiritual blessing in Christ, but instead of resting in His goodness, we look sideways at others, measure our faithfulness against their failures, and grow bitter when grace shows up in ways we didn't expect.

We love to say we're saved by grace, but the moment we step away from the altar, we start living like everything else depends on our performance. We slip back into scorekeeping, expecting merit and demanding fairness. Grace isn't just the door into salvation. It's the very air we breathe in the Father's house. It's not a ticket to get in. It's the life of belonging itself.

The older brother lived in proximity to his Father but never enjoyed intimacy with him. He had access to everything but experienced none of it. He knew the Father's rules but not the Father's heart. And that's the danger of performance-based Christianity. It can leave us religious but joyless, dutiful but distant, faithful but resentful.

Jesus ends the story with the older brother still outside, the Father pleading with him to come in. We don't know if he ever did. That could be intentional because each of us has to finish the story in our own lives.

The choice is before me every day. Will I stay outside, nursing resentment, clinging to comparisons, waiting for God to pay me what I think I deserve? Or will I see myself as a son, drop my pride, forgive those who've hurt me, and step into the joy of grace?

It's the choice between living like a servant working for wages or a son enjoying an inheritance, between standing in the field of performance or dancing in the house of grace.

I've learned this much: joy will never be found in the field of performance or the prison of bitterness. It's only found in the Father's house, where grace is the feast and love is the music.

The beautiful truth is that the Father doesn't love us because we're good. He loves us because He's good. We don't earn His favor through our faithfulness. We discover His faithfulness through our failures. And when we finally understand that both the prodigal and the elder brother need the same thing, the Father's unconditional love, we can stop comparing, stop competing, and start celebrating.

The invitation remains open. The Father is still at the door of our hearts, saying what He said to both sons: "All that I have is yours. Will you come in and enjoy it?"

The feast is ready. The music is playing. The only question left is whether we'll drop our pride, release our resentments, and join the celebration of grace.