Sermon for the 9 th Sunday after Trinity

July 24, 2005

Prodigal

“ A certain man had two sons: and the younger of them said to his father, Father, give me the portion of goods that falleth to me. And he divided unto them his living. And not many days after the younger son gathered all together, and took his journey into a far country, and there wasted his substance with riotous living. ”

Jesus was a consummate storyteller. He captured the imagination of His listeners by citing elements of life familiar to all. A sower went out to sow seeds… A certain man made a great supper and invited many… A man planted a vineyard… Two men went up into the Temple to pray; one a Pharisee, the other a publican… There was a certain rich man… and there was a beggar named Lazarus… A man fell among thieves while traveling from Jericho to Jerusalem…

      His stories are human, attainable, and hold experiences common to all people. Sheep that were lost. Harvest time. Weeds sown among the wheat. Good and evil servants. Wise and foolish girls at a wedding. A man with too much food to store. A woman who finds her lost coin . Everyone understands the premise. Then Jesus teaches deep things about God's true nature lying just underneath these familiar things.

      The word “ prodigal ” doesn't appear anywhere in the Bible, but has become emblematic of our fears and sorrows over children who go wrong. The word means wasteful or reckless, and reflects the lifestyle adopted by the younger of two sons when he forced his father to give him the inheritance that should only have been his when his father died. With his life's inheritance, the son leaves the farm, goes to the big city, hooks up with unsavory characters and parties himself into a stupor. Wild women. Booze. Expensive toys. Flashing money. Soon it's all gone and his fair-weather friends party without him. Alone, hungry, depleted, addicted: the young man finds work feeding pigs. Still hungry, he wishes he could eat pig slop: and it hits him. This wasn't the way his father treated the servants at home. If he could be a mere servant, and not a son, he could at least survive. It would humble him to go back, but humiliation is better than death. It's better than feeding pigs.

      People are always caught up in His stories. People depicted remind them of themselves, or people they know. Everyone knows a family, or is a family, where a child has left the nest and gone off to make bad choices, live degraded lives, fail their promise, associate with bums, do liquor, drugs, sex, lying, cheating, squeezing parents for more money. It's the saddest story you can tell. Your beloved child : joy of your younger years, hope of your elder days, such a source of pleasure, such a lot of work to raise. The thousands of times you dressed him, taught him his manners, fed him breakfast, lunch, and dinner, washed him, helped him with lessons, tended his wounds, hugged him and kissed him, said prayers together and tucked him in at night—it was all worth it, for this was your son. He is you but now in a new generation. You had dreams of his getting a better education, seeking a greater career, having a happier family, living in better circumstances than you have. And then he pulls hard away from you, ungrateful, dismissing you as though you were an embarrassment to him. And off he goes. Your heart breaks for your son and you kneel down and cry your prayers to God. You hope life's lessons will not be too costly, that he will learn sooner rather than later. And the reports of his welfare, sketchy though they are, keep getting worse, not better. Then the reports stop altogether. Months, perhaps years go by without a word.

      Christ paints a perfect picture of a common horror story. No one who has lived through this can be untouched by the description of the prodigal son. The rest of the story relates not to the son so much as to the two who remained at home: the father who never gave up hope, never extinguished his love for his son; and the elder son who has killed his little brother in his heart, hated him for his evil ways, and yet has perhaps envied him his freedom and wild experiences, but works begrudgingly on the land that is now his own.    Then the wayward boy comes home…

      Who are we in this parable? When we look for the deeper meaning in Christ's stories, we need to find ourselves. We may favor one or another character, but to understand the deepest meanings, we have to take up the costume and make up for each character and wear them a while. We can learn much from each of these three men at this meeting.

      The prodigal has presumed that the only way he will be received is as a slave. His part in the family is shot—he blew it and there is no getting it back. He will serve his family as a beloved slave and maybe receive better treatment than from the pig farmer. We live stupid, wasteful lives, forget all we ever knew about God and goodness, leave our families mourning for us and laugh at the thought of hearth and home, parents, brothers and sisters— pah! Who needs all that Christmas tree-trimming and church hymn singing? They don't know what they're missing. The long, slow awakening comes and we realize this effervescent life has gone flat. The pay out is demanding more of us—addiction, bills unpaid, people angry and hurt, leaving us alone. The old family memory brings a tear, but regret hasn't brought us to our knees and returning to that is still unthinkable. So we take a menial job, live like bums, wish for charity and get none. It takes so long to break our pride, but finally survival has brought us to the lowest place we can imagine and we see, as though a light has broken through storm clouds a long way off, the glimmer of hope. It's got to be on my terms: I won't be a son, but a servant. That's humility, and I deserve no more. I won't ask for pity, only a chance to work and eat clean food once more. And we make that call…

      The father has prayed every night and day. Years have worn him down, but his hope has never left him. Maybe today, perhaps it's that silhouette of a man walking this way—could it be my son? It looks a lot like him, only older, more stooped, unkempt. A turn of his face and it catches the light. Yes! It is my son! This father's love drives him to run and he catches his son up in his arms, crying, kissing, hugging, jumping up and down. The boy is saying, “Father, I am no more worthy to be thy son, but…” Get the new robe, start dressing that fat calf we were saving for a feast, invite everyone! Here, take my ring. You're home now, boy. It's going to be like it always was, even better, you'll see. What's that? Be a slave? Nonsense! You are my son! Come on! Come on!

      The party is well under way when the older son comes in from his hot day in the fields. He hears the music and asks a servant about it. Oh, he is, is he? That brother of mine: it would have been better had he died out there. Now Father is making a party! Will he ever learn? This boy isn't worth it! He takes every advantage and squanders it. The father comes out to him and he refuses to come in, to welcome his brother back. I don't want to see him. He told you that you were good as dead to him, don't you remember? He turned his back on us, left us here and went off to drown himself in wine, women and song, and now what are you doing for him? Another party! Don't you get it? He's here again, using you, taking your heart… away from me. I work every day. I never party. You've never given me so much as a young goat to celebrate with. You're a foolish old man if you let him come back, and wrong to make so much of him.

      We can live in the shoes of each of these characters. We can see others in them as well. God is the Father who welcomes us back to His kingdom, after so long a time away. We were coming on our own terms, maybe we sneak in the door and pretend to be wallpaper, take a low place. But He isn't having it. He sees us coming and runs to greet us, dress us in new clothes, take his signet ring and be restored as full members of His family. It's more than we could hope for, and a higher calling than we were willing to receive, but He won't have any other relationship. He won't let us sneak into heaven.

      We are the sad and grieving parents waiting for our children to return to faith away from the world, the flesh and Satan. They've tried Buddhism, hedonism, communism, and Scientology. Every ism has left them more confused. They went from lies to living low, and now the first flash of a change is breaking—they're coming home. He says he wants to come to church next Sunday. She says she believes in Jesus again. If we bungle this chance, we may drive them away from God, away from eternal life. How we love them now is a matter of life or death. We have to love them better than ever.

      The elder son has never left the church, never strayed, never tasted liquor, never smoked— well, he didn't inhale . He's been good and God knows he's worked hard, earned everything he has, and holds respect in the eyes of everyone. Then one day, the church doors are darkened by the shape of a young visitor. By the looks of him, he's lived a degrading life. He doesn't belong in here—this is the House of God! I have to let him know he isn't welcome here, he wouldn't fit with us who have spent the last 25 years building this church into the respectable place of worship that it is.

      The parables of Jesus are a series of mirrors. They search us, examine us, evaluate us, and gently judge us, our attitudes, our manners, our faith, our values. His stories touch places in us that movies, TV shows, other books don't seem to, unless they are His stories. His parables are fiction, and yet they're true. These characters are ourselves, drawn from our lives, made real for us by the common thread that passes through our common existence. We are fallen creatures, made for the family of God. We were lost and needed to be brought back home to God, but we resisted it until there was nothing else. We thought we'd get back on our own terms, but He has made us members of His family. The ones who had been here long before us may look at us and shake their heads, thinking themselves above us, too worthy for our company. But God from heaven has welcomed us back, and the ones who have borne the heat of the day have their reward for it: they need to be grateful, and compassionate, and loving for this poor lad who was lost and is found, was dead, and now he lives.

             PFH+