It wasn’t until we were grown ups that my siblings and I could admit to each other that we thought we had been Dad’s favorite—each one of us. Our secret beliefs about being favorite did not save us from that other consequence of having brothers and sisters —the suspicion that they might be getting more than me—attention, outings, privileges, dessert, love. That suspicion got in the way of enjoying each other, and it also made the treats we did get seem like entitlement or compensation for what we didn’t. What was the point of always being good, if the naughty ones were getting more? This week I talked with someone whose mother had given her a refrigerator magnet that proclaimed her to be the “White Sheep of the Family.” Finally, some recognition for being good.

To make one or the other brother in this parable the good one or the bad one would be simplistic. It is impossible to say that the younger, black sheep of the family is all bad. He at least returns home! He’s not only aware of his sin, he’s willing to own up to it; he accepts the forgiveness offered by his prodigal father. It is just as impossible to say that the older, steady white sheep is all good. Sure, he stays and works hard, but his resentment keeps him outside the party, outside the relationship with his generous parent, who just wants both kids to share his joy. If the black sheep of the family is not completely bad and the white sheep is not completely good, what’s the moral of the story? Sometimes the point of a story isn’t to find a “moral,” but rather to give one room to walk around, to see where we are like the characters. There is plenty of room for us in both sons. I hope you do see some of yourself in the older son—happy to be good, but truthful about the jealousies and resentments that keep you out in the yard when the rest of the family is celebrating. I hope you do see some of yourself in the younger son—rebellious and self-interested, but knowing your need of reconciliation.

Because here’s the bottom line: the point isn’t really to decide which one you are. This story isn’t about which son is the best. This story is about the parent who does show favorites—by knowing each one so thoroughly that he has “complete” love for each one. Each one gets an invitation to the party, and each invitation is to completely party, to full participation. For the son who brought home nothing except sorrow for his sin, the invitation includes party clothes. For the son who had been present all along, the invitation is to expand his presence, to party. The mystery is, God does “play favorites,” but God’s love for us is not about rivalry or competition, which is based on the notion of scarcity. Where did we get the idea that there is only “so much” love to go around, that if one person is being praised, we aren’t? We are embedded in a culture of comparison, a mindset of competition. If we aren’t smarter, prettier, more successful, richer, thinner, or playing on more teams and getting more honors than others, we aren’t getting enough. God does not love based on comparison.

Remember the Old Testament lesson? It is God’s invitation to us—individually and as a culture. The invitation is to stop counting on stuff to satisfy—things or honors or recognition—because “more” will never be “enough.” Then we hear what we can stake our lives on: God’s compassionate claim that “I’m God and you’re not.” What a relief! That is such good news. We don’t set the rules, and God does not have to abide by them. Thank God that we are loved, not because we are “lovable.” We are loved because God is God, and we’re not. There is more to God than we can imagine, no end to God’s love for us. Literally. No end. It is against God’s chest we press our ear, God’s heartbeat we listen for. It is God’s enveloping arms and sheltering cloak that folds us in. It is God’s image and likeness in which we are made. Even if we are still hovering on the edge of the light, longing (if only secretly) to be loved as much as the other one, we are standing in a coat as red as the father’s. We are in the image and likeness of the Compassionate One who loves us enough to invite us to stake our lives on that heartbeat, that love.

As you hover there on the edge, frozen in your longing to be loved, there’s just one little thing you are asked to do. Believe that God’s love is not a competition. If you think there is only “so much” to go around, you will never believe in that possibility. You will be doomed, as Isaiah says, to “spend your money for that which is not bread, and your labor for that which does not satisfy.” If you think you must compete for God’s love, every relationship will be tainted either by fear (that others will get more than you) or disdain (because you deserve more and others are robbing you of your due). White sheep or black, your interaction with the rest of the flock will be suspicious, calculating, second-guessing, analytical. You’ve got to, to protect your claim on God’s turf.

Two words. To believe that God can love you, even when you don’t compete for it, takes trust and gratitude. Trust means allowing oneself to be found. Maybe you have doubts about whether you deserve to be found. Maybe you think you are less loved than others, so you aren’t worth the finding. Trust is a discipline, a conscious choice, something that, when you exercise it, it becomes easier. Starting small, doing it over and over so that it’s second nature to you, growing the trust opportunities. I can trust God because the Bible says I can. Because I’ve been blessed with such good friends. Because I made it through this week. Because our prayers were answered. Because God’s presence is enough. God’s love for you is unconditional. Come home with no strings attached. God’s love for you is complete. No need to add anything to it. God’s love is aimed at exactly the parts of you that most need to be loved. Come home with empty hands, but come home.

Trust, yes, but also gratitude. Gratitude is the opposite of resentment, that which keeps the older brother on the edge of the light. The knife twisting in your heart that wonders whether you are really loved when someone else is getting something you’re not. Resentment blocks the understanding that all of life is a gift. Like trust, gratitude is a discipline. Like trust, it is a conscious choice. When you’re given a cookie do you say, “thanks,” or do you look over at the next person and think, “They got two! They got chocolate chip and I only got raisin!” You didn’t have a cookie before and now you’ve got one. What’s not to be grateful?

It takes courage. Trust is fundamentally a risk-taking way of life. It’s a leap of faith to let down your guard (am I getting as much as everybody else?), to stop the calculations (how can I get more?). Exercising these disciplines reveals the God who comes searching for us, the God who is watching the road for our return, who notices our empty place at the table and comes out in the yard to find us. It’s past time to sit and wait to see if God notices us. God has already called your name. God has already come out looking for you, given you the best reasons to come and join the party. Let yourself be loved as God longs to love you—completely, unconditionally. You don’t have to design the program or manage the terms. You don’t need to insist on being loved the way you think you ought to be. It’s God’s party. There is room for you at the table. The one who says, “I’m God, and you’re not!” says this with a love, assuring you that you are God’s favorite.